Sleepy San Jose

By Jace K

March 24^th, 2019

Sleepy San Jose

The plane arrives in San Jose International and we rush to wait in line. At the front of the queue, the immigration officer is having a great time, asking all sorts of unrelated questions, super friendly, really enjoying himself. Feels like he wants to get to know you and be your friend. Not what you’ve been taught to expect from American immigration. It’s fun even. He doesn’t actually give a fuck about you, of course. That’s just how he does it; asks you how your day was, how you’re going, what car you drive. But he gives zero shits. Like everyone in English speaking countries who asks you how you are. It’s just the protocol, we don’t actually care. Still, he’s quite convincing and the effect is very pleasant indeed. The other officers frown and throw him sidelong glances from time to time and look more like how you would expect them to look. I suppose they think they’re more professional but their lives are not as fun and the visitors that they process start their America experience in a slightly more shitty way. Super friendly guy should get a raise, but I suppose won’t.

Outside there are suddenly no people anymore and it feels like a bus station in a small town after you missed the bus and the next bus is only in two hours and now what are you going to do there isn’t anywhere to get a sandwich or coffee or even sit in the shade. But it’s not, and we didn’t miss any bus, and it’s the future, so we use our pocket computers to summon a car to take us into the city so we can check in to the air conditioned hotel instead. Burgers and coffee follow instead of bus station sandwiches and it’s good because it’s America and they know a little about coffee and a lot about burgers.

Jet lag gets us up before 6, even though we didn’t really ask him to. We breakfast at the hotel where the orange juice tastes like crushed vitamin C tablets mixed with water, but it’s made up for by the bacon and eggs. We chew as we watch the multitude of televisions show a story about an FBI agent who was doing a backflip at a wedding when his gun fell out of his pants and fired itself into the crowd. It’s a famous story now but that’s where we were when it happened. Then we head out to explore. The city is still cool in the morning, but sunny. Very nice. Sleepy town. Wide roads with many lanes but few cars; few people. And there’s so much space. It’s simply delightful. I bask in the familiarity of an English speaking country and take photos of signs and unremarkable back alleys—the real San Jose.

Scattered across the footpath are electric scooters you can rent with your phone. You download an app to scan them then zip across the city and abandon them somewhere near your destination. Such a good idea. So much more efficient than bringing one and a half tonnes of car around with you. Or a lifted pickup. By 10am it’s hot and we head back into the aircon.

Later in the evening we see a guy collecting the scooters to charge them overnight. He loads them into a small trailer pulled by a mini.

But America.

SUVs and pickup trucks. Palm trees, Californian sun, brighter, more colourful light, broken concrete freeways and a feeling that everything else is kind of broken too. It’s silicon valley; it’s not like they have any money.

The next evening we stand in front of a restaurant while waiting for some friends. The ever present TVs are on inside playing a movie of a badly burned man being stabbed to death with a pole. Who the fuck thinks this makes the restaurant better? What’s wrong with these people? We leave and go to a cheap Indian place that turns out to be not very good. Should have stuck with stabbed to death burning man restaurant.

The evening after that we have a late dinner at an empty bar. While we eat we watch a fight break out across the street. One guy snaps off a boom gate from the carpark nearby and uses it as a weapon to hit the other guy or guys; it’s hard to work out who’s on which side and it’s over soon anyway. But we do wonder what might have happened if one of them had a gun. Lucky there was no FBI there, I suppose.

By tomorrow the boom gate would already be fixed, which is quite impressive for such a poor city.

Next day we skip the vitamin C and grab a breakfast burrito at a cheap café run by a hispanic guy, maybe Mexican. It’s kind of awkward how the US annexed this land from Mexico and now the descendants of all the former inhabitants do all the menial jobs for the invaders. Or is that just a description of the history of the world? Is that just who we are? Who we’ve always been, and we should learn to accept ourselves, our human nature. In the end it won’t matter who invaded whom. No one mourns the Carthaginians.

Later we take a ride in a van with electric doors that open automatically. Why would you open a door yourself? Do you like to work for free?

