Wonderland
I started writing and re-writing this blog several times. Firstly I dropped my trusty phone in a bowl of washing up. To add insult to injury I was cleaning a chilli con carne pan - every vegetarian's dream.... It was not a great inconvenience in a place without wifi or signal, so I didn't think about it longer than the time it took to stuff it in a bag of rice (a fruitless effort, as it turned out). I switched to old school pen and paper, but that content turned out to be more personal than I think would be appropriate for the general audience of this blog. And finally I realised I was avoiding blogging altogether. In part because I was consumed by real life activity and not gravitating towards electricals, but also because I was unsure how to record my experiences, so extensive and colourful they were. Here I will try and give you a brief idea of my last weeks in Wonderland. Please feel free to add your own imaginative touches - it probably happened.
Trying to take myself back to a life pre-Petrolia is a challenge. I left San Francisco, I remember that much.... Bus journeys have been an on going discovery process I like to call: The Things My Body Can Do. This includes, but is not limited to: how many ml of fluid I can consume without using the pit that is the bus toilet; the ways I can contort my limbs in 2 foot of space; how to sleep when leaning against a suitcase/elderly gentleman/pile of snacks. It's low level entertainment, let's be honest, but when you're on an 8hr journey and trying to avoid the panoramic aroma of fried chicken, any distractions are welcome. We're losing sight of what I'm trying to tell you.
I knew I'd hit deep Northern California when we were suddenly enveloped in miles and miles of redwoods. These things are ridiculous in every way. They're big and red and these are all the advanced adjectives I can give you because they're too much to write about. My bus stopped in Eureka, and I think the less we say about this place the better. Let's just leave it with: for a place with such a jazzy name, it is truly void of jazz. The next 24hrs were slightly bizarre... I was collected at the bus stop by a total stranger, dropped at another total stranger's house, experienced my first Jewish Shabbat with 3 more total strangers, and was picked up the next day by a sixth TS. Luckily, none of these people were sociopaths, and were highly welcoming. Not that I should be surprised by now - I've been warmly and instantly welcomed into more American kitchens than I can count. I then made my first journey to Petrolia. Contrary to Eureka (which I feel should have a ! at the end), Petrolia has a pretty unattractive name yet is the fairyland of lands.
I spent 3.something weeks doing a workaway here, which meant exchanging my (meagre) skills and services for a roof over my head and all the food you could dream of. My new home was with another outrageously interesting family who've lived in the most remote parts of the Amazon and Alaska, were followed by the FBI and CIA, on domestic terrorist lists....and now run a beautiful and sedate ranch and summer camp in the forest. Naturally. Their home is everything you would want - trillions of animals, all the veggies and fruits you could wish, acres and acres of woods and rivers and hills. The BOMB. I stayed in the upstairs of a barn. I'd like to say this involved sleeping on a pile of hay next to a couple of donkeys, but the reality is it was more of a fully furnished loft including a fridge kitted out with beer. Essential for the hard life of a farmgirl...
Down the road from the farm was the camp that my new family (sorry old fam !) set up 20 years ago. This is a phenomenal place. Again, I'm finding myself short on words to describe what is pure magic. A very old barn that long ago was a school (which means nothing as it bears no resemblance to a school other than a VAST selection of remaining books that cover the walls) hidden completely in the woods. The skies here are spotlessly blue the entire summer, so there is never fear of rain, let alone clouds (as you now know, a highly important feature for me). The woods are littered with cabins and tents and campfires and secret spots for holding hands or playing tricks. It's a fantasy escape for kids from not so nice towns (remember Eureka! ?) and backgrounds that aren't worth digging into (prison visits, addict parents, homeless shelters). They spend a week running round, swimming, biking, riding in tractors, climbing ropes, hiking along the beach, cooking on open fires..... This camp has been set up entirely to let children be children. I have so much to say about the level of importance this place holds. I'm sure I'll be talking all your ears off when I finally see you in real life; this is a project I hope to continue being involved with over the years.
I spent my time helping out on both the farm and camp. Sometimes picking up potatoes and sometimes picking up kids. I loved both. (This isn't true. The weeding was infinitely more boring that throwing paint balloons and dressing up, but who knows who is reading this..) There were a group of other young people who work here every year and generously adopted me into their long standing family. We learnt the skill of burning the candle a little at both ends whilst also juggling sick/overexcited/lost kids - we were up with the not-figurative rooster and skinny dipping in the river at midnight. But during the day there were snatches of time to lie on the deck and read, or let a small person braid my hair, or hang out in the sauna and have a beer, or sweat out those beers in a hot yoga class.
