Deserts, Guns, and Ghosts at 8,500 Feet

                

               When someone spends all day flying across the country, they usually just want to kick back and relax for a day or two and let jet lag run its course. I was one of those people when I arrived in California on March 14^th, 2015. My friend David had other plans.

                Originally he tried to talk me into driving to Oklahoma to visit and old friend of his. Fun as that may sound to some people, after a day of flying one typically doesn’t want to spend ten hours in a car driving someplace else. Disappointed as he was, David came up with a second plan. He wanted to visit his friend Lance in Palm Desert, which was about two hours from our place. Tired as I knew I’d be, I agreed to this because I wanted to let him hang with his friend, and because I’d never been to a desert before. I wouldn’t get very far in California if I wasn’t up for sudden trips to new places to meet new people, so I told my little introvert self to come out of hiding and enjoy the journey.

                The trip to Palm Desert fit pretty well with what I was used to in terms of scenery. Though California’s environment is hugely different from Northern New York’s, the scenic route provided a glimpse of terrain I’d never seen before and the country girl in me loved. Suburbia fell away, and the hills approached. Sandy mountains and scrubby brush lined the roads. We saw just as many “Bighorn Sheep Crossing” signs as I’d seen “Deer Crossing” signs in New York (but unfortunately, none of the creatures themselves). The road we took down into the city was so windy I started to feel motion sick, but it went away as we got to straighter roads.

                

That distant desert...

                To be honest, I don’t remember many small details of the trip, since it was five months ago, so I’ll just skip to the big details.

                One of the first things we did in Palm Desert warmed my little redneck heart. We packed up some beer and guns, and went out in the middle of nowhere to do some target shooting. This area was what comes to mind when I think “desert” (minus the rolling sand dunes and camels). It was desolate, sandy, with distant hills and no civilization for a while. The dirt roads were littered with debris—the remains of other peoples’ shenanigans. Luckily, there were no body bags. Or bodies. Unfortunately, one of the tires on Lance’s car got busted by a wayward pair of pliers someone had discarded out there. Yes, he did have a spare, thankfully.

                Back in New York, my grandparents often took my older brother and me into the backwoods to target shoot. The roads there were dirt, and sometimes littered with debris. Essentially, the biggest difference between back home and the desert was the lack of trees and swarms of flies. The isolation was the same, with only the occasional passing vehicle, both parties probably wondering the same thing: "What're they doing all the way out here?" Back in the woods was where I learned to shoot, and though I hadn’t shot these types of guns (or any gun in several years), the guys were impressed that I actually knew what I was doing and could hit the targets. My grandpa didn’t call me “Annie Oakley” for nothing.

Those empty beer cans didn't stand a chance.

                The next day we did something I’d never done before: rode the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway.

                The tram takes you two and a half miles and 8,500 feet into the air, to the top of a mountain. The parking lot was at an angle because of mountains, and though we arrived in the evening, it was still fairly warm outside. The sun had already started setting by the time we started our slow ascent. The inside of the tram car rotates so even if the tram had been crowded (it wasn’t that night), everyone could still get a 360 degree view of the landscape.

Each time the tram reached one of the support towers, it bounced abruptly and swung for a few seconds. Though I’m sure the massive cables were sturdy, each time we passed a tower you had to wonder if it might bounce loose and you’d go hurdling to a rocky, mountain death.

We didn’t. Obviously.

The temperature dropped significantly by the time we reached the top of the mountain. I was honestly surprised (and a little upset) to see little patches of snow. David hadn’t seen much, if any, snow since he left New York in 2012, so he had to give it a touch. I’d just come out of yet another horrible NNY winter and couldn’t get away fast enough.

Would I like to touch the snow? Oh, no. That's quite all right. I still remember what it feels like. (My poor car...)

              Peaks Restaurant awaits travelers at the top of the tram line. We got there too late for food, but the bartender said he’d stick around long enough for us to get a drink. We sat and chatted with him for some time, and out of nowhere Lance asked if the place was haunted. The bartender told us the women’s bathroom was. Lucky for me, because after a strong Jack n’ Coke I had to use the bathroom.

             I do believe in ghosts, but there are few times in my life that I can say I’ve had what may have been a “ghostly encounter.” Well, I believe I had one that night.

So there I was, sitting in the bathroom stall doing my business. Suddenly, I heard the air hand dryer turn on for a few seconds, then stop. Then it turned on again for a few more seconds, but stopped before it could do a full cycle. When I exited the stall, no one was in the bathroom with me. I washed my hands quickly, my heart thumping, and was even more surprised to see that the dryer didn’t have a motion sensor that could have been tripped by a small mountain creature (hey, you never know). It was the type with a huge metal button you have to push inward to start. I was a little freaked out, and decided to just shake my hands off.

When I returned to the bar, I asked if anyone else had gone into the bathroom while I was in there. The guys said no one had. I said gravely, “Well, it’s definitely haunted then” and recounted my story.

