Waves, Joan Sebastian, and Hemingway: A Central Coast Road Trip from L.A.

Waves, Joan Sebastian, and Hemingway:  A Central Coast Road Trip from L.A.

Reflections from a California road trip where literature and ballads collided in unexpected ways.

By Armando Ortiz

Last year, we drove to Carmel, about five hours north of Los Angeles. Our route took us along the I-5 north, cutting west on Highway 46 before stopping for lunch in Paso Robles. There, we found a small Mexican restaurant frequented by locals. We took it to go and enjoyed it at a nearby park. From there, we continued north on the 101 until we reached the coast. Our first stop was the 17–Mile Drive, a picturesque stretch of road that hugs the Pacific.

At one of the first turnouts, Huckleberry Hill, I learned that John Steinbeck, author of Tortilla Flats, Cannery Row and Grapes of Wrath, used to frequent this part of the coast. It’s easy to see why–the crashing waves, the cypress trees, the feeling of solitude. It’s the kind of place that invites introspection and inspiration. 

To bridge our musical taste–mine rooted in hip-hop and Yeny’s hard rock–we tuned in to a Spanish-language radio station. The playlist moved between old and new regional Mexican music. As the car wound through along the coast, we listened to tracks by Juan Gabriel, José José, Enrique Iglesias and Alejandra Guzman. The music felt both nostalgic and refreshing, almost like the cool onshore breeze that blew in through the open windows.

Driving through this short stretch of coast was magical–the pounding surf, the manicured golf lawns and elegant homes facing west. This was the perfect place to catch a sunset. We spent the day driving and stopping along the 17–Mile Drive, and later went to have dinner in Carmel. The spot we chose, The Hog’s Breath Inn, was once owned by Clint Eastwood. It turns out he had also been mayor of this small town.

While in Carmel, I heard music that I hadn’t given much thought to before–especially the songs of Joan Sebastian. The next day, we explored the town by foot, enjoying ice cream, window shopping, and other sweets. We ended our time there with lunch at Flaherty’s Seafood Grill and some homemade bread to take with us from Patisserie Boissiere Restaurant.

I’d probably heard five different tracks by Joan Sebastian during our trip. So, upon returning to L.A., I began diving into his catalog. At that time, I was reading Hemingway’s A Movable Feast. Somewhere along the way, the Spanish lyrics began to blend with the author’s voice on the page. 

I had just finished reading the part where Hemingway confesses to cheating on his wife. He describes the regret that followed, and how during the affair, he was conflicted. Right then, Joan Sebastian’s Lobo Domesticado began to play–a song about a man who can’t be tamed but wants to be domesticated by the woman he loves. 

Another song followed: Sé que no merezco tu perdón. It echoed the passage I’d just read, where the singer admits his faults were serious, his mistakes were too severe. He knows she’ll find someone new. Similarly, Hemingway, while regretful, finds a kind of relief that Hadley, his ex-wife, married someone finer than him. As that song ended, Me Gustas began–Sebastian singing about loving a woman so deeply that being with her erases time and reason. The country twang and crying fiddle paired beautifully with Hemingway’s sense of longing and loss.

I kept reading, and soon Hemingway was reflecting on Paris and his time in the winter mountains with Hadley. The tone of writing felt perfectly in sync with Sebastian’s songs. One scene, where Hemingway hikes up the mountain, made me feel like I’d climbed three thousand feet in fifteen minutes. The timing of the music I was listening to felt uncannily aligned with the words on the page. 

Eventually, the track switched to Oiga, a duet with Prisma, who sings of her fear of love after being hurt. Near the end of the book, Hemingway reflects on human behavior–how actions have consequences, how even our most secret choices shape our futures. But at least, he says, he’s glad Hadley found a better man. Some of those songs, which I kept returning to, echoed Hemingway’s own regrets and longing. 

Life unfolds in unexpected ways–and sometimes, the art we encounter along the way helps us understand it. Our trip to Carmel was peaceful: we had good meals, shared desserts, and listened to songs that still linger in my mind. But what stays with me most is how all these elements–the coast, the music, the drive–came together to make A Movable Feast not just a book I read, but something I felt in real time. A layered, living experience.

