This entry comes from the Phoenix Public Market Café, after scheduling a particularly early flight for my Monday and Tuesday stint onsite with a client. This is my second week out to Phoenix and, now that I've found this spot, I'm regretting the alarming progress we made Week One. What was supposed to take us through the end of April is now subject to a rolling decision on booking another week, so I may have to revisit the Café later, on my own time. Quelle horreur!
I've had another blog on my list for a while, because I've been thinking a lot about my happiness. I seem to have been in LA long enough that friends are starting to check in, and given the nature of the move, the general tone has been, "Is it everything you thought? Are you happy?"
Overwhelmingly, yes.
Almost daily, I find myself stepping back from the flow of life and feeling a deep contentment. Whether it's the rosy sunsets as I walk up Hollywood from the Vermont/Sunset metro or the Saturday afternoon pint of Racer 5 and Chernow's Washington at the sidewalk table of a neighborhood pub, I am finding that my time to myself is simply blissful. Despite the deep love I hold for the friends I kept and keep from DC and Atlanta, I always struggled through the times in between happy hours and Friday nights. Being alone was hard, and if I felt a disconnect with my personal surroundings, I had no distractions from it. Now, there almost seems to be an inversion. I am comfortable on my own at last, smiling to myself as I walk around my neighborhood.
The other half of the conversion is that I am coming to grips with the additional effort LA takes socially. Without any current standing engagements (be it trivia or simply an assumption of weekend hangs), I'm finding that seeing people means getting on their calendar. I wouldn't call it a problem; in fact, I'm excited to make the time because almost every friend I have in LA is someone I have spent years wanting more time with. Whether high school friends with whom I didn't realize I shared interests or college friends I only saw through the lens of theatre, every connection has room to grow and that's deeply exciting.
The happiness has manifested in some weird ways, however. For instance, I've had more bad dreams in the last month than I did in the decade prior. I should clarify that the dreams aren't horrifying, but rather anxious. A good example is working at a sandwich shop with former roommate Wade Tandy and being massively behind on the orders. At first, I found this troubling; after all, bad dreams seem inherently...oh, what's the word? Given some thought, though, I developed a positive theory of explanation, one I think will let me accept them for the time being. Having spent so many years living with daily frustrations, feeling deeply dissatisfied in one way or another, I surely created some semi-permanent wiring for stress and concern. Now that each day is blissed out to the extreme, I imagine my anxieties feel like a department on the verge of elimination, struggling for relevance by taking on my subconscious. I like the theory, particularly because there's yet another inversion in play. In my first two years out of college, when I was darkly depressed, every night brought dreams of adventure and success while waking up to my reality put a pit in my stomach before I even opened my eyes. Now, no matter how high-strung my dreams make me, I awake and acknowledge my reality with relief, especially on the days when I have a cozy cat sleeping between my feet.
So, to those who have yet to ask, yes, I'm happy. So very, very happy.
One final thought...On my flight here today, I had an aisle seat beside a mother and her eight-year-old daughter (my terrible age-gauging skills ensure she's really 13 or something). Halfway through the flight, I noticed the young girl's voice speaking at length. Knowing her mother was asleep, I looked up from Chernow to find the girl talking into a handheld device, closer to a gaming device than a phone. I initially thought she had gotten on the wifi to talk with someone through something like FaceTime, but as I listened, I realized that she was simply recording her thoughts, splitting her time between speaking into the camera and pointing it at her surroundings while describing the experience. She even turned it down our row to me and, as I quickly resumed my studious reading pose, I heard her say, "So, you can watch a movie or you can just read."
It's easy to wax nostalgic about a time where kids weren't raised with an instinctive knowledge of technology, but I am nevertheless so charmed that this girl used that technology to keep a record. I'm not sure if it was her first time flying or if she just had someone in mind with whom she wanted to share the trip, but she was my hero in that moment and, as she went on, I cracked a nearly-overworked smile again. I hope she caught it on video.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Is This Real Life?
I feel like the only way to appropriately capture the flow of the last few days is to simply record the events.
So here goes.
Having already met up with Milton High School alums Ashleigh and Adam separately, I reached out to them this past week to get together as a group. I sent texts Thursday checking on availability and woke Friday morning to both of them confirming they were open. I put together a group text on my way to the Metro and descended into the signal wasteland. Upon emerging downtown, I received a flurry of messages, in which Adam and Ashleigh picked a place and time, setting up the plan all while I read on the train.
