On the President’s Day long weekend of 2004, Paul and I decided to take a road trip to check this place out. Everyone else seemed to be busy and unwilling to commit for 3 whole days, so after all negotiations broke down with the others, we decided to stake it out on our own.
From Yahoo Maps, the drive to the Valley was a little over seven hours. Since driving long distances has never been a favorite hobby of mine, I proposed that we break up the journey by spending Friday and Sunday nights in Bakersfield. Reason prevailed, and the plan was set. At sunset, we set out from the Bay Area, jauntily heading south in Paul’s ‘95 Nissan Sentra.
As we pulled into Bakersfield at around midnight, the first motel that we tried was fully booked. We thought nothing more of it, moved on to the motel next door, and even managed to bargain a $10 discount for one of the two remaining rooms. Little did we suspect that we were witnessing the ominous effects of what was to come. The next day, the first day of the long weekend, millions of Americans will get out of bed, into their SUVs, and head off towards some faraway destination. Our little incident with the rooms signaled the approach of the vanguard of this inevitable horde, like water seeping through cracks before the dyke finally gives way with a thunderous burst, and the river comes crashing down on the landscape, including the little Dutch boy with his finger stuck in the wall.
