All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey
I've been for a walk on a winters day...
I've been for a walk on a winters day...
California Dreamin' - The Mamas & The Papas (1965)
The Mamas and The Papas' Californian dream was very much a reality for me, this morning, as I set out to explore Sacramento. I purposefully went out without my raincoat, but foolish of me it was to think that California never receives rain. Walking no more than a couple of strides, I felt the familiar sprinkling of water droplets from what was a very misty morning for the city, but I couldn't be bothered to go all the way back to my room to obtain the necessary garments. It wasn't really rain, but just that invisible yet highly obnoxious mist; my jumper loved it, soaking every possible droplet out of the air.
With only two days in Sacramento, I had to make a thorough go at exploring the downtown city district today, and I was surprised at just how much there was to see. In short, Sacramento is an architectural gem; a beauteous array of interestingly carved and coloured infrastructure. So it doesn't have such a mouth gawping history that Oxford or Durham can boast about, but what it does have is character; something that, in my experience, is one half of the see saw when it comes to a well balanced city. I spent many a good hour (eight, in fact) aimlessly wandering up and down the alphabet; that's how all the streets are named here. My hostel is on H street, a modestly picturesque collection of some of the finest mansions any city would be proud of. It's also the street where the state governor dines, baths and sleeps, and to tell you the truth, I think my hostel's interior is just as well furnished as his. When it comes to hostel decor, this has to be the grandest.
What I found almost immediately on my walk was preservation. Mansions and grand housing aside, some of the city's best restaurant dining can be found not in an 'all glass-all gleaming' modern establishment that looks like it has used up most of the Californian beach just to construct the glass, but in some of the most authentic erections Sacramento is home to. Not only restaurants, but coffee shops, grocery stores and wineries. Now I'm not saying that Sacramento isn't a bustling hub for business and enterprise, far from it! There are skyscrapers. There is modernity. But these are somewhat overshadowed by the sheer volume of well preserved buildings.
I weaved my way through the avenues, as if this city was one large 'Snakes and Ladders' game and I was one of the counters. Two reservations to get sorted first before I continue to talk about the great city this is. One of the them lies in the unreasonable number of multistory car parks. It seems like there's one dedicated to every street, which was then supplemented by another unsuitably large area for surplus automobiles, which on top of that, was aided by on-street parking. The thing that got me though was that each and every one looked full to the brim. Even more crunching was that despite the numbers of motors parked, there seemed to be just as many travelling on the road, so out of an eight hour walk, I probably spent an hour of it waiting patiently at a set of traffic lights.
The other exception to what would otherwise be an almost perfect city is the number of homeless people outstretched in some of the most contorted of positions in the streets. If they weren't lying desperately amongst bushes and behind walls, then they were taking up most of the pavement with a stolen shopping trolley, in which held their possessions. Call me discourteous to the helpless, but it really doesn't compliment the attractiveness of the rest of Sacramento. I was happy to read therefore in the local Sacramento newspaper, News and Review, that "affordable housing and medical care for more than 150 working-class, homeless, disabled and elderly Sacramentans" is being built on 7th Street. I walked by it today; it looked pampering and indulgent, and I almost wonder whether people will admit to being homeless just for the room. (Even Dave Kempa who wrote the article thinks that it is "surprisingly industrial chic".
But those are the only two reservations I have. I continued my walk, relieved my savings account of $23 (the ATM's charge astronomical fees over here) and set my eyes upon an English Elm. It's actually a bronze cast of one that grew for over 100 years in a city park, and on it are notable dates and events in the city's history. From 1885, when it was planted in the Cesar Chavez Plaza, to 2000 when Sacramento hosted the Olympic Track and Field events. Deeply memorable dates such as 1929 when the Great Depression started depressing people, to slightly less news-worthy events such as 1912 when Oreo cookies were introduced. This English Elm saw it all.
It wasn't long in my tour of downtown Sacramento that I was drawn to the unfamiliar, yet rewarding sight of Palm trees. I don't know why I was surprised to see them bordering the pavements, and encircling fountains; I suppose I just forgot exactly where I was in the world. The trouble with travelling long distances over short periods of time is that you lose perspective of distance. In two and a half weeks, I have travelled close to 3500 miles south; two thirds of that distance I did in a single four hour plane journey, and so I think you can forgive me to say I still can't believe I'm in Palm Tree land, because it only feels like yesterday that I was rubbing shoulders with subzero breezes and ploughing through waist deep snow.
If Palm Trees surprised, the Orange Trees astonished. In no equal distribution over Sacramento, half splattered orange coloured masses sprawled over the base of a very leafy tree. I didn't get too close for fear of being pelted; rain was ok, but a thick syrup of Vitamin C oozing it's way down my neck and into every orifice would be too much to cope with. At certain times of the year, the city permits the population to harvest the fruit, although it would take more than an offer of free fruit to get me to clear the streets of half-nibbled oranges.
