I awoke from a drunken stupor at nine in the morning as a ray of light crept out from the window and onto my face. I was supposed to have left Salinas an hour and a half ago, but the festivities from the previous evening were equal parts unplanned, deprived and irresistible. It was a fair tradeoff. I crawled onto my knees, gripping the carpet with my toes in an attempt to gain traction as I staggered to the bathroom, passing empty bottles and used piss-tests we were playing around with to see how many substances we could test positive for. There were no winners last night…
I hit the road at 9:45 a.m. It was the week after graduation and I was making my way down from the Bay Area to San Diego, where I would be staying for about a month to get my life in order before graduate school in the fall. The drive through Central California is a long, hot and arduous one. As I zipped through the 101 and hit the 46 through Paso Robles, passing signs declaring NO WATER, NO FARMERS, the roads were clear, with only the occasional farm truck or eighteen-wheeler coupled with the company of orange fields and cow farms. You could see where the road ended over the horizon if not for the black pavement suddenly disappearing into a mirage that seemed only a half-mile away. It’s a surreal scene to drive through one of rural California’s two-lane highways with no radio connection in the sweltering heat careening 95 mph into a pond of watery asphalt, expecting to take a dive at any moment, only for the water to stay just out of reach. It’s this type of daily insanity that probably drove Steinbeck to move to New York. San Francisco would have been just as suitable but that poor bastard was pushed to the other side of the country.
After coasting through the Grapevine where the only station that comes through is Christian rock radio, followed by a fight against ungodly LA traffic, I made it to Boyle Heights to meet with a friend for lunch. I arrived about fifteen minutes before she did so I bought a Los Angeles Times to read outside of El Tepeyac; a small hole-in-the-wall Mexican spot popular among LA natives. This was apparent from the line out the door of about twenty people. Breaking from reading about Jerry Brown’s backing of a $2-billion homeless-housing plan, I lit a cigarette, noticing an odd sight. The folks gathered around this restaurant seemed to fall into two categories: the first being Boyle Heights natives, possibly second or third generation residents who knew and loved this block like it was their child, and the second of which being the screen-locked millennials who made the Hajj to El Tepeyac for Instagram photos and Snapchat updates. What of it, I thought. This place seems popular enough.
Ten or so minutes passed by when I looked up from the paper to see a black Chevy Tahoe pulling into the parking lot. It was Carolina, the friend I had been waiting on. She hopped out of her car; we embraced and got in line. She was wearing reflective sunglasses that contoured her light-brown cheeks, a loose black shirt and blue jeans: a Boyle Heights product in her own right. “How was the drive?” she asked.
“Decent enough. I made it through the Grapevine just fine, but I ended up hitting traffic on the 210. I’m just hungry.”
“Predictable…well don’t worry about that, the burritos here are fucking massive.”
We walked inside to find a short Hispanic woman with a pen in her left hand and a pad of paper in her right. “Hola, sweeties! Two?” She held up two fingers next to her face framing her delighted grin and showed us to a table.
“This is what I miss about Southern California,” I said, “mom and pop Mexican food shops who are thrilled to see new customers and even more excited to see the old ones.”
“Yeah, this place has been around since the fifties, I think. This is a staple of Boyle Heights,” Caro proclaimed with a hint of pride in her throat. “Here,” she put the menu in my hand. “Just order a mini-burrito. Its big enough.” Just as she said this, a waiter came out of the back, just behind us, holding a burrito that I have to imagine was the same size as a newborn J.J. Watt.
“Dear God!” I exclaimed. “People eat those things?”
“Yea, I came here a few years ago with two guys from work and they killed it! I mean, they were sick as dogs afterwards, but it was still impressive.”
The same waitress who seated us also took our order. I ordered a chili relleno burrito and a coffee and Caro had a chicken burrito. She scribbled her notes and ran to grab my coffee after running through two more orders. It was like a scene from a diner-based musical, as she seemed to be taking orders with one hand, delivering coffee with another, all while keeping the audience entertained with that smile.
“So what are your plans for home?” Caro asked with a smirk.
“Not much, actually. Just seeing family and catching up with some people I haven’t seen in a while… oh, and god damn jury duty…”
“Ouch. At least you get to meet up with old friends, right? I bet that will be nice for you.”
