The rumors are true: Orange County sucks, mostly. If it weren’t for their gorgeous slice of coastline, I would hold more conviction in my statement. But let’s take looks out of the picture, just this once.
It’s a county I’ve visited many a time; their coastline does make for some fun surfing, and the friendly seaside towns seem out of place in the conservative capital of Southern California.
Unfortunately, the only tennis tournaments being held right now are in… you guessed it: Orange County, where residents treat coronavirus like the common cold, and elected public officials see no problem in putting hundreds of huffing and puffing tennis players together in a relatively small tennis facility. So, whether you want it or not, here’s my story of a weekend tennis tournament in Newport Beach:
Never have I ever wanted to wake up at the crack of dawn and drive the ugliest, most horribly paved freeways in America less than this past weekend.
I know what to expect by now; passing by UC Irvine, I know I’ve officially exited the world of sanity and entered the world of blonde, pick-up truck, Christmas card America. They seem friendly with their laid-back, friends-and-family-centric personas, but underneath all the surfer-esque chillness is a raging conservative ready to sic their family labrador on you. This weekend was no different.
Entering Newport Beach, we passed the familiar guns and camping stores on the main drag. For me, there’s one big problem with this: if you're going to have a gun store, I’d think a gun store would be tucked away, maybe a little discreet and out of the way of unsuspecting passersby, innocent four-year-olds, for example. Not in Newport Beach. The pairing of Carhartt hiking pants and a Smith & Wesson is simply irresistible.
We arrived at the tournament, where the parking lot was filled with Maseratis, Bugattis, and all the other -attis you could dream of. My opinion? No reason for these luxury cars when you could get great gas mileage with your cobalt blue 2012 Toyota prius. They’re not boring, they’re practical.
A rain delay forced me to wait about three hours for my match to start, so I stood outside in 40 mph winds and light rain dressed in shorts and a tank top. When the tournament director started calling players for their matches, I expected to hear my name, but was, of course, the very last match to be put on court, extending my wait by half an hour. I wouldn’t normally have a problem with this, but the combination of my early stages of frostbite and the fact that the only girls match was the last one to start was irritating beyond belief. Wasn’t it enough that I had started my day off by driving to Orange County? No. Nothing would be complete without a little sexism.
All my troubles aside, I had a good two matches and ended my day with a frozen banana, a Newport Beach staple that was integral to the 2003 sitcom Arrested Development. The Trump rally being held on a 405 overpass on the drive home couldn’t dampen my spirits, I had my frozen banana.
It’s a county I’ve visited many a time; their coastline does make for some fun surfing, and the friendly seaside towns seem out of place in the conservative capital of Southern California.
Unfortunately, the only tennis tournaments being held right now are in… you guessed it: Orange County, where residents treat coronavirus like the common cold, and elected public officials see no problem in putting hundreds of huffing and puffing tennis players together in a relatively small tennis facility. So, whether you want it or not, here’s my story of a weekend tennis tournament in Newport Beach:
Never have I ever wanted to wake up at the crack of dawn and drive the ugliest, most horribly paved freeways in America less than this past weekend.
I know what to expect by now; passing by UC Irvine, I know I’ve officially exited the world of sanity and entered the world of blonde, pick-up truck, Christmas card America. They seem friendly with their laid-back, friends-and-family-centric personas, but underneath all the surfer-esque chillness is a raging conservative ready to sic their family labrador on you. This weekend was no different.
Entering Newport Beach, we passed the familiar guns and camping stores on the main drag. For me, there’s one big problem with this: if you're going to have a gun store, I’d think a gun store would be tucked away, maybe a little discreet and out of the way of unsuspecting passersby, innocent four-year-olds, for example. Not in Newport Beach. The pairing of Carhartt hiking pants and a Smith & Wesson is simply irresistible.
We arrived at the tournament, where the parking lot was filled with Maseratis, Bugattis, and all the other -attis you could dream of. My opinion? No reason for these luxury cars when you could get great gas mileage with your cobalt blue 2012 Toyota prius. They’re not boring, they’re practical.
A rain delay forced me to wait about three hours for my match to start, so I stood outside in 40 mph winds and light rain dressed in shorts and a tank top. When the tournament director started calling players for their matches, I expected to hear my name, but was, of course, the very last match to be put on court, extending my wait by half an hour. I wouldn’t normally have a problem with this, but the combination of my early stages of frostbite and the fact that the only girls match was the last one to start was irritating beyond belief. Wasn’t it enough that I had started my day off by driving to Orange County? No. Nothing would be complete without a little sexism.
All my troubles aside, I had a good two matches and ended my day with a frozen banana, a Newport Beach staple that was integral to the 2003 sitcom Arrested Development. The Trump rally being held on a 405 overpass on the drive home couldn’t dampen my spirits, I had my frozen banana.