Tastes of Summer: A Memory of Strawberries

Tastes of Summer: A Memory of Strawberries

By Armando Ortiz

Every year, from April to June, strawberries come into season across California. You see them everywhere – roadside stands, corner markets, backyard gardens. Their scent, especially when driving through Oxnard, carries more than sweetness; for me it brings back places, people, and moments that linger longer than the fruit itself. This piece is a gathering of those memories – some simple, some strange, all tied together by the taste of strawberries.

Strawberries and cream oatmeal 

with strawberries and bananas.

Strawberries and Tajin 

on the camping trip.

A carton of strawberries handed to me

outside of Santa Cruz.

Dried strawberries under the dust 

at Burning Man.

Strawberries with Zinfandel.

Strawberry banana pancakes, 

with whipped cream and strawberry syrup.

Peanut butter

And strawberry jam on wheat bread.

The film, Wild Strawberries

Buying agua fresca de fresa in Ukiah.

Strawberry coconut ice cream 

and slow-churned chocolate ice cream topped with strawberries.

Ice cream sandwiches eaten on the side of the road along PCH.

French toast with strawberries, whipped cream, 

bananas, and strawberry syrup

My summer strawberry,

with flush red cheeks.

And smiles–simple pleasures 

live deep in our desires.

Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

 Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Life presents us with patterns of interconnectedness, whether we choose to see them or not. Some feel random, but in hindsight, they form a web of meaning. As humans, we weave significance into the things around us, creating symbolism from what appears to be chance. It can be playful or overwhelming. Ultimately, we decide how to process it.

In the early 2000’s I spent time studying in South Korea and China. After completing my graduate studies, and no longer able to continue studying Mandarin, I moved on to other ventures. I spent some time teaching English in South Korea before using my savings to start a business back in Los Angeles. My idea was simple: people in the U.S. would buy East Asian art books.

From 2007 to 2011, I traveled frequently between the U.S. and China, also visiting South Korea and Japan in search of books. At the peak of my business, I traveled to China at least once or twice a year. I drove to many parts of the Western and Midwest regions of the U.S., met many artists, and saw many different places. I was fortunate.

Most of my books came from Tianjin. I chose the city simply by browsing a Beijing bookstore and gravitating toward a particular book. The publisher that resonated with me was based there– about 70 miles from the capital, roughly the same distance as a drive from Los Angeles to Ventura. I remember my first trip: all I had was an address and a printed map. The beginning of my business was more of an adventure.

This reflection is less about my business and more about the randomness of interconnected moments - the meanings we attach to things, in this case, dragonflies. 

While in Tianjin, on my way to the bank with a publishing company secretary, I spotted a dead dragonfly on the sidewalk. I picked it up and examined it. Its body shimmered metallic green and blue, catching the sunlight. Its transparent wings had disintegrated, leaving only delicate filaments– traces of its former flight.

A few days later, in Beijing, I checked into my room and rested. Suddenly, a dragonfly landed on the outer edge of the air conditioner. It lingered there and died. The heat that day was intense. I opened the window and saw its iridescent body up close. I left it where it was but felt oddly lucky to have noticed it.

Two weeks after returning to Los Angeles, I encountered another dead dragonfly on Wilshire Boulevard, near a palm tree. As before, I picked it up, examined it, then returned it to where I’d found it. This one wasn’t metallic like the ones in China– it had muted shades of purple and gray, with hints of sage. There was no hesitation in picking it up; it felt natural, as if I was meant to find them.

Curious, I looked up dragonflies but didn’t research deeply. I learned they mostly live near water and that thousands of species exist. 

Months later, after summer had passed, I found myself in Tucson, Arizona. Taking a break from selling books, I visited a weekend arts festival. There, I came across an artist named Magdalena Nowacka. Her paper cutout artwork, inspired by Native American religions, was intricate and thoughtful. As I browsed through her collection, I found an affordable piece– a card with a dragonfly at its center. It immediately brought back memories of my recent encounters.

The design was inspired by Japanese motifs. That evening, I researched Japanese symbolism and learned that many believe Japan, when viewed on a map, resembles a dragonfly. The insect is also called the victory insect because of its agility, vibrant colors, and appetite for mosquitoes. I jotted these findings down in my notebook, along with my growing list of connections.

