Wine, Waves and Change: Reading Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat in Paris

 

Wine, Waves and Change: Reading Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat in Paris

By Armando Ortiz

I read John Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat while traveling through France. Although I was there, his book transported me to a more familiar place. It took me back to the Central Coast of California where a crash of waves could be heard - Monterey. At one point I sat in a cafe facing the Notre Dame Cathedral as endless foreign voices drifted past, and yet I could feel that cool onshore wind.

Steinbeck introduces most of the gang of characters in the first few chapters; Danny, the indifferent property owner who inherits land from a relative; Pilon, the risk-taker always trying to get easy money– mostly for wine; and Pirate with his five dogs. Unlike his friends, he peddles bundles of wood and saves most of his earnings. He also survives by getting handouts. The money is kept safe under Danny's pillow.

Many scenes are absurd and outlandish. Reading this tragedy becomes just as enjoyable as reading Don Quixote. There is a scene that involves a vacuum. Later a Mexican soldier wanders into town having lost his wife to a captain and the gang give him a place to rest. 

Though they cheat and scheme, the gang remains loyal to each other. They seem to be characters from Don Quixote, people who go about their business, but in their doomed idealism find themselves in the midst of comic situations. The list of background characters adds more texture to Steinbeck’s story, becoming almost a representation of the painting that I stood in front of while visiting a museum.

At the Orsay Museum I found myself staring at a painting by Leon Frederic’s “Les ages de l’ouvrier” or The Ages of the Worker where a group of young homeless children are playing a game of cards. It seems as if they are gambling with each other's fate and meager earnings. 

I thought of Pilon and Danny who also risk their luck every day trying to find the easiest way to get drunk and fall asleep on a warm floor. For them — aside from Pirate — work is dishonorable.

The boy about to put down his card reminded me of Pilon who is always trying to take risks that favor him. He spends more energy, trying to think of easy ways to exploit people instead of getting a job. In stark contrast, the kid behind him holds a sack— a small and meaningful contrast that reminded me of Pirate’s honesty and willingness to work. Steinbeck’s images and emotions kept me in thought as I walked through Paris.

While walking along the Saint Martin Canal, and taking in the warm summer breeze I also saw a group of four friends across the water. They were drinking and laughing. As we reached a bridge I saw one of them plunge into the water from the top of the metal structure. People took quick glances as they ate their lunch and chatted with friends.

 Their muscles flexed as they pulled themselves up and out of the water. Their hair made them look like cholos from the 80's posted along a street in a Spanish speaking barrio. The guys passed their beer cans between them and talked loudly. 

A dog completed the pack. It would jump from the edge and eagerly chase them as they kept themselves afloat. One of them, probably its owner, pulled it up from its harness. They reminded me of Steinbeck’s characters- men who hadn’t fallen into the routine of work, rejected the accumulation of material goods, and although they led a solitary life they enjoyed each other’s company. I thought about the gang in the story, their unrestricted approach to imbibing red wine. It seemed as if time lasted forever for both the men across the canal and the men in the story.

Towards the end of the book, Danny’s homes had burned to the ground, culminating with him falling into a gulch. He’d completely squandered his inheritance and instead drank. The night of his fiesta fights break out and people get merry. Yet in his drunken stupor his fall ends in an untimely death.

The town is heartbroken and his friends are dejected. Although so close to the ocean, the town and the characters reflect the precarious relationship with nature. Just as a candle’s flame can start massive wildfires, excessive habits whether materialism or drunkenness if not controlled can lead to death. The real fire that the friends played with was excess wine. 

They find themselves without the right attire to go to the funeral, so they mourn from afar. Their rejection of common customs in order to indulge in their drunkenness comes at a cost, and like their unkept homes they have no control over the consequences of the fate that they chose. 

Nonetheless, watching the Parisian friends, and recalling the boys in the painting, I understood why Steinbeck treats their drunken camaraderie with such kindness — not as failure, but as a form of survival. Every day we take chances in the things we do, and the end can come in a flash. Yet it's with friends that we experience the best of times too, making life meaningful. Throughout my trip Steinbeck had me thinking that one doesn’t need to be versed in the best schools to appreciate those things. The memories we make should be with those that we love. Those that love us back will be there till the end, no matter how messy things might get. My trip to France blended perfectly with Steinbeck’s short novel.

Detroit in the '70s: Elmore Leonard's City Primeval

Detroit in the ‘70s: Elmore Leonard’s City Primeval

By Armando Ortiz.

Elmore Leonard’s City Primeval was a good read that kept me engaged with its sharp dialogue and vivid descriptions of city life. The story is a page-turner, and Leonard never bogs you down with excessive setting, dialogue or investigations details. The writing flows easily, and I found myself moving through the pages at a brisk pace. What stood out most was the glimpse it offers into Detroit in the late 70s.

The villain, Clement Mansell, and Detective Raymond Cruz are a fascinating match-up. Mansell is unchained and unpredictable, his unstable temperament making him a danger even to those closest to him. If he feels wronged or envious, he takes it out on unsuspecting victims. Cruz on the other hand, is cool and collected. He gets along well with all his colleagues and knows how to handle himself, and carries a style that is reminiscent of western cowboy heroes– complete with a weapon of choice to match. Much of the suspense comes from the two circling each other across the city, trying to predict the next move, until Cruz and his colleagues find a way to bring things to a close.

