Rediscovering old places with new eyes

VANESSA HUA

I was trying to persuade a friend living overseas to move to the Bay Area with her husband and children. We’d all gone to college here, and wouldn’t they like to come back?

Her husband dismissed the idea. Not just because of cost of living, traffic, gentrification or other ills that make life a struggle in the Golden State, but because he found us too insular. “Californians never want to live anywhere else,” he said.

Them’s fighting words! Why would I want to live elsewhere? California is awesome, in terms of its diversity of geography, cuisines and its cultures. My apologies if I sound like a tourism brochure or an elementary school report: The state has nearly 900 miles of coastline, abundant farmlands, granite peaks, craggy beach coves, snow, sand and surf — and even a few islands. California’s GDP is sixth in the world, ahead of France and Brazil. By square miles, it’s the third-largest state; 105 Rhode Islands could fit into our borders. A trip across town can feel like a trip across time zones and continents, thanks to newcomers who bring their customs and cultures.

And though I’ve lived in this state for most of my life, I’m still surprised by places I thought I knew intimately. The twins have inspired me to rediscover old places in new ways, a feeling that is both wonderful and disorienting.

There’s a small local reservoir in my hometown that I never visited because none of my friends lived in the neighborhood; now we go there for walks with the twins. Before having kids, I’d never zoomed down the concrete slides in Codornices Park in Berkeley.

I’ve been to Lake Tahoe countless times, always passing by the railroad that snaked along mountains above Donner Pass. About a month ago, in search of a short hike that the twins could manage, I learned more about the railroad tunnels, which had been blasted into existence by Chinese laborers in 1867. Trains ran through until the route was changed in 1993 and the tunnels became an unusual hiking destination.

The photos online were otherworldly and beautiful, a contrast of darkness and light, of art and the industrial. I thought the twins, although they are almost over the train phase of childhood, would love to hike through a tunnel — especially the same tunnel they’d read about in Brian Floca’s Locomotive, a Caldecott awardwinning picture book about a pioneer family’s cross-country rail trip.

At the start of summer, high above Donner Lake, we parked by the China Wall, among the engineering marvels constructed by the immigrant Chinese who clawed through granite to complete the transcontinental railroad, which cut the trip of six months to one week.

As we scrambled up the steep, snowy patch toward the wall in our snow boots, we passed hikers in their flip-flops and plaid flannel pajama bottoms (which I don’t advise). At the mouth of the first tunnel, there was still so much snow that we half-slid, half-hiked down the drift to get to the bottom. These structures have weathered a century and a half of use, across all those seasons and under all those loads.

When the twins turned on their flashlights, the beams seemed so very dim, so very weak away from the entrance. Water from melting snow steadily dripped and pattered onto our hoods and hats. I walked ahead to watch out for obstacles, wet spots and patches of ice.

I worried the twins would get scared by the twilight, but their excitement propelled them forward, both hooting to hear the echoes until we shushed them. I brushed my fingers along the cold, rough-hewn walls, thinking about the ingenuity of the Chinese who risked so much. Scores of them sacrificed their lives to finish the dirty and dangerous job.

My husband pointed to the smokyblack roof of the tunnel. “Do you know why it’s that color?” he asked the boys. “From the coal they burned on the trains, to power the engines.”

The rock tunnel ended and we entered a long covered-concrete stretch, what’s known as a snow shed, marked by graffiti art and illuminated by a pearly light that fell through the window slats. It had a gritty, postindustrial, postapocalyptic feel.

We turned around and explored two other tunnels, each with their own charms, before making our way back to our car. Being in a tunnel made me think about entering the underworld and about birth and rebirth, and that feeling of seeing a place as if for the first time again.

Whether you’re heading out of town for the Fourth of July weekend or staying around here, may you find the unexpected in the familiar, too.

A trip across town can feel like a trip across time zones and continents, thanks to newcomers who bring their customs and cultures.