Later, my niece asked if I had ever written a poem about dragonflies. She told me that she had a toy dragonfly and wanted to read something I had written on the subject. Her question caught me off guard– I had never considered writing about them before.

Then, as if the universe had nudged me again, a friend invited me to a birthday party at a venue called The Dragonfly. Inside, a massive dragonfly sculpture loomed over the stage. I took it as a sign. I needed to gather these experiences and make something of them.

In time, I learned about damselflies, their smaller and more delicate relatives. I also discovered that my home state has 77 recorded species– 47 dragonflies and 29 damselflies. The most common? The Flame Skimmer.

The connections continue. On a weekend hike, I spotted dragon flies hovering at the top of a ridge, far from any water. Had the wind carried them from Burbank to this pass, where mosquitos might have gathered? I couldn’t say. But I had already begun the process of stringing these moments together, and I was enjoying it. 

That’s the beauty of story telling– how one thing can lead to another, creating patterns where none seemed to exist. The key is to draw the reader into your world; your way of seeing.

The more I noticed dragonflies, the more they seemed to notice me. Maybe it’s time I finally write that poem.

Peru Chronicles: Mountains, Mysteries, and Herzog’s Aguirre

Peru Chronicles: Mountains, Mysteries, and Herzog’s Aguirre

By Armando Ortiz

Inca Trail - Part One: Reflections on a Film:

My first glimpse of the Inca Trail came through Werner Herzog’s film Aguirre, the Wrath of God. Back then, as a regular at the local video rental store, I often noticed the film’s striking cover: Klaus Kinski’s crazed expression as the titular character, Aguirre. Eventually, I rented the movie, drawn by its exotic imagery. At the time, I saw it as a surreal fable, a tale of conquistadors in helmets juxtaposed with indigenous people in vibrant beanies. Kinski played the crazed soldier gone mad, seeming out of place in the lush green environment, his demeanor almost alien. The setting- a humid, swampy jungle– didn’t quite align with the costumes, and I struggled to make sense of it.

As I grew older, the film’s premise became clearer: the pursuit of gold and glory for the Spanish Crown. Yet, as someone whose education revolved around North American, U.S., and Meso-American history, I hadn’t connected the story to the Inca civilization or life under Spanish rule. My understanding of geography and human environment interaction was limited. One of my university classmates once mentioned that the rapper Tupac was named after Tupac Amaru, a Peruvian leader, but even then, Peru’s history felt distant and unfamiliar.

Before leaving for Peru, I revisited the film, watching the first 15 minutes. This time, the mist-shrouded green mountains and narrow trails carved on to sheer cliffs captivated me. The imagery was haunting yet magical- a line of soldiers and enslaved men snaking precariously along the trail, their journey echoing the danger of the llama that slipped and fell into the abyss below. As the train carried us to the trailhead, the eerie resemblance between Herzog’s landscapes and the unfolding reality stayed with me.

The train ride itself evoked an odd deja vu. Herzog’s original German dialogue was poorly synced with the English dub, resulting in voices that didn’t match the actors. A performance by the crew in our train car echoed the film’s mismatched dubbing: English voices floated from hidden speakers, out of sync with the actors’ lips. It was as if Aguirre himself were speaking in an unsettling, borrowed voice.

Later, I learned that Herzog had filmed parts of Aguirre at Machu Picchu, on the Huayna Picchu trail, and along the Peruvian Amazon. His main character, based on the historical Lope de Aguirre, led an expedition to conquer Peru via Panama. Defying orders, Aguirre sought to rewrite history in his favor. But his rebellion ended in 1561 when he was captured, dismembered, and executed. Herzog also drew inspiration from Gaspar de Carvajal, a Dominican friar who chronicled a similar journey along the Amazon two decades earlier.

The film, released in December 1972, immortalized these landscapes and themes of ambition, madness and conquest. Revisiting it before my journey added a surreal layer to my anticipation. As I prepared to walk those trails, the film’s haunting imagery lingered, merging history and myth with the undeniable pull of the Andes. For the first time, the Inca Trail felt less like a distant fable and more like a real, living connection to the past I was about to experience.