I stirred my coffee with my index finger. “Meh, more or less I suppose. An old buddy of mine was telling me about some new bars and such in North Park, so I guess we’re hitting those up. Apparently it’s popping over there now.”
“Nice, that should be fun!”
“We’ll see. It sounds like a far cry from what it used to be.” We continued with our lunch catching up from our time apart, which in reality was only a week, but felt like months. We were discussing our respective neighborhoods and the more she talked about Boyle Heights the more it was reminiscent of my own. She said it was a place for old souls and blue-collars: men and women who start their day off with a cigarette, a cup of coffee and a paper. Like my hometown of City Heights, which borders to the east of North Park, Boyle Heights is a heavily Latino populated area, giving much to the local culture. Caro talked about how the community has a yearly celebration of Las Posadas, which is a large communal celebration of the nativity before Christmas. The activities include candle light vigils, mass processions, singing and goodie bags for children. I’m not the religious type, but one can appreciate this tradition and its overall effects on the residents from an objective standpoint. Getting some backstory on this place put those “familiar faces” standing outside the restaurant in a whole new context. This wasn’t a Mexican food joint; this was El Tepeyac Cafe of Boyle Heights, Los Angeles, California. I left the place with a more respectful demeanor. Once again Caro and I embraced, but this time it was in departure.
I found my way back to the 5 South to San Diego, yet again through staggering traffic until I hit 805. As per tradition, I went to Saguaros, a Mexican fast-food place I’ve been going to as long as I can remember. A Chili Relleno Burrito and two potato tacos for myself and five rolled tacos with guacamole and cotija cheese for mom. As familiar the scene, it was vastly different. 30th street through North Park was once a quiet strip of small shops, liquor stores, grocery markets, and THE bartender academy. Now, at 6:47 p.m. on a Saturday, the streets are full, the bars that were once for the depraved are now for the young and energetic: the thirsty and the passionate. A bit shook, I drove home to City Heights, about five minutes or so away. As I drove up my corner street the day got weirder, yet somewhat more familiar when I noticed three patrol cars and a K-9 unit (the dog wasn’t outside as far as I could see) all facing a man in his underwear waving his hands exuberantly in his front yard. I turned the corner two houses down and went home.
I walked in to greet my dog and my mother. “Hey, honey! Welcome home!” we hugged. “How was your drive?”
I put our food on the kitchen counter. “It was easy enough. There are cops right outside, though.”
“What? Why?”
“I was hoping you would know. There are about four cop cars surrounding some guy’s yard down 37th. The police were just standing there while the guy seemed pretty frantic.” I put our food onto plates while my mom grabbed beer and wine.
“Oh,” she said handing me a beer. “Sounds like a domestic violence case.”
“What?”
“Yea, the police stop around here a couple times a month. I swear it’s almost always domestic issues.” She poured herself a glass of Cabernet.
“Shit, I don’t remember that kind of police presence around here.”
“Well it’s not like they just showed up, but they have been stopping by a lot more frequently over the past few years.”
“You would think they’d be in North Park, that place had a lot of foot traffic when I drove by.” I finished my beer and went for another, unaware of my unintentional foreshadowing.
“You would think…”
We continued talking, eating and drinking throughout the evening, sharing stories of my college and her time at work and with family. Having to get up early the next day she decided to call it a night at 11 p.m., so I went for a walk. It was a cold night with a modest breeze that reminded me more of San Francisco than San Diego. If anything, it was the perfect weather for a cigarette or two and some nice twelve-year Whistle Pig. I filled up my flask and left for the park only a few blocks down from the house.
Upon arrival I was not expecting the multitude of cars surrounding the park, four or five of which had people hot-boxing them. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and I became defensive. I needed to cool my nerves, so I threw my flask back to warm my stomach and lit a cigarette. I was on edge for a minute until I realized I was the one in an advantageous spot, here. If police were to come up I could see the bastards on their way up, most likely drawn by those in their cars, giving me time to hide the flask. Now all I had to worry about were those without a badge, and unlike pigs, civvies tend to be more rational. I can deal with the rationality of a drunkard or a crack-head, but those bound to a set of rules, presumably against some of their own principles, are far more intimidating. They’re the ones who are “just following orders.”
