B. has always been one for the “singing of the blues”…..by “paying dues”, even if it involves Amtrak, and a 6 a.m. departure from a nearby Motel 6 room. So, by 5 a.m. we are out the door onto the freeway.
“There is already too much traffic,” I whine. “I’m thinking that I should drive to Lakewood right away. I imagine the traffic heading towards LA will only get worse as the morning gets on.”
“I would, then you can nap once closer to D.’s place.” I met D. outside of Moab last fall, then spent Thanksgiving in Arizona with him and his sister. But this is his home turf, and a chance to see what this new friendship wants from me. With so much in common with our interests, it makes sense to see what else intersects. But back to the road flow...
Part of the anxiety for me is not knowing the roads, and with so many vehicle lanes across, it’s impossible to know which lane to be in. I don’t use GPS with those fancy voices warning me of upcoming road conditions and changes, so I chant my changes out loud to help me remember each leg of the drive. My note paper with my scribbled route is within easy reach, and when the traffic slows its pace to a crawl, I double check my chant—Exit 55B off of 91, then 19 south.
The sky gets lighter and bluer as I drive, and the freeway signs get easier to read, but it seems as if the street names hold more importance than the exit numbers. Great. Which exit did I just pass?
I’ve learned that the farthest right hand lane is not the best bet—some exits seem to take the lane with it before the lane mysteriously shows up again on the other side of the on/off ramp, wherever that ends up being. In the meantime, drivers in the know, in a hurry, in a caffeine buzz, weave, zip, careen in speeds way over the speed limit. Both my hands grip my steering wheel as if my life depends on it. Which it does—at least until the traffic comes to a halt, and any mph upgrade is a relief to the feeling of being trapped in the middle of a long vehicle snake inching its way west. Mysteriously, the blockage unblocks and we go again. I’m just a country girl…….give me a washboarded dirt road any day. By the time I successfully make my way into Lakewood, I’m singing those blues at the top of my lungs.
Jonesing for the Wooden Floor
Balance is like this for me—too much of anything, even the good stuff, starts to feel stagnant. The scales tip too much, and pull me over. The pelicans in my recent memories belong to a different place, and a different plane of existence. Sure, I can still see them in my mind’s photos, but city sounds take over my attention now.
Lawn mowers, cars, voices. The ‘burbs clawing for their identities: Lakewood, Long Beach, Signal Hill. The “lake” houses crammed together side by side, cozy, elbowing, even if the lake has decreased and has been encased within the fenced golf course. And D.'s house is obvious: like a sculpture garden of cacti, his small front "lawn" plot adorns the curve in the road, each arm of road dotted with other's green grass. And this landscaping statement starts my tour of the place.
With two housemates, D. offers the couch, or his bedroom and he’ll take the couch. But, home is important on the road. My home. My private room and domain.
“Or, you can back the truck in close to the side of the house, and get some amount of privacy,” D. says after I announce my desire to sleep in my vehicle.
Once past the culture shock from pelicans to people, I acknowledge that cities afford resources and tools needed to right the scales again: dancing! I can tango every day if I don’t mind fighting the highway traffic in any direction radiating out from the dense jive of Los Angeles. But, why stop there? D. and I head to Cowboy Country Saloon in Long Beach just after my arrival and we have a chance to catch up. With two small wooden dance floors, and a live band starting at 8 p.m, no cover before 7 p.m, why not?
He assures me there will be some two-stepping along with a variety of other “country” dance forms. Without any interest, either literally or metaphorically, in the choreography associated with line dances, I always want to take the hand of a partner. I want to feel that energy exchange—the burst of adrenalin once the pounding beat of a honkytonk tune starts up. I’ll take any two-stepping I can get. But, the band isn’t true honkytonk, but more country, and the song tempos lend themselves better for the line dancers…or ballroom take-offs like the Denver Cha Cha.
“There aren’t any of those sharp, crusty barnacles now,” my right big toe whispers to the rest of the foot.