Anza-Borrego State Park: Road trip and Camping

Anza-Borrego State Park: Road trip and Camping

By Armando Ortiz

Introduction to Area and Road Trip

Anza-Borrego State Park lies in Southern California’s central interior, bordered by Ocotillo to the south near the Mexican border, Julian and Ramona to the west, the Salton Sea to the east, and the Palomar Mountains to the north. Once submerged under water, this region holds evidence of human presence dating back thousands of years.

The best time to visit is in Spring or Fall, though Winter can also be pleasant. Summers, however, bring intense heat. From downtown Los Angeles the drive takes about four hours, including potentially heavy traffic on I-15 South. My preferred route from Temecula winds through diverse landscapes, from chaparral to desert vistas, offering a peaceful escape from the busier highways.

Background of Anza Borrego

For centuries, Indigenous groups lived in this region, leaving behind mortar sites used to process seeds like juniper berries, and agave. The Kumeyaay are the group most closely associated with the area, though others, such as the Cahuilla, traveled here seasonally. The park takes its name from Juan de Anza, who traveled and explored the area in the 1700s, as he was heading northwest into California’s interior. Today, the desert landscape attracts permanent residents and visitors alike from across Southern California, drawn by its stark beauty and natural wonders. 

Activities in Anza-Borrego

Hiking is popular in and around the park, best enjoyed during the cooler months of winter and spring. Summers can be dangerous due to the extreme heat. Trails vary in difficulty; some are accessible by sedan, while others require high-clearance, four wheel drive vehicles. Off-roading is another common pastime- you’ll often see caravans of Jeeps, Tacomas and 4Runners, as well as campers being hauled by full size trucks.

Ancient Native American sites can be reached by combining hiking and off-roading. An all-wheel drive vehicle can shorten hikes, but most sites are accessible via trails of up to two miles. The park is also known for its unique iron sculptures, scattered across the desert landscape around the town of Borrego Springs. These artworks emerge on the horizon, though reaching some may require navigating unmarked trails to reach. The night turns magical as you observe the Milky Way stretching across the sky. 

Ending and review

Anza Borrego feels less desolate as other California desert parks, thanks to its nearby eateries and hotels. To fully enjoy its unique offerings, plan an overnight stay- either camping or at a local hotel. The landscape features agave, ocotillos, barrel cacti, and desert palm give it a distinct charm. Spring, especially after a wet season, is another excellent time to visit.

On our way home, we often stop in Julian, CA, a charming mountain town known for its apple pies, really good burgers, and rustic ambiance. Located at higher elevation, Julian offers a cool, green contrast to the desert’s stark beauty, with pine and oak forests. 

Drive along Highway 78 to Julian, the scenery transforms from barren, rocky mountains dotted with cactus to chaparral, then to lush woodlands. The sudden transition highlights the unique microclimates of the area, making Julian feel like a cool retreat after the desert’s intensity. 

John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath: Book Review and Reflections

John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath: Book Review and Reflections

By Armando Ortiz

Is the migration of people a phenomenon that exists during one generation or is it something that has taken place hundreds of times for thousands of years? John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, published in 1939, captures the plight of Oklahoma farmers who lost their lands during the Great Depression. Steinbeck’s novel is one of the best novels I’ve read recently, resonating deeply with current migration issues as it explores the hardships faced by people displaced from their homes. 

I started reading Steinbeck’s novel a week before leaving for Peru and was completely engrossed by the plot. Once in Peru, the parallels between the Joad daily’s journey and the struggles of families migrating to the United States today became strikingly clear. This resemblance deepened my engagement with Steinbeck’s portrayal of resilience in the face of displacement. This review not only examines the novel but also reflects on its relevance on today’s migrants to the U.S.

The novel centers on the Joad family, particularly Tom Joad, as they struggle to survive in a rapidly changing world. In addition to chronicling the experiences that his characters go through he also describes the forces of nature over the American Southwest. The Joad family’s deep connection to their land is tested by unforgiving nature and relentless economic forces. During the Dust Bowl- a devastating drought in the mid-1930s Midwest- they struggle to maintain their home, only to be uprooted by banks prioritizing profit over people.