After our drinks, we stepped out to the huge balcony behind the building. I’d wished we’d been able to see the landscape, but the night view of Palm Springs was just as gorgeous with all the lights. The only picture I’d managed to take doesn’t do it justice.

The glittering lights of Palm Springs, as seen from 8,500 feet.

We started chatting with some strangers; a middle-aged couple and their friends. As we were talking, I mentioned I was from New York. The asked what part (as they always do, “Manhattan, the Bronx, Queens?” *eye roll*). I told them I was from a town way up near Canada. They said their son had gone to a school up there called SUNY Potsdam. My jaw hit the ground because the last thing I expected was for anyone 8,500 feet in the air, at the top of a desert mountain in California to know the name of my alma mater. I’d just graduated from SUNY Potsdam in 2014!

I’m trying really hard not to say “It’s a small world” because if I’ve learned anything from this move, the world is a huge place filled with all sorts of strange and amazing things. The odds of finding a stranger who had been to my college almost 3,000 miles away from it seemed as unlikely as me moving to California in the first place. But, I serve as proof when I say that stranger things have happened.

Such as haunted bathrooms.

Moving Day and Thoughts on Possessions

The day I left New York was March 14, 2015. My mom drove me to the tiny Watertown airport, and I was fortunate that it was a "warmer" day in the mid to upper-30s instead of -30s and snowing. (March can go either way). I wore a relatively light coat that I normally wear in late fall or early spring, but would probably suit me just fine in a California winter. I had with me a large purple luggage bag, a backpack, and my purse. (I'd already mailed several things, including most of my clothing, to my friend and current roommate David).

It wasn't easy saying goodbye to my mom. Neither of us are the type to get super sentimental, and we tend to joke our way through most difficult situations. I could tell by the look on her face as I headed towards the baggage check area that she was sad to see me go. I hate goodbyes. I prefer to say, "See ya later." It always leaves the door propped open.

I sat with the twenty-something other people boarding the 1:20pm flight to Philadelphia in the small waiting area and tried my best not to cry. "The is an adventure," I kept telling myself. "It's what you really want to do." It's not easy to convince oneself to leap into a black abyss and hope there's a soft landing at the bottom. All I could hope was that there would be something worth finding at the bottom, and that the abyss was actually just a passageway.

It was hard to believe that the few objects I had in my possession would be what I would live with. That is to say, when someone is moving they tend to pack up an entire house: furniture, sentimental nick-knacks, maybe a car. It was in my nature to pack lighter than the "typical" woman, even when I was living at college. One of the advantages I had that allowed me to move cross-country is I didn't have to worry about packing up an entire house or children or pets (though I do miss those furry little buggers all the time).

The "awe-inspiring" Watertown International Airport. One terminal and a couple small airplanes.

I wouldn't be going without. The house I moved into is a palace compared to the first apartment I'd ever rented, and my "landlord"/roommate Tamara even bought some furniture for my new room. She has two dogs, Jack the German Shepherd, and Norman the black lab, so I don't go without furry companionship. I have more than enough to be comfortable here. In fact, every day I feel spoiled in the best possible ways.

With that said, there's something therapeutic about starting over. I doubt I could be the type to give up all of my modern comforts and live simply, but it did feel nice to have just my clothes, the beloved zebra-print blanket that used to belong to my mom, a few "necessary" electronics (laptop, iPod, and cell phone), a couple books, and pictures of my family and cats. I don't think there's anything wrong with having creature comforts, especially when one is traveling thousands of miles away from home, but it often feels nearly impossible to separate oneself from objects. We cling to these things as though they give us the companionship we lack in our lonely hearts, and we replace memorable experiences with physical possessions to occupy our time, rather than embracing solitude and utilizing time as best we can. To be honest, I had to force myself to sit down and write this because I've gotten used to being able to go online whenever I want to and I wanted to just veg out on Facebook and Instagram. (Back in New York, we had a wireless hotspot, but it only had limited data, and so we had to be very careful not to go online too much and use it all up).

My view was shrouded by clouds until someplace in the Midwest. Despite a fear of heights, I always loved the view outside an airplane window. It speaks of adventure and, literally, going somewhere you never thought possible.

As night fell around the plane, I was reminded of the passage of time and changes in time zones. As we flew westward, I got to watch a gorgeous sunset for hours. How many people get to say that?

When I landed in California later that evening, I immediately began sweating. It was 80-something degrees, and I was still wearing my coat and boots. I stepped out onto the street so David could pick me up, and was immediately blasted with hot air. Throngs of people bustled around me, speaking all sorts of languages, and cars sped past the San Diego Airport, some stopping along the side of the road to pick people up. I knew I looked completely out of place, but my nervousness mingled with excitement as David pulled up and told me to hop into the car. At least I was taking a chance, not letting fear of failure dictate where I should live out my life.

The next day, a true adventure began.