When we were "off duty" we attended a couple of parties held in the community centre. These were a source of great fascination to me. Given that Petrolia has no more than 300 permanent, year-round residences, and is 1.5hrs from the rest of civilisation, I was fully expecting these parties to be a congregation of one-eye, one-tooth farmers, parents who are cousins etc etc... I don't know what is in the water here, but everyone is STUNNING. I mentally marred about 10 guys each time, but they all of course have beautiful wives and children with names like Arrow and Salmon and Earth (no exaggerations). They are all musically gifted, living in gardens busting with life and food, are trained doctors and lawyers, can tame wild eagles, I don't know. Moreover, for a place SO unconnected to the world we all know (and occasionally despise) they were really very connected with current affairs, politics and policies, economics, quick to engage in (sympathetic) conversations about Brexit or Euro politics. I suppose this is the very reason many of them have chosen to live off the grid - so exasperated were they with the state of their country. Petrolia is a place unto itself - laws don't seem to penetrate it like they do most places. No one locks their cars or houses, even when they go away for weeks. The general store has a notepad for recording payments like in the 50s. There is a self-appointed "local sheriff" who will "deal with" any occurrences. There is even a local currency (I have come away with 10 petols, which is a giant, heavy coin of pure silver. Won't be buying a Mars bar with this guy anytime soon.)
I was so content here that within moments of arriving, I'd extended my stay an extra 10 days. I'd extend forever, but like all good things, camp (and my visa) comes to an end. It was with more than misty eyes that I packed up my stained and hay covered belongings, stuffing addresses and momentos in every pocket. My new pals and I crammed the car full and set off on the journey out of Humboldt County, back south to the Bay Area. It is here that I continue to hold tight onto the people that I met in the woods, friends who I feel I've known for always. I'm flitting between Oakland and Berkeley, and once more feel I've found somewhere I could more than happily settle down. I can see San Fran just over the bay - my arch nemesis of fog - as we run around lakes and up hills in the sunshine. These microclimates are bizarre. I'm in the throes of organising a Mexican party for tomorrow (long story) and am concentrating on this to alleviate the increasingly painful pit-of-your-stomach feeling that comes with impending departures. I will try and get a final blog out before I see you all. But for now, I'm going to soak up every American moment I can.
Trying to take myself back to a life pre-Petrolia is a challenge. I left San Francisco, I remember that much.... Bus journeys have been an on going discovery process I like to call: The Things My Body Can Do. This includes, but is not limited to: how many ml of fluid I can consume without using the pit that is the bus toilet; the ways I can contort my limbs in 2 foot of space; how to sleep when leaning against a suitcase/elderly gentleman/pile of snacks. It's low level entertainment, let's be honest, but when you're on an 8hr journey and trying to avoid the panoramic aroma of fried chicken, any distractions are welcome. We're losing sight of what I'm trying to tell you.
I knew I'd hit deep Northern California when we were suddenly enveloped in miles and miles of redwoods. These things are ridiculous in every way. They're big and red and these are all the advanced adjectives I can give you because they're too much to write about. My bus stopped in Eureka, and I think the less we say about this place the better. Let's just leave it with: for a place with such a jazzy name, it is truly void of jazz. The next 24hrs were slightly bizarre... I was collected at the bus stop by a total stranger, dropped at another total stranger's house, experienced my first Jewish Shabbat with 3 more total strangers, and was picked up the next day by a sixth TS. Luckily, none of these people were sociopaths, and were highly welcoming. Not that I should be surprised by now - I've been warmly and instantly welcomed into more American kitchens than I can count. I then made my first journey to Petrolia. Contrary to Eureka (which I feel should have a ! at the end), Petrolia has a pretty unattractive name yet is the fairyland of lands.
