The dinner I had in honor of my Great Uncle at Lone Eagle Grill, his favorite steakhouse in Incline Village, was pleasant and relaxing. It was a lively room with a high wood lodge ceiling and a view out over the lake. I arrived early in order to watch the sunset, which was glorious, bathing the wooden deck chairs on the beach in a tangerine-golden light. For dinner I had the elk steak at the suggestion of the friendly server.
After dinner I drove back to my hotel in the dark. I had already checked in before dinner. The road took me through Incline Village and then cuts across a rocky point of land before you come to the cluster of old casinos on the border. Eight years ago when I first went to Burning Man, I came here with other Burners from Aspen I'd met. We stayed at the Cal-Neva, which was once partially owned by straddles the state line, and which is supposedly haunted by famous people.
But that was not my destination tonight. Instead I kept driving past the marquee lights and within a few seconds I saw the distinct road sign. Its three-word message in joyful yellow script is one that has greeted many Americans over the years, inspiring all manner of American-specific emotions upon seeing it. The common stereotype of its message has mostly been one of excitement and the promise of fulfillment of one's aspirations in a way that no other similar sign could inspire.
But at this moment, at this hour of history, the sign felt to me heavy with ominous implications, a twisted dystopic version of what the sign once implied. I felt no fear when I saw it, yet something in me tightened, as if I would now need to be on guard in a strange new way.
The sign said simply: Welcome to California.
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