The ending left me with mixed feelings, though it ultimately fits a character with a laundry list of crimes that justified his downfall. If you enjoy sharp writing, witty dialogue,gritty cityscapes and a touch of Western flair, this novel is worth picking up. It’s a strong example of Leonard’s ability to capture lawmen and outlaws while freezing a moment in time.

L.A. Mountains Call

 

L.A. Mountain’s Call

By Armando Ortiz

I walk the adobe road, this old mountain frozen,

sagebrush and baking dust engulf me at the turn.

L.A.’s mountainous slopes like weathered lemon peels,

fade into the afternoon haze.

I disappear into clay and chaparral

A figure in an impressionist landscape.

The portrait dissolves; the fireroad opens.

Deer forage, a yucca thirsts beneath oak shade— 

this is where I eternally wander.

Butterfly shadows circle—signs warn of rattlesnakes.

Nature bustles to its own pulse.

Slithering shadows of heat

shimmer across the coastal desert.

At a junction city scents join the trail, 

leading to barren heights and spectacular views,

where past and present landmarks remain.

At the summit, a hummingbird pauses, reminding me it too belongs.

Coyotes, forever jokesters, play hide-and-seek with the past.

As I begin my descent, a school of wild quail suddenly breaks the silence.

The male perches atop a branch, wearing a black top hat.

Strange characters live up here—a diorama of memories and life.

Everything alive before my eyes,

sweaty and accomplished, I reach my car.

Tomorrow the hike will fade, my legs will ache,

but already the mountains call me back.

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.

Inca Trail Part Three: In the Wake of the River

Inca Trail - Part Three: In the Wake of the River

Tracing the flow of memory, myth, and history along the Urubamba.

By Armando Ortiz, walking the line between wonder and reckoning.

The Urubamba River, which we followed for much of the trail, winds through the Sacred Valley and eventually merges into the Amazon. I found myself thinking of that often. The water we watched from stone terraces or crossed via small bridges would one day become part of the world’s largest river system-–a path into another chapter of history entirely.

That convergence stayed with me, especially as I thought about Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo. The film centers on the rubber boom in the Amazon. Fitzcarraldo, a slightly unhinged European, dreams of building an opera house in the jungle and needs a rubber fortune to finance it. To do so, he must transport a steamship over a mountain—with the help of indigenous people who believe he’s some kind of white savior. When the task is done they release the boat into the rapids. The film ends on an almost triumphant note, but history tells a darker story.

In real life, the man who inspired Fitzcarraldo controlled vast tracts of land and enslaved native communities to extract rubber. He used weapons and violence to force submission-–often turning one tribe against another, only to later enslave them as well. Learning this unsettled me. It’s easy to imagine slavery as something distant, but this was the 20th century. These acts took place not far from where I was hiking.

This history returned to me again when I remembered Embrace of the Serpent, a Colombian film I had seen years earlier. It follows a young shaman along two journeys down the Amazon–first as a guide to a dying German scientist seeking a rare medicinal plant, and later as an older man helping an American botanist hunting for a certain species of rubber tree. The story blurs time, showing how Western science, greed, and curiosity intersect in the jungle.

In one disturbing scene, the younger shaman and the German reach a rubber collection site. There, they encounter a disfigured man trying to stop the scientist’s assistant from spilling latex bowls. At first, the scene feels surreal–then the meaning sinks in. He is trying to prevent the loss of a day’s quota. Any shortfall would mean brutal punishment. The film doesn’t dramatize this–it presents it plainly, as something tragically routine.

After the trip, I dug deeper and discovered something even more disturbing: a municipality in Peru still bears Fitzcarraldo’s name. In the 1980s, a researcher interviewed the grandson of one of Fitzcarraldo’s associates. He spoke proudly of his family’s role in the town, claiming many residents were descended from his grandfather’s forced laborers. He even described how townspeople were “rounded up” for work as if recalling a minor detail.

By the time we reached Machu Picchu, I was filled with awe—and with conflict. On one hand, I was deeply moved by the achievements of the Inca: their engineering, their crops, and their cosmology. I was amazed by the system of mita, a kind of community labor that sustained roads and farms. But I was also disturbed by how this system was later twisted into a tool of oppression—first by the Spanish, then by others who saw indigenous labor as something to exploit.

In the final scene of Embrace of the Serpent, the aging shaman realizes his role: to pass down the last of his knowledge to someone willing to learn. He understands that knowledge—like land, or labor—should not be hoarded, but shared. The film ends on a quiet, reflective note, much like my own journey. 

Walking alongside the Urubamba, I began to see it not just as a river, but as a current flowing through time—carrying memory, history, and pain. It connected the world of the Inca with the depths of the Amazon and everything in between. My trek showed me the best of what humans can create. But the river reminded me: even in the most beautiful landscapes, shadows remain.

Dragonflies: Reflections in Prose

Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Live by bodies of water, 

natural ponds, manmade lakes,

hovering over the surface,

dancing by the water’s edge.

Their transparent wings, 

like cellulose propellers, 

glide and shimmer 

above marble fountains.

Free to roam as they please, 

they float effortlessly, 

perpetually in flight, 

delicate veins threading 

through gossamer wings.

Nature’s fabric clothes them 

in colors of their territory– 

metallic green turning violet chrome, 

pastel lavender fading to gray, 

bright yellow tails igniting 

into red tiger stripes.

Where there is one, 

there are others, 

flitting near water, 

a beauty to behold, 

a life to ponder.

Japan, shaped like a dragonfly, 

calls them tombo— 

keepers of the sky, 

decorations of flight.

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.