There are four roads into the town, and for the first time, I drove across the most pleasant of them, from the south.
I had long only seen and smelled and driven past the desolate signs and remnant decay of Steinbeck country along Market Street. Dated, yet lacking historical resonance. An ostensibly dull path cut by the economies of junkyards, where the ever-widening streets divide barren sidewalks lit by the evenly fractured lamplight without shadow. Alta California without the cache, unreserved and unrestrained.
There are no trees, nor mission era high schools, nor retro-facade cinemas on the eastern road. And yet like a polarizing lens laid against a reflection, these things are transitively fixed upon its horizon, a new co-ordinate and direction to resist.