It was just before midday when I reached, arguably, Sacramento's top attraction: Capitol Park. 40 acres of some of the most exquisite gardens I've had the pleasure to walk around in, it's almost as if someone took a large spatula, removed a 16 hectare slice of Sacramento's Downtown and sprinkled grass seed out of a giant salt cellar. Well, if I'm reliably informed, in the 1850s after long hours behind a desk in the planning department, the designated area was smeared with silt from the Sacramento Riverbed, and this then was caked in some of the finest grass seed money can buy. Soon, one by one, trees (1140 in fact) were planted, numbering 200 species altogether from all around the world. I ambled down the lanes today, taking in many 'first sightings' of trees with almost fairy-tale names: the irresistible texture of Trithrinax Palm, the thin towering Himalayan Windmill Palm to name but a couple. I have never seen so many grey squirrels, although they look significantly smaller than the ones up north; their tails, for one thing, aren't feather dusters but mere pipe cleaners. Scattered almost as randomly as the squirrels were, all in all 155 memorials, though I don't think I saw even half of them. Prestigious memorials of fire-fighting heroes and Vietnam War veterans held brass statues of notable people. (If my Mum was here, she would have me pose beside them all, in exactly the same position to the nearest centimetre or thereabouts!)
As admirable as the gardens are, I had actually come here to see the Californian Legislature. It's Sacramento's answer to the White House, I thought. It currently houses restored offices from previous Secretaries of State, treasurers and other honourable people with briefcases. To this very day, bills are debated, and tours are given, but not being a political enthusiast, I stayed out in the cool breeze, and waited patiently to obtain the perfect photo. Now, I'm not one to hang around for hours, adjusting ISO levels, and tweaking EV scales, prodding buttons frantically and placing spirit levels over the ground, to get something of National Geographic front page standard. All I ask for is a photo of one of the most grandest buildings in the city, without people walking aimlessly in front of it. Thus it was today that I stood patiently for about ten minutes whilst I waited for the cohort of Sacramento's currently most irritating population to remove themselves from my LCD screen. A largely built gentleman holding a camera with too high a price tag for most, stood directly in front of me, not taking wonderful shots, but holding most probably the most irrelevant phone conversation. When he became aware that there was an impatient British guy glaring at him, he trotted off somewhere, but almost immediately, along came a whole coach load of school children. Wildly shouting with glee as if they hadn't ever been on a school trip before, their teachers spent many a good five minutes, trying to get them to assemble behind me: "Pretend it's a fire-drill" they yelled over the cluster of frantic chatter. I couldn't wait any more; I took my photo, and low and behold, not a body in sight.
What makes this parkland strip so beauteous, I feel, isn't in the intricacy of the garden design nor in the grandeur of the building (though these two aspects make it exceptional); it's a case of mere symmetry. As I headed towards the Sacramento river, I frequently turned back to greet what was a close to 100% symmetrical image. I half expected the occasional weed or lichen on one side of the street to be growing alongside an identical one on the other.
I won't say too much about Sacramento River, as I plan to explore most of it tomorrow, but what I will comment on briefly is the Tower Bridge. In anticipation of California's greatest- Golden Gate Bridge is on my itinerary in the next four days- I decided to explore the less inspiring achievement of Tower Bridge. It was completed in 16 months, and opened in 1936; not bad considering it's a vertical lift bridge. At first I thought it was glossed in yellow, but at close sight, it has a golden tint to it; nonetheless, it bears a small resemblance to the one in London, with two pillars on either side, but that's about it. It's a shame to see the works of graffiti on what is on the register for being a 'Historic Place'. (Surely, given time, anywhere is a historic place?)
My walk continued; some streets providing more interest than others, some nothing at all, but having trekked some considerable distance without lunch, I decided to pause my adventures and dine al-fresco. I don't often do this, but a food cart caught my eye, with a faint aroma of sizzling sausages. The whiff only grew on me, and I had to have one. It's called Dave's Dawgs (I suppose that's how American's pronounce 'Dogs') but Dave was elsewhere; I was greeted by the most lovely lady who throughout processing my request of a Hot Chilli Dog with Cheese, rampaged through her family tree and her apparent love of the English accent. Well, she was delightful, the Hot Dog equally so, and the whole experience might just have been the icing on what had already been a great start to my Californian travels, had I not sat in a puddle of water, and soaked the backside of my jeans straight through.
The rest of the afternoon I spent south of downtown, amongst the tranquillity typically offered by inner city suburbs. I sauntered pass some of the most attractive stone cottages, with all the charm of my own home village. It's amazing isn't it: the only thing that separated my time spent in the hustle and bustle of a vibrant city centre and this elegantly constructed neighbourhood, was a hot dog and a five minute walk south. On one street (we've reached about street Q in our alphabet) I noticed a row of multicoloured apartments that looked so miraculously similar to the the colourful array of British Beach Huts.
From the utter peace of this neighbourhood, I found myself walking underneath a large arch-shaped sign, proclaiming that what I was entering into was the 'Historic District', established in 1855. Wide streets led the way, and along each side, were Sacramento's long forgotten set of what would have, in their heyday, been vibrant manufacturing establishments. This was a ghost town now. I'm picturing it: broken windows, boarded up doors, and the most weathered walls. Half missing signs naming the particular factory, who founded it, and when it was built; most dating back to the early 1930s and 1950s, with one as recent as 1970. The road ended, and in the distance, I noticed a familiar logo: Safeways. I needed to do some light shopping. Safeways has done a great thing about being in the 'Historic District' and proof, if you need more, that Sacramento puts in no end of effort to preserve the past. The shopping centre has been built inside an old factory. Inside, the ceilings are almost unseeable in the commotion of old wires and former pipes. My favourite is the outside sign which has kept the skeleton and top of what supposedly was the old chimney.
Equipped with the necessaries, I left Safeways and headed back to the hostel. I smiled as I paced down H street, satisfied that my first day in California had been nothing but a success.
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