How to Be Rich in California
a 600-mile trip across The Golden State
California, you’re so hot.
You’ve got it all: redwoods, rocky peaks, hot springs, coastlines, farmland, foothills, food, dance, deserts, cities, and secret subcultures.
You’re so hot, and you’re so expensive. Who can afford to live with you? Even friends with multiple-six-figure salaries tell me they’re just scraping by, living your dream.
But I’ve found one way to be rich within you, California: by laying no claim and establishing no residence. By enjoying you as a visitor, a traveler, a starry-eyed prospector of awe and wonder.
For the past seven weeks, I’ve pedaled the backroads and highways of Northern California to see old friends, meet new family, and ogle the lusty landmasses.
Despite the shocking cost of living, I’ve unearthed incredible riches here—possibly enough to sustain me across many more years of living among the cobblestone, concrete, and curated wilds of Europe.
It helps to have friends—lots of them. I sleep, shower, and eat most days by the grace of college, camp, outdoor, and education friends.
Some days, I camp on public land. A couple days, I stay with delightful strangers through Warmshowers. One weekend, I sleep in a hotel room given to me by the conference where I speak for the parents of gifted children. Another weekend, I camp at a fusion dance festival in the woods.
In South Lake Tahoe I bike to free concerts, wave to families of bears, run along my favorite creek, make fresh pasta with friends, speak about Dirtbag Rich at a brewery, and join a very silly community dinner party.
Cycling uphill to Truckee, the paved bike path morphs into an overgrown, single-track mountain bike trail—the most challenging day of my entire trip.
Riding parallel to Interstate 80, I make brief eye contact with drivers zooming by in the other direction. For a few miles, I’m actually on the interstate, because there’s no other way to get through a canyon. Next level of “crazy guy on a bike,” unlocked.
Traversing the oak-strewn foothills feels like a dream that might wrong at any moment, as my navigation app leads me on wild missions through cow fields, locked gates, and minor private property violations. One time, it tries to take me straight through an Air Force base. (I politely decline.)
Entering the concrete goliath of Sacramento, I witness my first tent encampment. And then another, and another.
Oh, California—you’re so rich, pretty, and enticing. So many people would rather live on your streets than be housed elsewhere.
In the East Bay Area, I navigate duplicitous “bikeways” with disappearing shoulders to arrive at Cheeseboard Pizza, the greatest pizza in the world.
A few days later, I dine at Zachary’s Pizza with my stepmom—also the greatest pizza in the world.
In Oakland, a street sign advertises “Relational Aesthetics,” and the farmer’s market feels like the happiest place on earth.
For all its faults, weirdness, and impossibility—California doesn’t fail to charm and delight. There’s a good reason that people fight so hard to live here.
In Marin, I meet my 9-month-old niece and 3-year-old nephew for first time, just as she’s learning to crawl and he’s beginning to ride a pedal bike.
In San Francisco, I dance, speak, scheme, stay at my friend’s cooperative house, pilgrimage to City Lights Bookstore, and get a private lesson in DJing.
In the South Bay, I stumble into a Meta campus while searching for coffee, visit my alternative-education alter-ego (the one who started a private school and family), and watch The Odyssey in the middle of a pleasant day, because I’ve finally had my fill of all this California sun.
And like that, it’s over: seven weeks of basking in the riches of The Golden State, spending little money, and reaping the rewards of the lives I’ve previously lived, the social connections I’ve sustained, and an unbreakable bond to these lands.
I’ll be back, of course. California is me, and I am California. Even if I can never afford to live here again, it will always be a home. 𖤓
