By someone who survived a Malibu jam with only a Hyundai and a hotdog memory.
Years ago, I decided—because why not—to take a road trip from Salinas to Laguna Beach. And not the usual efficient, soul-crushing, Interstate-5 kind of trip. No. I took the scenic route. Monterey. Big Sur. That glorious, winding stretch of coastline that looks like God ran out of modesty and decided to just show off for once. Cliffs, cypress trees, sea foam, and views so majestic you’d forgive yourself for crying. I didn’t, obviously. But you might.
And here’s the thing: the drive is stunning—if you’ve got nothing but time and the emotional bandwidth to sit at overpriced seaside cafés wondering where your youth went. The kind of place where a cup of coffee costs as much as a kidney transplant in Bulgaria. But it’s worth it, because there’s literally nowhere else to be. You sit. You sip. You remember high school crushes and that one math teacher who definitely hated you. And you hope, quietly, that the future might still surprise you in a good way.
Now, speaking of high school, I swung by Ventura County to visit one of my oldest friends—someone I’ve known since we were the size of leprechauns. We shared everything: crayons, report cards, adolescent rage. When I got there, her parents were visiting too. Jackpot. Her mom, clearly thrilled by the appearance of this aged-up version of her daughter’s childhood friend, whipped up jumbo hotdogs—the kind that make you question whether beef even needs to come from cows. And yes, there was Hunt’s ketchup. Because apparently, I liked it as a kid. I wasn’t sure about that, but nostalgia doesn’t care for historical accuracy.
After catching up on all the drama from 1992, I continued south. This is where the trip took a turn. I hit Malibu. And when I say “hit,” I mean I collided metaphorically with the worst traffic since Moses parted the Red Sea and everyone tried to cross at once. Multiple lanes of shiny metal gridlock. Cars going nowhere, people losing their minds. One side was mountains. The other, the ocean. Behind me, more cars. It was like one of those scenes from a disaster movie– instead of lava the imminent danger was boredom. Like nail biting boredom.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, the car behind me rolled forward and bumped mine. Great. Perfect. Apocalypse now.
I got out. No damage. The driver—a woman clearly one existential crisis away from screaming into the void—started panicking. “It’s the end of the world! I’m going to jail!” she wailed. I told her it was fine. No harm done. Turns out she was just catastrophically bored and thought, “Hey, let’s mess around with the pedals.” Brilliant.
She turned out to be great company, though. Chatty. New Mexico native. Told me all about how it’s the “Land of Enchantment,” how it’s where four states meet at one point—New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Colorado—and how Santa Fe is the oldest U.S. state capital. Lovely facts, all of them. Interesting, maybe, but all I could think about were rattlesnakes, sand, and the fact that New Mexico, well, it’s not exactly Virginia.
Four hours later—yes, four—the traffic began to move. We went from “permanent parking lot” to “sort of crawling” to “holy hell, we’re actually driving.” Past Santa Monica and into Los Angeles proper, on the 405, that famous slab of twelve-to-fourteen-lane insanity, we were doing 55 mph. All of us. At the same time. In formation. Like ballet, but louder and with more exhaust fumes. It was surreal. I loved every minute. I wished I had my Mini Cooper S, but no—just a sad little rental Hyundai that looked like it had abandonment issues.
Finally, I reached Laguna Beach. My old schoolmates were there waiting, half convinced I’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in Vegas. One guy looked at me and said, “Man, if you were in a dehydrator, you’d be beef jerky by now.” Which, to be honest, is probably the most poetic thing anyone’s ever said about California traffic.
The next two days were nothing short of perfect. A half-dozen of us, crammed into one hotel suite, reverting to our teenage selves. Laughter. Snacks. Utter chaos. It was one of the best three-day stretches I’ve ever had.
And that, is how I discovered that sometimes, all you need is a good road, some old friends, and a woman from New Mexico to get you through the worst traffic in America.
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A Kings 
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