Fresno is carved out of the rock that sits just below the topsoil on which the garden of the Central Valley grows. Around Fresno is the most thickly abundant mesh of roads that interlace the half-mile blocks on which sit orchards of figs, dates, and grapes. That Fresno is carved out of this slick of Eden almost seems like a crime. But so abundant is this Eden that even a city can exist in it.
The price seems to be that it has that down-and-out feeling, even more than the rest of California. You find homeless encamped outside the finest mid-level hotels in Sonoma, after all. Here in Fresno it seems normalized, as if the entire city is just one step away from that lowered level of life.
Yet it feels as if that natural fig-growing abundance is still here, bursting through every pore of the reality here. All you have to do is just taste a bit of it.
There is a raw kind of motivation here. If you can handle surfing this kind of benevolent slackitude, you can leverage to your personal benefit, based on the principle that here if you have your life together at all, you are beating the crowd. Why not sprint a little more and really start feeling good?
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