Afternoon coffee is at a self described Italian café that sells fruit loops in plastic containers at the counter. The espresso is served at the bottom of a large paper cup, but it’s good. So I suppose you could say they got their priorities right. At 6 the café begins to transform itself into the venue for an open mike night, MC’d by a guy named Mike. We haven’t prepared anything so we leave him to it and go and explore more of the city. It’s not clear if the fruit loops are fresh.

Outside we pass a fire engine, which looks like a beautifully crafted children’s toy, transported from the time when children’s toys were something that could be beautiful or crafted. It looks too lovely and delicate to take anywhere where it might get dirty or damaged, like a fire. It’s simultaneously idiotic and amazing. Why paint it that dark red that they always do? Why not a high visibility colour? Why compromise on that? But at the same time, here is the vehicle run by a group of people who obviously take pride in their work. Why not have a beautifully crafted object you work with? Why not care about it? Why does something utilitarian have to be ugly? Why can’t it be useful and awesome?

The police cars, however, do not fall into this category. They are whatever American car companies are currently producing, painted black and white, and gently bashed into things until they take on that well used look. When they drive past I expect them to spin and flip and crash into each other but they never do, which is sad.

Soon the familiar downtown is replaced with suburban houses, empty lots overgrown with weeds, dodgy looking used car dealerships and auto parts stores, and the occasional motel or Mexican restaurant. Finally, the real San Jose. Dusk arrives and we wander into another part of town. This time the houses are nicer and there’s no more auto parts. Muscle cars and what look like Hot Wheels trucks only bigger sit in the driveways or are parked on the street. A group of people stop us to ask about parking rules and fees. We are no help, of course. I can’t think of any other time I was seriously addressed as Homie.

A few streets in, we find a Chinese restaurant with an impressively intimidating menu and half full of Chinese people, which is always a good sign. Inside is like every good Chinese place: energy saving lighting, bare walls adorned only with a few Chinese knots and a Chinese calendar; plastic tables. We order several dishes which we know might be a little too much, but turns out to be far, far too much. But it’s so good. Chinese culture. That’s really what’s great about America.

The next day we walk in the opposite direction, past weatherboard houses and flags and more of the Hot Wheels pick up trucks. It’s just so American. Couldn’t be any other place. We try to ride one of those electric scooters but the battery is dead so we keep walking, like animals. Eventually we arrive at a large, relaxed skate park that spends his evenings dubiously hanging out with local kids. So this is actually the real San Jose? The light on the hills in the background looks spectacular and the ground is paved with the names of all the presidents. America!

Then we get a lift back into the city, and for some reason another one to a suburb near the airport, because someone has the great idea to go to a fast food restaurant, and that’s where the fast food restaurants are. When we get there, the burger place is what you would expect from something that has been abandoned near an airport—lots of space and carparks and chain stores—only it wasn’t abandoned at all. We arrive quite late but still the carpark is full and there’s a long queue at the drive through. Now I understand. This is the real San Jose. In the land of cars people don’t gather in the city centre, they gather at the carparks. And the carparks are at the airport, apparently. And so we eat our burger, which is a product instead of food, and extremely average, and return to the carpark to stand under the orange sulphur lights by ourselves in the shadow of the giant stationary shop behind us and wait for a ride back, the only people there without a car.

On our last day we find a great café for breakfast and eat poached eggs with bacon and avocado. Oh yes. Then we visit a supermarket to buy American junk food for presents. On some products it says “natural” in front of ingredients that can only be natural, like eggs. Or are there synthetic eggs now? I must look that up.

Afterwards I look for a real gift, which is nearly impossible because there are no shops in downtown San Jose. Really. It’s so weird. No shops. Just a tram that looks like a German tank from WW2, which is interesting but not a shop. Then we get a final complementary fruity water from the hotel lobby, watch one last ad for prescription medication, and spend the rest of the day enjoying the miracle of flight, which, as everyone knows, feels much less miraculous and enjoyable than it really should. On the plane I spend my time productively watching bits of everyone else’s movies instead of sleeping and I reflect on this part-continent they call America.