This is a story of dreams and reality colliding, in the best kind of way. 

It is 7:30 AM Pacific and my husband and I are walking up a steep island road at a steady pace, breathing in the grassy scent of hillsides warming in the sun, the tropical foliage spilling into the road, and the sharply pungent Eucalyptus pods crushing beneath our feet. No one else seems to be around. 

A few minutes earlier, we were tiptoeing around our dark hotel room searching for walking shoes and quietly moving stacks of clothing, damp bathing suits, and multiple pairs of Crocs. Our 11 and 12-year-old kids are still sound asleep, iPads and heads thrown to the side. Thanks to our wonky vacation schedule and a hefty time change, we have been granted an early morning reprieve from their boundless energies. 

“How about walking up the road instead of down?” I suggest to Tom as we lock the hotel door behind us. He agrees, so we head right. Over the past two days of our visit to Southern California’s Santa Catalina Island, we have only exited our Spanish-style inn (on foot) and taken an immediate left. This move brings us down the steep road for the pleasing fifteen-minute walk leading to Avalon, the island’s main (and pretty much only) town. There are approximately 4,000 permanent residents on the 75-square-mile island, and almost all of them live in Avalon. 

“This place is like the best of California all rolled into one,” I marveled out loud as our ferry sailed smoothly into the Avalon harbor two days prior. The ravined mountainsides loomed in the distance, stunningly clear ocean water sparkled, and palm trees swayed. Was that the vanilla-like scent of plumeria blossoms in the air? 

My father grew up in Los Angeles, and my paternal grandparents enjoyed their honeymoon on Catalina in 1929. I’ve been hearing about the island all my life. This, however, is my first visit. 

So far, our family of four has investigated Catalina via golf cart, paddleboard, and foot, but we have yet to see what lies above our Spanish-style Catalina Canyon Inn, perched at the top of a steep canyon and topped off with a view of the deep blue Pacific beyond. I’ve been eyeing the Eucalyptus-lined curving road above the inn, hoping for a glimpse into the less touristy side of Catalina. As far as I can tell, there are zero hotels up there, only some quaint and funky-looking houses that I imagine are inhabited by locals.

For me, this morning stroll is a slice of heaven. We had already been in California for a few days before journeying to Catalina. Experiencing Los Angeles with two preteens meant the itinerary looked a lot like their TikTok feeds: strolling the Santa Monica Pier, ogling the Hollywood Walk of Fame (featuring a flower-strewn star honoring the recently deceased Ozzy Osbourne), stops at Funko and Nike and LuLulemon, and an inaugural (for the kids) meal at the Eagle Rock In-N-Out.

But while we walked the crowded LA sidewalks, I found myself thinking about what was missing from this family adventure. As a native Californian who reluctantly left for the Midwest nearly 15 years ago, I am yearning for the California of my heart. The creative, kind, eccentric Californians that peopled my upbringing. The infinite, golden possibilities that lie around every corner. The bright orange of California poppies lining dusty roadsides, the sight of a graceful lone oak perched on the top of an emerald mountain in the springtime. This California lives on in my dreams, but these days, news stories paint lurid pictures. And as I lead an entirely different life 2,250 miles away, I wonder if the soul of that California still exists. 

Reaching the top of what I am now calling “Eucalyptus Road,” we follow a hairpin curve and find ourselves on an upper stretch lined by houses on each side. The structures remind me of parts of Northern California towns Berkeley or Mill Valley, narrow wooden constructions, close together and very, very steep.

Suddenly, a man and his dog appear in front of us. Smiling broadly, the man greets us, as does his friendly, tail-wagging pup. “Nice morning, isn’t it? Have you had your coffee yet … just put a pot on … can I offer you some … my house is just up here.”

It might have been the perceived safety of an island, or the idyllic early morning atmosphere, but there are times when you sense that a human being you are meeting for the first time is a good one. This is one of those times. Nodding in unison, we accept the stranger’s offer without hesitation.  

Minutes later, we are trudging up the steep wooden stairs to the main floor of our new friend Bob’s house. There, in his elegant, sun-splashed kitchen/dining room, which smells of cinnamon and flowers, he hands us each a mug of strong coffee. We sip, admiring our surroundings, chatting about the artwork adorning the walls. Bob then proceeds to give us a tour of his lovely home, combined with a fascinating people’s history-style lesson about the island (for example, many islanders apparently believe actress Natalie Wood’s 1981 drowning in the Catalina harbor was an accident afterall, thanks to copious amounts of alcohol consumed that night).

At one point in the tour, I stand on Bob’s third-floor open-air pillow-strewn sleeping porch, looking down at the crescent moon town of Avalon, which is exquisitely framed by the blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. 

A shiver goes through me. “It’s still here,” I think to myself. The California of my dreams. 

Turns out, Bob is a retired bond trader turned poet. Of course he is. 

And in his creaky wood-floored, weathered office, sailing ships adorning the walls, he reads us a poem. Closing my eyes, I allow his words to wind their way through me. 

To change one’s mind/To open one’s heart—/One leaves the known behind 

To take a different path/Than the one well-worn,/Opens the world /And opens the soul 

Excerpt from “Pilgrims,” Songs of Redemption Poems by Bob Baggott www.offtheDesk.com

The soul of California hasn’t gone anywhere.

And sometimes, when you least expect it, you are reminded that infinite possibilities still exist.