Santa Cruz

We drove the curves of Highway 17 for what seemed like miles. It was dark, and our headlights were offensive to the trees lining the one-lane road we turned onto in, I think, the middle of nowhere.

When we arrived, it was like entering a dream. The high windows of the lodge-like house emitted a warm glow of yellow light from the inside. Above, thousands of stars dotted the darkness like a pointillist painting.

"What's that light smudge in the sky, right there?" asked Nick, pointing to a blurry spot amongst the stars.

"That's the Seven Sisters, the Pleiades," answered Valentina while gathering an armful of freshly fallen lemons off the driveway.

"Oh. You can't see those in Santa Clara."

Upon entering the house, all five of us became breathless with affection for the place. Long, dark wooden beams held up the high slanted ceiling and rich honey-colored glossy wooden boards layered the walls. Candles lit throughout the house spoke of the yellow glow we first noticed from the driveway.

Fresh vegetables, pizza and grapes adorned the kitchen table, untouched. We tiptoed into the main room as a guitar strummed, stumbling upon a complete setup of drums, bass, two guitars, keyboard, and several amps facing a comfortable array of cozy couches and thick beige carpeting.

Max's reggae band was a work in progress. For the first couple of songs, the four of us "audience members" just drank green tea and Coronas and lounged. But then, the drummer's mother, the renter of the house, came in.

Her long blond hair and blue floral dress were straight out of the psychedelic era, as were her dance moves. Eyes closed, swaying, arms flowing freely to the rhythm of the music, this woman was a true embodiment of the hippie movement. Later, when she joined the band members in smoking out of a bong, this impression was confirmed. Darleen was a free spirit.

Darleen's carefree attitude, dancing, and encouragement to the band was contagious. After a few minutes, all of us were on our feet, swaying, bumping, nodding our heads to the reggae beat.

It couldn't be helped. On a dark night in the middle of nowhere Santa Cruz, in a secluded house with candles and food and weed, dancing was destiny, a hippie medicine to the Silicon Valley dwellers' woes of "real life." And so, we danced.