Friday passed with a little work and a lot of prep for my first actual project, which will involve two days a week in Phoenix for a few months. I did not anticipate that my steps back into the fray would carry me to another exciting Southwestern city, but the explorer in me couldn't ask for a better opportunity.
Leaving work, I caught an Uber and met Ashleigh and Adam at Golden Road Brewing, a rare brewery for its commitment to a family environment. Adam had mentioned liking the place because it eschewed the normal exclusivity of a bar, the thought process being that limiting things to 21 and over is what creates the Moe's Tavern-esque escape from family, while a place that serves food, offers games, and allows kids and dogs makes it so unwinding isn't at the expense of family connections.
The three of us sat out on the patio, where heat lamps rebuffed the slight chill in the air. Unsurprisingly, we talked a lot about high school, but we also talked about work, from Adam's full-bore freelancing to Ashleigh's excitement for the world to see Disney's Zootopia after all the hard work she and the rest of Disney Animation put into it. It's so cool to hear about all of the great, creative work they both do and to have their help navigating this wild new place.
After a fun happy hour, Ashleigh gave me a ride home and after checking in with Bing, I went up to bed to rest up for what I intended to be a busy Saturday.
I woke up EARLY the next morning, 7AM in fact, which allowed me to get through morning pages, breakfast, and a shower at a leisurely pace while still getting out the door just after nine. My plan for the morning was to shop for some clothes in Beverly Hills, having collected suit-buying input from about a dozen male friends on the drive out, as well as purchasing a Groupon for tailored shirts this past week. Unfortunately, I struck out on my first stop to get the shirts, finding that the fitting room not only wasn't open yet, but in fact was only open on week days during normal business hours.
I moved on to suit-shopping, which I did at the far-too-fancy Brooks Brothers on Rodeo Drive. I was greeted by a cashier who directed me up a staircase out of Titanic to the suit FLOOR of the store. I found a salesman who quickly got me into a few coats before landing on a suit that worked. A tailor took measurements and chalked up the suit and in the end, I wound up with an order in on a great charcoal grey suit, which will supplement the literally ONE suit I have that fits (which itself was tailored down from 40 lbs north of where I am now).
After that, I had a lazy day. Lunch and coffee in the midst of the shops, both while forging forward in the Chernow Washington. Then, I returned to Los Feliz, where I parked and found yet another sidewalk seat to continue reading. Bing and I watched the Clippers game at home in the early evening and then it was time for me to head out into the night.
My destination for the evening was the Serial Killers show by a theatre company called Sacred Fools. When I told Seamus I wanted to get into a theatre community once I came out, he recommended the group as one he liked working with, particularly on this Serial Killers series. Essentially, every Saturday, they have an 11pm show consisting of 5 ten-minute serial plays. The audience votes and three winners move on to the next week with two new challengers. Some shows go weeks and weeks, each week bringing a new chapter in the story. It's a fun idea and the late-night nature sounded a lot like the midnight shows we had in college.
My first experience with Sacred Fools was at their membership meeting last week. I sat in the audience as they conducted company business, with particular focus on their new, exciting home (ten minutes from my place) and their upcoming shows. I could tell from the personalities that it was a great community vibe filled with people who want the group to succeed and thrive. The producers of Serial Killers stood up and spoke and I made a point of talking to them at the meeting break to make some connections.
A week later, I was sitting in the audience, waiting for the show to begin, still alone, but soon chatting with a woman named Samantha who had also been a newbie at the meeting. As I watched the crowd file in and greet each other, I saw a girl in a blue dress who I thought I immediately recognized, only my brain had no context for why she would be in the setting. Then, looking through the program, I spotted her name listed as the writer of one of the pieces: Annette Fasone. Annette went to the same elementary school as me, but more importantly, because her dad and my mom worked at the same company, our parents occasionally arranged for us to hang out. One time, they even took me to Six Flags.
Being that our interactions hadn't really made it beyond elementary (we actually went to the same middle and high school, but both didn't realize it), I had no idea she was into theatre or that she was even in Los Angeles to begin with. I was so dumbfounded that it took me until after the show had finished and an afterparty began to go over and confirm this weird small world. As I started with saying I think we went to elementary school together, I could see confusion on her face, but then when I said my name, she immediately recognized me and joined me in flipping out. She proceeded to introduce me to some of the other members by sharing our bizarre story while we both kept processing the fact that we were in the same place.