I sat and drank and smoked for a while, thinking about how different the area seemed. From the hipster-pandering shops and bars along the North Park strip to this park adjacent to a YMCA becoming the apparent smoke-spot of the neighborhood. The whole scenario felt askew; my home was no longer what I grew up recognizing. Why was North Park now the destination for young folks? How are people affording the increased costs of living? If they can’t, where are they ending up? I recalled a conversation I had with my mom over dinner about a few homeless families and individuals who set up shop at this same park until police forced them to relocate. I’m not one to assume, but the increased housing and living costs within the area seemed to at least correlate to the increased homelessness issue. Was this worth the economic revenue in North Park? And the most pressing question of the night, being why in the hell is a family taking their toddler daughter to the park at 11:45 p.m.?! I did not even take this possibility into account… Going back to the premise of rationale, there are few demographics that can match the irrationality of parents; any perceived threat against their child is worth tackling on the forefront. Unfortunately, in this situation, I was looking like that guy. The one who sits and drinks and smokes on a park bench that your and my parents warned us about in our adolescence. With whiskey and beer coursing through my veins topped off with the stench of Pall Malls engrained into my denim jacket, I decided it was my time to leave.
I was planning on heading back to the house to drink and catch some highlights, but after noticing three large shirtless men loitering outside my gate I suddenly grew hungry. I went back to Saguaros to grab a midnight burrito, but those plans were put to a halt when two cop cars and a tow truck were removing a car from the sidewalk. I was in no position to drive by the police and wait for them to quit blocking the drive-through, so flipped a U-turn on 30th and drove down the street to Morely Field to wait it out. On my way through North Park, it was clearly far livelier than it was before. Drunks and phonies alike romping through the streets with no regard for traffic, laughing and yelling through their filter of craft beers. I pulled up to a stop sign next to a bar called Blue Foot to see a large man with gauges and black jean shorts shouting to the public, “There is no God! IT’S ALL BULLSHIT, DON’T BELIEVE THEM!!” Preach, buddy.
I made it to the park and sat in my truck with one word running laps throughout my mind… gentrification. You hear about this topic on the news, in classrooms, at barbershops and in family conversations, but until you add personal context to it and see the process in action, one can’t fully grasp its complexities. On one hand it’s refreshing to see a part of town that people were less than willing to visit in the past thriving and bringing in economic revenue to the community… On the other hand, what was the cost of this monetary influx? How many families lived in North Park all their lives, contributing to the overall essence of what the community was, just to be slowly blindsided by the ever increasing rent prices and cost of living in general. What will be more affordable; a family ran Super Mercado or Joe’s Organic and Environmentally Sustainable Bullshit?
It made me think back to the two demographics I saw at El Tepeyac Café. Were those screen-locked millenials doing more harm than good? Yes, their money is just as valuable and welcome as those from the community, but what is the cost? As one aspect of a community’s culture grows in popularity, the influx of other cultures tends to wash out the previous ones. As is the presumable case in North Park: millenials and the younger generations saw the affordable housing and culture within the community and decided to integrate. Unfortunately, this has led businesses to pander to such a demographic, offering craft beer shops, hip new bars, ramen and craft beer joints and hipster trinket stores. Again, I find myself wondering why this is an uncomfortable thought. I love local breweries and ramen and bars and bullshit trinkets. In fact, North Park’s new craft brew shop is one of my favorite locations here. Ultimately, it isn’t the infrastructure and local businesses that bother me. Instead I found myself desiring something I have never desired before; diversity. Growing up I was one of only a handful of white families in my neighborhood, surrounded by a Latino and Black dominant community. I never felt out of place nor did I feel anything was missing. Now I can feel it. It is all just more of the same.
What used to be the draws of the Gaslamp Quarter in downtown are now spreading throughout the smaller towns and suburbs of San Diego. On paper this sounds reasonable enough, but in reality it is washing away an older way of life and a culture that took decades in the making. While housing prices increase, as does everything else other than gas, one begins to see that something has to give. Bubbles always burst.
I decided twenty minutes was enough time for the black and whites to clear out of Saguaros. I made my way back, swerving passed pedestrians, muting their shouts and laughs with my radio on the way to my haven. I made it to the drive-through and ordered an egg, potato and cheese burrito with a medium horchata. I drove back to the house to eat and sleep while North Park continued to drink and hustle.