In the Beginning, There was a Strawberry

          Welcome to my newest blog, Transplanted Strawberry. I am the strawberry (in reference to my "strawberry blonde" hair), and I've been transplanted about 3,000 miles away from my hometown of Harrisville, New York to southern California. It's a huge leap for someone like me, and that's why I've been inspired to start sharing my experience publicly. This blog is mostly for myself, and for friends who are interested in the inner workings of my mind, but maybe someday it will reach a wider audience.

          I'm an amateur at this blog-writing stuff, so I'm just going to jump into it and see what happens.

I suppose the best place to begin a story is at the beginning, but where exactly does my story begin? I’m certainly not a reliable narrator of my own birth. If you REALLY want that story, talk to my mother (please don’t), otherwise, we’ll just have to fast forward a few years into the future. Several years, really. Twenty-three years, to be exact.

          Who am I, you ask? That’s a loaded question, but here’s the nitty-gritty: My name is Ashley, (some friends call me Torch), I’m twenty-three years old, I was born and raised in Northern New York (NNY), and I currently live in Oceanside, California. I’m an animal lover, but after living with my adorable and amazing felines for approximately fourteen years, I’m definitely biased towards cats. You’ll likely see their pictures more than once in this blog. You have been warned.

The first cat sighting! Left to right: "The Baby" and "Pan."

          My hobbies and interests include writing, rock music, nature, baking, exploring (places, ideas, stories, lives, etc.), drawing, photography, being a quick-witted smartass, tattoos and piercings, gardening, and I consider myself a connoisseur of sweets. I have four wisdom teeth in my mouth, but I’m convinced they’re all sweet tooths. (Sweet teeth? Neither of those sound right….)

           To some people, moving to a new state might not seem like a big deal, but for many others—particularly people who may have had upbringings similar to my own—moving across the country is a HUGE deal. You see, a common misconception about New York is that we all live in the booming metropolis of New York City. I hear this all the time now that I live in California, and it drives me crazy!

 
          Let’s get this straight right now: according to United States Census Bureau, in 2013, 19,695,680 people lived in New York state, and 8,405,837 of them lived in New York City. Proof, right here, that not all New Yorkers live in New York City. In fact, I’ve never even been to New York City, not even close to it. I’d never had any real desire to go there.

           I digress.

          What I’m saying is that there are massive differences between where I grew up and where I’m living right now, so this cross-country move has been full of culture shocks. I think I discover more differences every day I’m here, and as of right now I’ve been living here for almost four months. It doesn’t sound like much, and I’m still adjusting to things here on the West Coast, but I’ve had a very fulfilling almost-four months thus far. Southern California is a spectacular creature, and I’ve found just as many things I love about it as things I hate about it. You’ll be hearing about both of them in future posts.

          My hometown of Harrisville, New York is not a glamorous place. There are no skyscrapers, no Broadway theaters (no theater at all, actually), no rush-hour traffic jams (thank God), no celebrities, no fashionistas, and no Starbucks (gasp!). Harrisville has a population of 633 (as of 2013, according to citydata.com) and all of it is rural.

Peeking out my door at the first snowfall of 2014: November 14th.

          What we do have in the North Country (the name for the region I’m from) are beautiful forests and rivers, neighbors who grew up together, and a tight-knit community that makes up for its lack of money with compassion and integrity. Some may see us as backwoods rednecks, and maybe a lot of us are, but we are hardworking, resourceful, and have skin thick enough to withstand extreme cold and oppressive humidity, as well as anything or anyone that may try to stomp us down.

We're also known for our gorgeous fall foliage. I took this September 28th, 2014.

          Even though I don’t live there anymore, and may never live there again, I say “we” because I’m a New Yorker through and through. I’ve taken the best of what my home and my family have taught me, and hope to become more than I ever was in my new home here. I have already achieved what so many people in NNY never manage to: I got out.

          So many people, due to money problems, lack of education, or family responsibilities never leave the North Country. Many just love being there so much that they have no desire to ever leave, and I think that's perfectly fine as well. I just happen to be one of the people who not only had the desire to leave, I had the courage and resourcefulness to make it happen. I certainly wasn’t alone in this endeavor; I have my family in New York to thank, and a handful of friends here in California who have helped me. Without all of them, I wouldn’t be sitting here in Oceanside typing this right now. I may have never had the chance to leave, or I’d have struggled for many more years to get here on my own.

          With all that said, the purpose of this blog is one part diary, one part travel blog (sort of). My goal is to chronicle my life as it was in New York and the things I’m experiencing here in California. It probably won’t be a true “travel blog,” but considering how I journeyed across the nation, travel is part of the equation by default. I’m not going to fence myself in and say I’ll only ever post about California or New York. This blog is for myself first and foremost, and things I think my friends and family will be interested in reading about.

          It will be whatever it becomes, and I’m sure it will evolve as time progresses, just as I will. Just as we all do.

          I welcome feedback to my blog below. As I post more often, let me know what you thought about each topic (please, keep all trolling and asshole comments to yourselves. We may all think we’re anonymous on the Internet, but that’s no excuse to be a dick.) Also, feel free to ask questions or suggest things you’d like me to write about in the future.