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.

Peru Chronicles: Inca Trail Hike - Exploring the Path to Machu Picchu Part Two

 

Peru Chronicles: Inca Trail Hike - Exploring the Path to Machu Picchu Part Two

By Armando Ortiz

Into the Lush Andes:

As we continued, the path became greener, a sign that we were approaching the lusher side of the Andes. We were seven miles in, yet each turn revealed something new. Our guide stopped and pointed to the river we had been following–the Urubamba. It winds through the Sacred Valley before merging into the Amazon. In a way, we were seeing the Amazon itself. I gazed at the river, imagining its vast journey and the communities it sustained.

A Film Scene Come to Life:

I was then taken back to the first ten minutes of Herzog's film. I imagined being a soldier in that army of land pirates on my way to a lost city. “This must have been where they filmed it,” I thought. “I’ve seen this before.” The film had captured the mountains, clouds, and winding trail well- but now, I was inside that very scene. 

I watched trekkers descending the same stretch I had hiked two kilometers earlier, while my own group ascended behind me. For a moment, it felt like I had wandered into Herzog’s film, retracing the steps of his lost conquistadors.

We weren’t drifting down the river like Aguirre nor renouncing our homelands in search of gold. I discovered something beautiful to bring back: the memory of these mountain ranges and the river. As many Peruvians had told us prior to this hike, Machu Picchu has a lot of positive energy. It leaves you in awe. There’s something undeniably special about this place.

As we hiked, I told Yeny about another Herzog film, where a madman hauls a boat over a mountain to build a theater. The same actor starred in Aguirre, but this time, he played Fritzcarraldo. It was during the filming of that movie that the native extras offered to kill him for the director.” She just smiled and nodded. I, on the other hand, couldn’t shake these films from my mind.

The Final Climb to Machu Picchu:

We were down to three more kilometers before arriving in Machu Picchu, but before that we’d have to go through subtropical terrain where ancient plants like ferns and orchids grow wild. Just before Inti Punku, the Sun Gate, the final eighty to ninety feet would be the steepest climb. But the reward was worth it- from here, Machu Picchu came into view, and the trail finally descended.

The trail continued down and opened up into Machu Picchu. After seeing countless images of Machu Picchu- tourists posing before its vast ruins, many remarking on its unexpected scale- I was finally here. The sheer scale of the site struck me- its magnitude, its importance to humanity. I walked the same ground the Inca once did. It was a magical moment. 

Standing Among History:

Some terraces remained covered in overgrowth, hinting at how much of the city lay hidden beneath time– just as the ruins we had passed along the trail hinted at a forgotten past.

I also imagined runners in their early 20s taking these long treks, and having a place to rest where food was available. A place to bathe and relax, while farmers transported supplies to these sites with caravans of llamas. 

This hike deepened my curiosity about the Inca, the trail, and Peru’s geography.

The Inca Trail- A Journey Through Time:

In total, we hiked about nine miles from the trailhead to the bus that took us to Aguas Calientes. The hike took most of the day with about 9 hours of hiking, which included pausing for our guide’s historical explanations, to ask questions, and to take breaks for snacks. 

We were a group of 13, moving together as one. For future hikers: the group moves as a unit, which may affect pacing. Total elevation gain was 2,744 feet, which means that about five and a half to six miles of the trail will include stairs and ascents. 

With each step, I felt the weight of history beneath my feet. The Inca Trail was more than a hike–it was a journey through time, one step into the past with each ascent.