the search for time lost, n-10

I miss DC.  

Not in the way that most people think of Washington DC – political intrigue, monuments, Congressional aides, West Wing-style high drama, the Sabbath Gasbags blathering on and on every Sunday morning, interns on the make, power dinners at the Palm, the whole cut and thrust of life inside the Beltway – that’s not my DC at all.  

My DC was autumn on the GW Parkway. Late nights at the dearly missed Ireland’s Four Provinces. Bluegrass on WAMU and go-go at the 9:30 Club. Sonny Sam and Frank on the call of Redskins games, Don & Mike on JFK in the afternoons and the Sports Junkies at night. George Washington and George Mason and Maryland hoops. Coffee at the Mudd House or Common Grounds, groceries from Giant, Barra Brava and the Screaming Eagles at DC United, Lake Braddock vs Annandale, DeMatha vs Good Counsel, trying to find parking at Montgomery Mall, Buck calling the Wizards and the Locker calling the Caps and Jim Vance and Doreen Gentzler and George Michael on the Channel 4 news, Mac McGarry hosting “It’s Academic”, and the 4th of July on the Mall (always better observed from the Arlington side of the river).  The whole world, the real place that nobody ever thinks of when they think about the DMV – indeed, if you hear DMV and think “drivers license?” that’s as good a shibboleth as any.

Ten years on, I have come to the conclusion that as it exists in 2014, I kind of loathe “Silicon Valley.”  I really do.  Not the geographic area, not the outstanding HBO show, but Silicon Valley as it exists in the popular mind around here.  Uber and Lyft and $18 billion in valuation for a middleman app that relies on regulatory loopholes and “independent contractor” dodges.  Stanford University and its private incubation/investment services. Most of the Mission and more than half of SoMa. The endless array of hoodie-clad neckbeards whose eyes glaze over at a “Walk Your Bike” sign. Dolores Park, all of it, every weekend. Clinkle and the endless black hole that keeps getting funding no matter what. The idea that the single best resume in high tech is “just dropped out of Stanford or MIT”. $1.2 million for an app that literally just says “Yo” and has security holes you can drive a Google bus through. The notion that a degree is worthless but Bitcoin is valuable. The appropriation of public goods for private profit, whether it’s MUNI stops clogged with shuttles or people auctioning their parking spot off with MonkeyParking. The frathousing of high-tech, the infantilization of high-tech, the parade of private buses down suburban side streets in Mountain View while Caltrain has to scramble for cash and the inability to buy a house anywhere unless you can put up 100% cash up front.  The replacement of high tech with a Wolf of Market Street cash-grab boondoggle bonanza.

Which is a shame, because in these ten years, I’ve come to love the real place underneath. The place that has In N Out burger and charbroil joints that were doing delicious burgers long before trendy names like Umami and Super Duper came along. The overcast layer in the morning and the fog spilling like Cool Whip over the tops of the Santa Cruz mountains above the reservoir along I-280.  The art and wine festival in every small town’s high street some weekend or another between Memorial and Labor Day. The beaches at San Gregorio or Pescadero and drinks by the firepit outside the Ritz in Half Moon Bay, or by the fireplace at the Riptide deep in the Outer Sunset.

I could go on.  In fact, I will.

Sal Castaneda doing traffic in the morning on channel 2 and John Madden offering commentary on KCBS radio on the drive in to work. Hole-in-the-wall Italian places in North Beach.  Following the Cal Band up the hill to Memorial Stadium on a Saturday morning.  Turkey Mike’s BBQ and a couple of beers as the sun sets at San Jose Giants games. The Warriors, any time, any place, Golden State or Santa Cruz alike. A pub without a television in San Jose and a bar without a beer tap in Mountain View. Camping in Portola State Park where there’s no data signal of any kind, just a book and a lounge chair and the shade of the redwoods. Ad Hoc in Yountville and Los Charros in Mountain View. St Francis vs Bellarmine and Santa Clara vs St Mary’s.  A slice at Pizza My Heart, a cup of fresh-ground Peruvian coffee at the farmer’s market, a sack of persimmons or Meyer lemons and take all you want because they’re overflowing the yard.

This is a real place, full of real people, with a real history that goes back decades to Fairchild engineers drinking at the Wagon Wheel or Steve Jobs bribing the Macintosh dev team with pineapple pizza from Frankie Johnny and Luigi’s or entire orchards of stone fruits as far as the eye can see. There’s a whole valley of real people and real places and real things that will be here long after the bubble bursts and the hipster hustlers decamp back to Portland or business school.  

A million years ago, seemingly, they called this place the Valley of Heart’s Delight.  If you can wall off the bullshit and immerse yourself in the real thing, it still is.