Each toe on my right foot, then my left, feel it, celebrate it, free themselves into every soft and warm grain of ocean sand. Millennia of elements weathered their way on hard rock, pounding, eroding, pummeling, and all these eons later, I get to sink my soles into this silky, salty shoreline.
As we head for a rock jetty farther down Sunset Beach, sea memories have deposited themselves onto the tide line like fairy dust. Tiny shells still glisten with moist salt and sand, and sea bric-a-brac exert themselves into beach still-lifes.
But who am I to think we have this beachy place to ourselves? I raise my head in juxtaposition with the sun’s lowering, and out there, like sea sculptures cemented onto the water’s surface, are several oil rigs pumping the earth’s lubrication up through straws.
On the other side of the tide, up-beach, is the primal pull for all of us, or at least, for those who can financially afford the beachfront condos and houses. To have a daily reminder of our evolution from the sea onto land, shoulder to shoulder, they stand, making their own wall against anything wanting refuge beyond their sentinel.
But I’m more interested in the grains and shards left by one wave, perhaps lingering for another. It’s all up to the tide, and the greed of the sea, to take back what it left for us. D. and I scoop up a handful of shells waving at us, “take me…take me….take me….I don’t want to go back.”
If all of the shells left behind stayed on the sand, the silk and softness would shift—maybe even barnacles would accumulate and take over the balance of things here on the beach. Then what? We're obliged to take some of them.
My toes dig deeper into each sandy step, savor each squish, skitter in concert with the birds leaving their marks in the wet. The ocean, like a lot of people, will take what it wants. The rest of us will keep looking down to see the beauty available in this one cherished moment….
…one more shell picked, saved, remembered before my re-attached sandals buffer my bare feet from the streets, and the sirens scream along the crowded freeway nearby.
Maybe it’s primal—humans as just another organism trying to survive and thrive over the course of our lifespans. Cities are no different. Cramming into buses and subway cars, claiming territory either standing or sitting. Tents, tarps, boxes under bridges, on sidewalks, in parks. Cardboard hung around necks claiming need for food or transportation or just basic life rights. People standing in lines, waiting, wanting, wondering.
We go, D.and I, on a city adventure into the heart of Los Angeles. The Metro station, under renovation but with supporting free shuttle bus to the next Metro stop available; above ground, under ground, the cars chugging along the track. Day pass fare cards allow us as many trips as we want, all day long, or until we can’t stand it anymore.
With map opened up on the counter, the Union Station info guy plots out a course just for us. Hair gel holds a single swoopy lock of hair in place just above his forehead. His marker moves fast, squiggling notes in the margins with arrows and circles highlighting the main places to visit. I wonder if he gets kickbacks from these places. Maybe at another time, with other kickbacks, he squiggles out a whole different route for visitors to downtown LA. Just trying to survive. Everyone.
We metro to Hollywood and Vine for a short walk with the stars, and check out the TCL Chinese Theater and Dolby Theater in honor of the upcoming Oscars.
“Nope, do you?”
“Me neither.”
But we try to avoid those busking the streets for their own survival, and stop for a couple of them: D. gets us into posing with the Star Wars Wookie, and converse with an up and coming (the seller’s words) DJ pushing CD’s of his work. All for tips, of course!
As the sunlight seeps down the sides of buildings and disappears into the crevices of the Hollywood streets, the city neon reaches out for everyone’s attention. Even the signs are trying to survive….”me here….me here….come into me….”
In the 1930's and 40's, the Irvine Company built the first of forty six beach colony cottages at the mouth of the Trancos Creek in Crystal Cove near Laguna Beach. The early cottages were owned by movie directors and producers. | An easy location near Hollywood for creating South Seas sets, Crystal Cove housed scenes for such old favorites as Treasure Island (1918) and Beaches (1988). Once the beach was taken over by the State Park, the inhabitants in the run down structures were asked to leave, and historical reconstruction is underway. |