A Journey and New Home
The snow-capped mountains set against the red sky in Montana, were breathtaking. The bus rolled along some unnamed highway, and I couldn’t help thinking I was lucky. Lucky to have parents that trusted I could do this on my own. But they had trusted me before years. As a teenager, I worked down the Jersey shore during the summers. I was now 21 years old, and ready to make a big change in my life. I felt liberated from their watchful gaze and the slow deterioration of my neighborhood. I was leaving Philadelphia for sunny California.
Just like my brother had done 8 years earlier, I traveled cross- country by bus. I could have flown out, but I wanted to see the USA. Ambitious I know, and scary, but I was determined to do this to see what my brother saw when he left home. Cross-country travel by car was all the rage in the 60’s and 70’s. “See the USA in your Chevrolet” so the jingle went. My Chevy was a Greyhound Bus.
The ride was full of short story-worthy events. Seeing the pristine town of Salt Lake City and the endless mountains and sky with its never-ending beauty. I rode the bus with ex-cons and Native Americans as well as just ordinary folks who all seemed weary and anxious. There were long stretches of intense silence, then others of raucous laughter. Some of the sights were pure culture shock for me. Being from a big city and never traveling the desert plains, I was like a kid who had never really seen the world beyond Philadelphia, the Jersey shore, and New York City. I drank in the moments as I blended in on this life-changing journey.
There were sudden changes in temperature and scenery as I awoke from various stages of restless sleep. It was still hot in the Midwest but then snow in Wyoming. We traveled what is typically called the northern route- through Chicago, Milwaukee, Cheyenne, Salt Lake City, Reno and eventually San Jose California. I think we changed buses at least 3 times, and those terminals did not have showers. I was truly ripe for the picking.
Somewhere in the Dakotas or maybe Idaho, a group of young punks got on board, and they offered me some of their wine and spirits. I happily obliged and engaged in trash talk while passing the bottle. We did this for hours until we were all passed out drunk in the chill of the night. I wish I could have captured some of those conversations, but this was 1978 so there were no phones, no cameras or WIFI on the bus. Just good ole ’fashioned crazy talk and singing! Yes, we sang too, but I don’t remember the songs. I ended up in the emergency room once I reached San Jose. Strep throat after all that drinking, passing the bottle, and not worrying about germs, hygiene or anything else. I vowed to never drink with strangers out of the same bottle. Insane. The sights, the sounds, the experience made up for any health concerns. Meeting new people, seeing eye-popping big sky and endless mountains were more than anything I could dream of at the time. I’ll never travel across country by bus again.
Upon my arrival at my destination in the sleepy town of San Jose, I was greeted by a gigantic sun and very dry air. Septembers in the bay area are sometimes warmer than July. So, it was very hot most days in the fall. More wonderous things to discover in this new land of opportunity. My Philly childhood friend greeted me at the bus station, and we lived in a decent 2-bedroom apartment in a garden style complex. These were very popular around Northern California in the 70’s. Nice little courtyards and balconies with carports. What the heck was a carport? I soon found out as the car is king in California. The apartment complex was large and fairly- well integrated with Black and White families and Asian and Latinos as well. A real melting pot of newcomers and old -time residents. It is interesting that everyone seemed to get along back then. I’m not so sure that could happen these days. The neighborhood was very suburban, and there did not seem to be an ethnically- segregated areas. Everyone was everywhere. I often wandered around just taking in this foreign land, but eventually I got lonely. Isolation started to creep in, and I contemplated going back to Philadelphia more than a few times. However, with each passing day, week, and month, I started to get used to the place.
I think one of the biggest discoveries there were the sights and sounds of so many cars. Cars are king and everybody has one in California. Traffic is always a nightmare and waiting in lines in cars at drive throughs became standard practice. I wasn’t used to it. I was amazed at how life was pretty much built around cars- drive-in banks, drive-in cleaners, car washes and repair shops on every corner. I had a few cars during my time in San Jose. I mean you had to have one. I learned how to drive a 3-speed on the column manual transmission. That was so much fun. So, I could tell my parents that I was getting an education since I dropped out of college. I was learning how to drive a stick and change spark plugs. Everybody knew how to do this in my apartment complex.
San Jose in 1978 was still a somewhat rural, dusty farm town with a sizable Mexican- American population. Today, San Jose is a thriving metropolis and is in the Silicon Valley. I remember when Steve Jobs launched Apple Computers in Cupertino which is right outside of San Jose. Who knew it would be what it is today. If I knew then what I know now. Silicon Valley was just getting started with these semi-conductors and microchips. I used to drive pass Intel every day. I should have gone in and worked there!
The first 6 months were rough, but I managed to find a job and learn the very basic transit system to get around. I also learned a lot about Mexican- Americans too. I had never experience living around another group of people that were so different from me. Mexicans born in the U.S. were known then as Chicanos. I learned a lot about that culture while living in the South Bay area. I really learned lessons on dress, food, partying and some Spanish from neighbors and new friends. Low-riders, Cholos, baggy clothes and souped-up cars were all new forms of expression that made me curious about this lifestyle. The biggest event on a Saturday night was to get dressed up, have a few beers and other substances, and go to watch the cars cruising on Almaden Boulevard.
Seeing this ritual on Saturday nights with the cars, the 60’s Motown music, the women teasing the young men was all very colorful. The classic cars with metallic paint and skinny tires hopping up and down to impress people was a real scene. I was not part of this culture, but I could relate to a group of minorities who struggled to have their own identity. There were parallels to the Black community where I lived in Philadelphia. I won’t forgot all of that experience and will continue to reflect on those times. I had heard that young men should go West- and I did.