Skipping Town

I can’t complain about the Golden Dragon, a Chinese restaurant nestled in a small shopping plaza on Broadway (yes, there’s a Broadway in Sacramento). The food is pretty cheap and really good, and fast—just twenty minutes or so if you call in your order for pickup. We ordered in last week and had the House Special Dinner B: hot and sour soup, fried prawns, cream cheese fried wantons, General Chicken, Beef in Hot Garlic Sauce, and pork-fried rice—all for just $11.50 per person. Nice.

I can’t complain about Zelda’s, a Sacramento restaurant institution. Though Sacramento has a variety of dining options, we’ve found that our favorite is not very glamorous: a pizza place. From the outside, with its impenetrable, windowless front and uninviting, industrial-strength door, Zelda’s appears to be a dive-y establishment, perhaps one we would not be welcome to enter. Inside, however, it couldn’t be friendlier, with a smallish bar area and lots of high-backed wooden booths, all very dimly lit save for some all-season Christmas lights. The deep-dish pizza at Zelda’s is unique, its crust almost pie-like—not greasy at all. We always order the Combination, with mushrooms, olives, peppers, sausage, and pepperoni, and a half-pitcher of Budweiser. Our total bill is always exactly $25. Can’t complain about that.

I can’t complain about strange coastal flora, and one of the best things about exploring California’s coastline is spotting the weird wildflowers and plants growing among the sea scrub and rocks. For Christmas Andrew got me a field guide to California, so perhaps I’ll be able to do some identification next time we go.

I can’t complain about being in Steinbeck country. There’s always something fun about wandering around in a dead writer’s footsteps, and California is firmly Steinbeck territory. In August 2007 Andrew and I went to Monterey for a weekend to see Cannery Row, and I read East of Eden and Tortilla Flat —and remembered Grapes of Wrath —with a new understanding of the landscape he describes.

I can’t complain about the redwoods. Wandering through a redwood forest is one of my favorite things to do here in California, and the two areas we’ve explored so far—the Hendy Woods and Muir Woods—have been amazing. There’s something particularly relaxing and peaceful about wandering through trees that have been around for centuries, their stick-straight trunks careening skyward, shading the paths with the needles that splay from their very tops.

I can’t complain about the Tower movie theater and restaurant, located in a landmark building in Sacramento. The theater has soft, comfortable seats that seem—in shabby chic style—just one extra pound away from breaking; and the theater, which opened in 1938, has an air of pleasant decay. The film lineup is always outstanding, and, happily, one thing I simply cannot say is “That film will never come to Sacramento”—in all likelihood, it might. Connected to the theater is the Tower Cafe, where we sometimes have a burger before or after a movie. There are outdoor tables tucked in among palm trees and planters; not a bad place to while away a little time.

I shouldn’t complain about Northern California’s mild temperatures…but I will, introducing a variation on the ICCA theme. I shouldn’t complain about high-sixties/low-seventies in January, but it’s JANUARY. I listen with envy to those back home, aflutter with snowstorms and record lows. I think with nostalgia of my favorite winter coat, which I didn’t even bother moving out here. And last night—there was a mosquito in our apartment, heralding another season of middle-of-the-night mosquito hunts. It’s enough to make us move. To Nevada City, that is. Or at least to an apartment with brand-new window screens.

I can’t complain—certainly can’t complain—about the low cost of living here in Sacramento. From our reasonable rent to our twelve-year-old Volvo to the generally inexpensive restaurants, we’ve kept our expenses low enough here so that we’re able to take frequent weekend trips and nurture our house fund (to be tapped on the East Coast, of course). In a weird way, we even owe our Japan trip to Sacramento. Thanks, Sacto.* *The nickname “Sacto” will not be receiving its own ICCA entry.

I can’t complain about Husch Vineyards, a small winery in Philo, California. We discovered this winery on our first wine country expedition shortly after we moved West, and we were instantly smitten, by its small wooden tasting room as much as by the outstanding chardonnay—it made converts of us both. We’re members now, with a shipment coming twice a year and a picnic in the summer, where this picture was taken.

I can’t complain about San Francisco—or, more accurately, being just an hour and a half’s drive from the City on the Bay. I can’t complain about the hilly streets, the nice restaurants and shops, the museums, the countless neighborhoods yet to be explored. And I definitely can’t complain about the vestiges of sixties attitude weaving in and out of daily life, like the naked people strolling casually among the runners in the Bay to Breakers race, and the crowd’s unflappable reaction. “It takes all kinds,” a woman said, “and San Francisco just has a larger variety of kinds.”