I'm still reeling. It was a big, fun, loud party, so she and I exchanged numbers and plan to get together and figure out how we each got from the same point A to the same point B. It's unfathomable to me, but also great to hear she's involved with such a great group (to say nothing of her working as a voice talent agent in town)!
As for Sacred Fools on the whole, I loved it. Everyone was kind, welcoming, goofy, sharp, and jubilant about their company's new space. Everyone I spoke with told me to get involved however I could and advised that Serial Killers was a great start. As I'd hoped, the show itself was a rowdy, tipsy-crowd-participation romp just like midnights had been and I definitely want to be a part of it. I stayed at the after party until about 2:30, at which point I knew I had to go or I'd not get any sleep before meeting Adam and Ashleigh in the morning. I rode Uber home excited for the prospect of seeing their main stage show Past Time with Seamus on Friday.
My sleep was limited, but for a good reason. Ashleigh texted Adam and I on Saturday to invite us to a friends and family screening of Zootopia. I met up with them at the Walt Disney Animation studio in Burbank, where freshly popped popcorn and drinks awaited us in the lobby of Ashleigh's offices. Inside the theater, we found some seats and settled in among the various families. The movie was fantastic with particularly beautiful visuals and touching performances. I plan to go see it again when it comes out (March 4th for the interested folks out there), just for all the little details I know I missed the first time.
As it ended and we saw Ashleigh's name in the credits, I felt really lucky to have reconnected with someone who contributes to work that I have loved for years now and grateful that Ashleigh shared the experience of seeing it.
And that's how my fourth weekend in LA went. I can't believe this place at times, but I love it.
After that, I had a lazy day. Lunch and coffee in the midst of the shops, both while forging forward in the Chernow Washington. Then, I returned to Los Feliz, where I parked and found yet another sidewalk seat to continue reading. Bing and I watched the Clippers game at home in the early evening and then it was time for me to head out into the night.
My destination for the evening was the Serial Killers show by a theatre company called Sacred Fools. When I told Seamus I wanted to get into a theatre community once I came out, he recommended the group as one he liked working with, particularly on this Serial Killers series. Essentially, every Saturday, they have an 11pm show consisting of 5 ten-minute serial plays. The audience votes and three winners move on to the next week with two new challengers. Some shows go weeks and weeks, each week bringing a new chapter in the story. It's a fun idea and the late-night nature sounded a lot like the midnight shows we had in college.
My first experience with Sacred Fools was at their membership meeting last week. I sat in the audience as they conducted company business, with particular focus on their new, exciting home (ten minutes from my place) and their upcoming shows. I could tell from the personalities that it was a great community vibe filled with people who want the group to succeed and thrive. The producers of Serial Killers stood up and spoke and I made a point of talking to them at the meeting break to make some connections.
A week later, I was sitting in the audience, waiting for the show to begin, still alone, but soon chatting with a woman named Samantha who had also been a newbie at the meeting. As I watched the crowd file in and greet each other, I saw a girl in a blue dress who I thought I immediately recognized, only my brain had no context for why she would be in the setting. Then, looking through the program, I spotted her name listed as the writer of one of the pieces: Annette Fasone. Annette went to the same elementary school as me, but more importantly, because her dad and my mom worked at the same company, our parents occasionally arranged for us to hang out. One time, they even took me to Six Flags.
Being that our interactions hadn't really made it beyond elementary (we actually went to the same middle and high school, but both didn't realize it), I had no idea she was into theatre or that she was even in Los Angeles to begin with. I was so dumbfounded that it took me until after the show had finished and an afterparty began to go over and confirm this weird small world. As I started with saying I think we went to elementary school together, I could see confusion on her face, but then when I said my name, she immediately recognized me and joined me in flipping out. She proceeded to introduce me to some of the other members by sharing our bizarre story while we both kept processing the fact that we were in the same place.
I'm still reeling. It was a big, fun, loud party, so she and I exchanged numbers and plan to get together and figure out how we each got from the same point A to the same point B. It's unfathomable to me, but also great to hear she's involved with such a great group (to say nothing of her working as a voice talent agent in town)!
As for Sacred Fools on the whole, I loved it. Everyone was kind, welcoming, goofy, sharp, and jubilant about their company's new space. Everyone I spoke with told me to get involved however I could and advised that Serial Killers was a great start. As I'd hoped, the show itself was a rowdy, tipsy-crowd-participation romp just like midnights had been and I definitely want to be a part of it. I stayed at the after party until about 2:30, at which point I knew I had to go or I'd not get any sleep before meeting Adam and Ashleigh in the morning. I rode Uber home excited for the prospect of seeing their main stage show Past Time with Seamus on Friday.