I spent 3.something weeks doing a workaway here, which meant exchanging my (meagre) skills and services for a roof over my head and all the food you could dream of. My new home was with another outrageously interesting family who've lived in the most remote parts of the Amazon and Alaska, were followed by the FBI and CIA, on domestic terrorist lists....and now run a beautiful and sedate ranch and summer camp in the forest. Naturally. Their home is everything you would want - trillions of animals, all the veggies and fruits you could wish, acres and acres of woods and rivers and hills. The BOMB. I stayed in the upstairs of a barn. I'd like to say this involved sleeping on a pile of hay next to a couple of donkeys, but the reality is it was more of a fully furnished loft including a fridge kitted out with beer. Essential for the hard life of a farmgirl...
Down the road from the farm was the camp that my new family (sorry old fam !) set up 20 years ago. This is a phenomenal place. Again, I'm finding myself short on words to describe what is pure magic. A very old barn that long ago was a school (which means nothing as it bears no resemblance to a school other than a VAST selection of remaining books that cover the walls) hidden completely in the woods. The skies here are spotlessly blue the entire summer, so there is never fear of rain, let alone clouds (as you now know, a highly important feature for me). The woods are littered with cabins and tents and campfires and secret spots for holding hands or playing tricks. It's a fantasy escape for kids from not so nice towns (remember Eureka! ?) and backgrounds that aren't worth digging into (prison visits, addict parents, homeless shelters). They spend a week running round, swimming, biking, riding in tractors, climbing ropes, hiking along the beach, cooking on open fires..... This camp has been set up entirely to let children be children. I have so much to say about the level of importance this place holds. I'm sure I'll be talking all your ears off when I finally see you in real life; this is a project I hope to continue being involved with over the years.
I spent my time helping out on both the farm and camp. Sometimes picking up potatoes and sometimes picking up kids. I loved both. (This isn't true. The weeding was infinitely more boring that throwing paint balloons and dressing up, but who knows who is reading this..) There were a group of other young people who work here every year and generously adopted me into their long standing family. We learnt the skill of burning the candle a little at both ends whilst also juggling sick/overexcited/lost kids - we were up with the not-figurative rooster and skinny dipping in the river at midnight. But during the day there were snatches of time to lie on the deck and read, or let a small person braid my hair, or hang out in the sauna and have a beer, or sweat out those beers in a hot yoga class.
When we were "off duty" we attended a couple of parties held in the community centre. These were a source of great fascination to me. Given that Petrolia has no more than 300 permanent, year-round residences, and is 1.5hrs from the rest of civilisation, I was fully expecting these parties to be a congregation of one-eye, one-tooth farmers, parents who are cousins etc etc... I don't know what is in the water here, but everyone is STUNNING. I mentally marred about 10 guys each time, but they all of course have beautiful wives and children with names like Arrow and Salmon and Earth (no exaggerations). They are all musically gifted, living in gardens busting with life and food, are trained doctors and lawyers, can tame wild eagles, I don't know. Moreover, for a place SO unconnected to the world we all know (and occasionally despise) they were really very connected with current affairs, politics and policies, economics, quick to engage in (sympathetic) conversations about Brexit or Euro politics. I suppose this is the very reason many of them have chosen to live off the grid - so exasperated were they with the state of their country. Petrolia is a place unto itself - laws don't seem to penetrate it like they do most places. No one locks their cars or houses, even when they go away for weeks. The general store has a notepad for recording payments like in the 50s. There is a self-appointed "local sheriff" who will "deal with" any occurrences. There is even a local currency (I have come away with 10 petols, which is a giant, heavy coin of pure silver. Won't be buying a Mars bar with this guy anytime soon.)
I was so content here that within moments of arriving, I'd extended my stay an extra 10 days. I'd extend forever, but like all good things, camp (and my visa) comes to an end. It was with more than misty eyes that I packed up my stained and hay covered belongings, stuffing addresses and momentos in every pocket. My new pals and I crammed the car full and set off on the journey out of Humboldt County, back south to the Bay Area. It is here that I continue to hold tight onto the people that I met in the woods, friends who I feel I've known for always. I'm flitting between Oakland and Berkeley, and once more feel I've found somewhere I could more than happily settle down. I can see San Fran just over the bay - my arch nemesis of fog - as we run around lakes and up hills in the sunshine. These microclimates are bizarre. I'm in the throes of organising a Mexican party for tomorrow (long story) and am concentrating on this to alleviate the increasingly painful pit-of-your-stomach feeling that comes with impending departures. I will try and get a final blog out before I see you all. But for now, I'm going to soak up every American moment I can.
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