The banks and business interests of their property are not concerned for the wellbeing of people there. Locals in the countryside continue to lose their land to mechanized agriculture and are left with two options: try to get employed by those businesses or move somewhere else. The parcels lost by the families are the places they’ve called home for at least the last three generations. The uprooted family is forced to make tough decisions that will take them to California. 

The Joad family’s deep connection to their land mirrors the universal bond that many have with the earth- a bond often cut by forces beyond their control. As their fight against the banks becomes futile, this connection becomes a painful memory, pushing them toward a new hope in California. During my trek on the Inca Trail in Peru, a guide spoke of the spiritual connections people have with the earth, a sentiment that echoes in Steinbeck’s portrayal of Jim Casy and the Joad’s family’s bond to their land.

Ultimately, the Joad family abandons their fight against the banks and sets off for California, lured by pamphlets promising plentiful farming jobs and the hope of prosperity. For the Joads, the food, grapes and oranges, and the possibility of affording a home together draws them West. 

As the Joads journey west, their story eerily parallels the experiences of many Latin American migrants heading to the U.S. today, driven by similar hopes and hardships. People who decide to head North to where the myth of finding pennies on the ground or picking up used televisions on the corners is alive. 

Tragedy soon follows the Joads westward: their dog is killed, Grandpa Joad dies and is buried by the roadside, and eventually, Grandma Joad passes away. The family’s journey is marked by loss and abandonment, reflecting the harsh realities of displacement. Little by little the family loses members, and they abandon their material possessions.

The trials endured by the Joad family- loss, displacement, and the struggle for survival- are not relics of the past but living realities faced by countless migrants today. These scenes are poignantly mirrored today by the perilous journeys of migrants from South America to the U.S., who face immense hardships along routes like the Darien Gap. In South America, I witnessed first hand the strength of family and community ties, echoing the Joads’ experience of unity and loss. 

Just as Oklahoma served as a departure point for Dust Bowl migrants, towns in Colombia act as staging areas for those embarking on the perilous journey through the Darien Gap. Like many migrant families, the Joads family begin their journey united, but overtime, their cohesion erodes under the weight of tragedy and hardships.

In the midst of their journey, families like the Joads, are sadly separated by tragedy or necessity. Blood ties are not as strong as they once were. By watching videos and reading about the Darien Gap one learns that people begin to lighten their load once the weather, and terrain begin to take a toll on their bodies. Familial unity either becomes stronger or weakens. People get swept away by the rivers or get robbed by locals. The worst experience being one survivor of a five person family unit making it to the Panamanian refugee camp. 

Tragically, as Steinbeck illustrates, the hope of a  new beginning often demands a baptism of suffering. The renewal that comes with their move West has strings attached. Just as the Joad family faced discrimination, exploitation, and verbal abuse by the locals. Today there are politicians that blame our nation’s ills on illegal immigrants and asylum seekers. These new immigrants have become the new scapegoats for all that is bad in the country. 

Despite facing oppression from legal systems, neighbors and religious groups, the Joad family perseveres. They quickly adapt to their way of life and what keeps them moving forward is having a warm meal, but also a place to call their own. It is in their desperation, like immigrants today, where they find the strength to keep moving forward. 

Dispossessed and driven by necessity, today’s migrants, like the Joads, embody humanity at its rawest. Steinbeck’s novel compels us to recognize the enduring struggles of the poor and dispossessed, highlighting the shared human experience of seeking a better life amidst adversity.

Though written over 80 years ago, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath remains a timeless exploration of forced migration and the universal quest for a better life. It shows us that there will always be a reason why people decide to put their lives at risk as they hold on to promises that are only that and that along the way they will have to find new ways to adapt and push forward towards a new and better life.

A Quiet Retreat: Free-verse Reflections

 

A Quiet Retreat: Free-Verse Reflections

By Armando Ortiz

I sit here along the coast after a thirty minute drive on Pacific Coast Highway, lying on the sand, watching the waves roll in, each one bringing solace.

The crashing waves blend with memories of hiking the Sierras, where a cool breeze touched my skin as I prepared myself to enter the alpine lake. In the deepest silence, as the waters pulled back, a tiny mosquito pierced my skin with its sharp bite. 