My sleep was limited, but for a good reason. Ashleigh texted Adam and I on Saturday to invite us to a friends and family screening of Zootopia. I met up with them at the Walt Disney Animation studio in Burbank, where freshly popped popcorn and drinks awaited us in the lobby of Ashleigh's offices. Inside the theater, we found some seats and settled in among the various families. The movie was fantastic with particularly beautiful visuals and touching performances. I plan to go see it again when it comes out (March 4th for the interested folks out there), just for all the little details I know I missed the first time.
As it ended and we saw Ashleigh's name in the credits, I felt really lucky to have reconnected with someone who contributes to work that I have loved for years now and grateful that Ashleigh shared the experience of seeing it.
And that's how my fourth weekend in LA went. I can't believe this place at times, but I love it.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Learning the Ropes
Friday, after running out of legislative highlights from the last six months, I found myself still without work and with hours to kill before a work happy hour. Since rolling to a stop in LA, I'd been meaning to learn a little more about my local geography, tired of nodding knowingly through more than one work conversation straight out of SNL's The Californians. After starting with Wikipedia entries for each neighborhood I knew, I eventually clicked through to the LA Times Mapping L.A. project, which was exactly the resource I needed. Over the next few hours, I memorized all 114 neighborhoods in the city of Los Angeles, to the point that I could name them by sight on the Times map and list them from memory.
It was an admittedly obsessive exercise and I have already found its usefulness to be comparable to middle school academic bowl when I learned the lyrics to American Pie, but not the tune. My knowledge of the LA neighborhoods was exhaustive, but sterile. I still knew nothing about how each area felt or, perhaps more importantly, how I would feel IN it.
The exercise paid off eventually, though. Sunday, I met my friends Lauren and Sam at The Doughroom for brunch and afterwards had an urge to drive. I realized I STILL had yet to see the Pacific as resident, so I quickly hopped on the 10 and followed signs towards Malibu. The ocean appeared from beneath an overpass, glittering blue and insistent on my attention. Northward, the road narrowed, carrying me past huddled packs of beachfront houses.
A few miles up the PCH, I decided to program my GPS with my destination for the Super Bowl and keep driving until the ETA on the app was the time I intended to be there, at which point, I would start following the directions. It seemed like enough structured spontaneity to make an afternoon of and I would have held to it if I hadn't seen an alluring sign for Malibu Canyon Road.
In a matter of a few turns, the ocean was forgotten as I sped along, hugging the steep canyon walls. The road took me past Malibu Creek State Park and within sight of some astonishing rock formations before finally depositing me on the 101 near Calabasas. My jaunt was over. All that remained was to head east to my buddy Adam's for kickoff.
While I was blissed out on the PCH, it was on the next stretch of the drive that I noticed the benefits of my furious memorization. Instead of ignoring exit signs until the GPS told me to pay attention, I smiled at names I recognized, neighborhoods arranged north and south of the freeway just as they had been on the interactive map. I began predicting the next sign and found myself hitting more than I missed. I'd had the lyrics, now I had the tune, the physical sense of how one place knit into the next. I was on the freeway, to be fair, and surely missing some surface road broad strokes, but I still enjoyed the comfort of not being lost. I was no longer surrounded by the foreign language of unfamiliar places. My Los Angeles geography was passable, if rudimentary.
It's a nice feeling and it bred more confidence. I keep finding myself trying new routes and new extracurriculars just to put myself in a new place in the city. Yesterday, after work, I walked 20 minutes southeast of my office to the Arts District, where the Angel City Brewery holds a Monday game night. I was nervous, having been told not to stray too far while Downtown, but with plenty of daylight left and the sight of hundreds of normal folks living their lives very unthreateningly, I never felt unsafe (acknowledging that to be the luxury of the six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, white male). Instead, I got to walk through some new neighborhoods, feeling the pulse of areas Mapping LA would have slapped "Downtown" on before calling it quits. A few hours later, after some good beer, delicious food, and a game of Pandemic, I called an Uber and made it home with such speed and ease that I could hardly believe it. The utility and price of Uber is going to make happy hours hard to pass on.
I'm liking it here and if I can't claim fluency yet, I at least feel my mind opening wide, seeking immersion.
