In Dixon, California, a field of corn covering more than 60 acres attracts an army of autumnal visitors. Their intention? Molting their urban skins and getting lost among the husks of rural aesthetic for a few hours. I was one such visitor, drawn like a moth to the corn by advertisements of this Guinness World Records–boasting plot of farmland.
During all the years of my youth, I’d never seen corn so tall, sheaths so formidable, maize so…maze. But I pressed on, dauntless, ready to get my money’s worth. I entered it, and the fear entered me.
As I ventured deeper and deeper into the vegetable labyrinth, I realized that I wasn’t disoriented. My compatriots grew increasingly weary and even slightly paranoid, perhaps anticipating a certain death. But I — I developed a profound immunity. I realized the secret. The world’s largest corn maze is still easier to navigate than most of San Francisco.
During all the years of my youth, I’d never seen corn so tall, sheaths so formidable, maize so…maze.
Every time I explore a new area of San Francisco, I feel like a baby bird sans mama bird. I am not proud of this. After I escape my kernelled cage, I know the city will remain as unsolvable as ever. The sudden one-ways, 33º turns—whatever the name for Fifth and Market is — all are complicit in the full-fledged shit river that is the Bay Area’s traffic grid. The corn maze, though—it makes sense. It comforts me, really. Each row maintains a breeze of reassurance.
“Walk among me,” said the corn.
And I did. For a glorious 150-minute interval, before returning to the concrete entanglement that is the Bay Area. On the way back, I accidentally crossed the Benicia-Martinez Bridge, paying an inadvertent toll to get back on course. Plus there was a bucket in the middle of a five-lane freeway.
I find myself seeing corn on the bustling street corners, only to realize that it’s my expired parking meter covered with green hair from a human.
But the corn—not once did it spite me with an incidental toll, nor did it threaten my life with a container for paint. Nay, the corn coddled me as if I were but a wee babe taking in my first autumn. “Hand me your woes,” sang the silk-tipped ears. “I will never smell like piss or yogurt diaper.” It showed me a way — the way — and ultimately allowed me to escape.
It was hard to say goodbye. How would you thank light for showing you all that lies hidden in darkness? I tried hugging the corn and felt like Kermit hugging Yao Ming—diminutive and clumsy. We departed. One of us cried. I find myself seeing corn on the bustling street corners, only to realize it’s my expired parking meter covered with green hair from a human. Next fall, I will return to the call of the corn, and we will remember each other with more familiarity than I have experienced while rambling the incoherent streets of San Francisco. It will be amaizing.