Lost in thought, the crashing waves transform into a gentle rustle of aspen, pulling me back in time. The memory intersects with the present, where the sounds of water and breeze become a delight. 

No need for kegger parties or psychedelic nights; just nature’s embrace heightens the senses, offering deep insights. This mid-July heat wave intertwines with every other summer breeze and every tiny insect that takes flight. 

A single mosquito stands as a buzzing reminder, its bite added to my life's itchy welts. Palm trees and cottonwoods wave gently at the endless stream of people, serene spectators to the flow of life.

If only my tent could transform into a permanent retreat, a place to watch sea lions surfing the dawn’s first light. Or a home nestled among oaks and pines, their gentle shade shielding me from the afternoon’s oppressive heat.

High on a hill, where no buzzing mosquito will dare to exist, a refuge of tranquility. Back at the coast, the sand scorches beneath my feet, but the ocean’s blue embrace offers a cooling reprieve. 

Who needs a retreat when nature’s wonder is just a few minutes away?

John Steinbeck’s The Pearl: Review

Standing Against the Waves - John Steinbeck’s The Pearl: Review

By Armando Ortiz

In John Steinbeck’s novella The Pearl, a young couple named Kino and Juana face a crisis when their baby, Coyotito, is bitten by a scorpion. Desperate for medical help, Kino seeks assistance but finds none due to their lowly status.

Determined to find a solution, Kino heads to the sea to hunt for pearls to pay for his son’s treatment and discovers the largest pearl anyone has ever seen, which seems like a blessing soon turns into a curse as news of his find spreads throughout the town.

The pearl’s discovery attracts the attention of everyone, including those who previously ignored Kino’s family. The entire community becomes obsessed with the pearl’s potential, yet they overlook the dire condition of Coyotito, who lies at death’s door.

Kino dreams of the changes his newfound treasure will bring, envisioning his son attending school, buying a rifle, and purchasing new clothes for the family. Yet, selling the pearl proves difficult as local dealers conspire to undervalue it to maximize their profits.

The pearl soon becomes a source of danger, bringing violence during the night and suspicions in the morning. Kino faces attacks from those who wish to steal it. The same doctor who once refused to help his family now shows up. Though the doctor supposedly saves Coyotito’s life, his true intentions remain suspicious. 

Juana, realizing the pearl’s destructive power, hopelessly attempts to throw it back in the sea, but Kino stops her. The drama by the coast worsens as Kino is ambushed by mysterious figures. Despite the mounting tragedies, Kino and Juana remain determined to persevere.

  Throughout the narrative, Kino confronts the challenges head on. Just when things look bleak, there is a flash of hope and a solution. Nonetheless, this brings even more challenges, and the relentless pressure of his responsibilities weigh heavily on him. Steinbeck skillfully portrays Kino and his family’s struggles, as if standing still against the metaphorical waves that threaten their existence.

Kino is aware of his low position in his community, but the pearl’s discovery emboldens him to seek a better life. When the townspeople refuse to offer a fair price for the pearl, he decides to journey north, hoping for fairer opportunities. However, this decision leads to more violence and the tragic death of Coyotito.

Steinbeck’s novella highlights the plight of those marginalized by society’s power structures. The narrative illustrates how the ruling class in the story relentlessly obtains valuable resources at the lowest cost, often at the expense of the poor. Kino’s refusal to sell the pearl cheaply attracts dangerous attention from those eager to profit from his misfortune.

The setting of The Pearl reflects Steinbeck’s profound understanding of the Sea of Cortez. His vivid descriptions of the tide pools and the desert boulders that Kino climbs to find safety reveal his intimate knowledge of the Baja California region. By immersing the reader in this environment, Steinbeck extends his narrative of California into Mexico, showcasing the unique lives and experiences shaped by the contours of the coast.

Nevertheless, the story remains relevant today. As we scan the news about faraway places and the precarious lives of the poor, we realize that this narrative is universal and powerful. It unfolds daily from the highlands of the Andes to the jungles of the Congo, from coastal fishing villages to populous megacities. Ultimately, The Pearl is a timeless story of human perseverance amidst formidable challenges, resonating with audiences across cultures and eras.