The exercise paid off eventually, though. Sunday, I met my friends Lauren and Sam at The Doughroom for brunch and afterwards had an urge to drive. I realized I STILL had yet to see the Pacific as resident, so I quickly hopped on the 10 and followed signs towards Malibu. The ocean appeared from beneath an overpass, glittering blue and insistent on my attention. Northward, the road narrowed, carrying me past huddled packs of beachfront houses.
A few miles up the PCH, I decided to program my GPS with my destination for the Super Bowl and keep driving until the ETA on the app was the time I intended to be there, at which point, I would start following the directions. It seemed like enough structured spontaneity to make an afternoon of and I would have held to it if I hadn't seen an alluring sign for Malibu Canyon Road.
In a matter of a few turns, the ocean was forgotten as I sped along, hugging the steep canyon walls. The road took me past Malibu Creek State Park and within sight of some astonishing rock formations before finally depositing me on the 101 near Calabasas. My jaunt was over. All that remained was to head east to my buddy Adam's for kickoff.
While I was blissed out on the PCH, it was on the next stretch of the drive that I noticed the benefits of my furious memorization. Instead of ignoring exit signs until the GPS told me to pay attention, I smiled at names I recognized, neighborhoods arranged north and south of the freeway just as they had been on the interactive map. I began predicting the next sign and found myself hitting more than I missed. I'd had the lyrics, now I had the tune, the physical sense of how one place knit into the next. I was on the freeway, to be fair, and surely missing some surface road broad strokes, but I still enjoyed the comfort of not being lost. I was no longer surrounded by the foreign language of unfamiliar places. My Los Angeles geography was passable, if rudimentary.
It's a nice feeling and it bred more confidence. I keep finding myself trying new routes and new extracurriculars just to put myself in a new place in the city. Yesterday, after work, I walked 20 minutes southeast of my office to the Arts District, where the Angel City Brewery holds a Monday game night. I was nervous, having been told not to stray too far while Downtown, but with plenty of daylight left and the sight of hundreds of normal folks living their lives very unthreateningly, I never felt unsafe (acknowledging that to be the luxury of the six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, white male). Instead, I got to walk through some new neighborhoods, feeling the pulse of areas Mapping LA would have slapped "Downtown" on before calling it quits. A few hours later, after some good beer, delicious food, and a game of Pandemic, I called an Uber and made it home with such speed and ease that I could hardly believe it. The utility and price of Uber is going to make happy hours hard to pass on.
I'm liking it here and if I can't claim fluency yet, I at least feel my mind opening wide, seeking immersion.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Novelties
I prepared the deep thoughts that follow first, but then realized a more concrete update might be worthwhile.
Work has begun and is excellent so far. As with every Towers office (or Willis Towers Watson, whenever that sinks in), LA is filled with bright, clever, kind people whose gears are always turning. Yesterday began with my welcome breakfast, an event shared with another new hire and consisting of the two of us sitting in a conference room with a breakfast spread while the whole floor came through to get food. While the receiving line format felt a little odd, it provoked a lot of fun conversations, including an almost unanimous encouragement to take the LA Metro in to work. Given that vote of confidence and after my cube neighbor toured me down past the station by work, I tried it today and found it to be a pretty good means of getting in, certainly for a former DCer.
I also sent an introductory e-mail around full of my sense of humor and my interests, trying to improve once again on the long process it has been to bring my self, all of my self, to work. My desk sports a little Funko Tyrion and a bobblehead Darth Vader, while my coffee mug options are Doctor Who and Hamilton, both amazing gifts. It's good to be back in the swing of things and I took no small joy in choosing my benefits today, so that I can get a little knee work done and adventure out into the wilderness again.
On to the deep thoughts! At the office today, I found myself thinking about the relativity of time. Ever since I reached back out to Towers, I have remarked to friends how strange it seems that so momentous a time for me will seem like a much shorter time to my former company, especially when it comes to my service history. The retirement work cycle is, like so many jobs, annual, so missing six months doesn't feel like that much...except to my Atlanta office friends who have accused me of planning my six-months of self-discovery to conveniently miss a big special project AND disclosure hell month. Oops? The six months felt so very long to me, in the best of all possible ways. It feels like years since I left Georgia in August.
Then, today, I realized that I have only been here five days. This seemed impossible. How could I have been in Maryland a week and a day ago? That's not right, is it?
Which brings me to my two cents as far as the relativity of time...the key, at least for me, seems to be novelty. Doing new things slows time...or perhaps more accurately records memories on slower film. My six months off feel so long because such a high percentage of that time brought new experiences, new friends, new places, new growth. When I consider instead how the periods of sameness I have felt in the past...and how quick they seemed at the time and still seem. Whole years or handfuls of years I could describe in a sentence. Years spent living for the weekends, so that the weeks themselves were edited out of my life story each time I returned to it.
It's just a thesis (and I can almost guarantee it's more friendly to extroverts), but in this absurdly short time since my westward rocket landed in LA, nearly every moment of every day has been new and surprising, dynamic and challenging. Those moments have stretched, extended by the novelty of it all. It gives me confidence; if all I have to do to put down a life of great length is to keep aching for newness, then I have come to the right place.
Work has begun and is excellent so far. As with every Towers office (or Willis Towers Watson, whenever that sinks in), LA is filled with bright, clever, kind people whose gears are always turning. Yesterday began with my welcome breakfast, an event shared with another new hire and consisting of the two of us sitting in a conference room with a breakfast spread while the whole floor came through to get food. While the receiving line format felt a little odd, it provoked a lot of fun conversations, including an almost unanimous encouragement to take the LA Metro in to work. Given that vote of confidence and after my cube neighbor toured me down past the station by work, I tried it today and found it to be a pretty good means of getting in, certainly for a former DCer.
I also sent an introductory e-mail around full of my sense of humor and my interests, trying to improve once again on the long process it has been to bring my self, all of my self, to work. My desk sports a little Funko Tyrion and a bobblehead Darth Vader, while my coffee mug options are Doctor Who and Hamilton, both amazing gifts. It's good to be back in the swing of things and I took no small joy in choosing my benefits today, so that I can get a little knee work done and adventure out into the wilderness again.
On to the deep thoughts! At the office today, I found myself thinking about the relativity of time. Ever since I reached back out to Towers, I have remarked to friends how strange it seems that so momentous a time for me will seem like a much shorter time to my former company, especially when it comes to my service history. The retirement work cycle is, like so many jobs, annual, so missing six months doesn't feel like that much...except to my Atlanta office friends who have accused me of planning my six-months of self-discovery to conveniently miss a big special project AND disclosure hell month. Oops? The six months felt so very long to me, in the best of all possible ways. It feels like years since I left Georgia in August.
Then, today, I realized that I have only been here five days. This seemed impossible. How could I have been in Maryland a week and a day ago? That's not right, is it?
Which brings me to my two cents as far as the relativity of time...the key, at least for me, seems to be novelty. Doing new things slows time...or perhaps more accurately records memories on slower film. My six months off feel so long because such a high percentage of that time brought new experiences, new friends, new places, new growth. When I consider instead how the periods of sameness I have felt in the past...and how quick they seemed at the time and still seem. Whole years or handfuls of years I could describe in a sentence. Years spent living for the weekends, so that the weeks themselves were edited out of my life story each time I returned to it.
It's just a thesis (and I can almost guarantee it's more friendly to extroverts), but in this absurdly short time since my westward rocket landed in LA, nearly every moment of every day has been new and surprising, dynamic and challenging. Those moments have stretched, extended by the novelty of it all. It gives me confidence; if all I have to do to put down a life of great length is to keep aching for newness, then I have come to the right place.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
Greetings from Sunny LA...Or Not
It's raining in Los Angeles today.
As I sit at my new desk, in my new room, in my new apartment, I hear both the voice of my new roommate drifting up from downstairs and the sound of the rain on the other side of my little balcony door.
I arrived yesterday just after 1pm, after a fairly nondescript morning driving out of Arizona and into California. The Arizona sky was clear and bright over the red ridges on either side, while things grew more overcast and, yes, smoggy as I grew nearer to Los Angeles.
After my first welcoming taste of LA traffic, I turned into Los Feliz and down Alexandria Avenue to where my roommate Bing stood waving me down. He directed me into our driveway, past a row of cars on the left and in between a wall and a chain-link fence to the assigned spots. We both remarked that it was a tight fit for CJ's big build, with less than six inches of clearance for the mirrors on either side, but the spot sat right beside our front door, which helped with the unloading.
Bing showed me around the apartment, which remains way more than I could have imagined as I pored over empty, expensive studios several weeks ago. Even now, I'm sitting at a wall-mounted desk with my books in a bookshelf, a candle on a small chest of drawers, and my clothes neatly tucked away in a walk-in closet.
I spent every spare moment yesterday setting the room up, as I have always had a thing about unpacking immediately. All of the bankers boxes were emptied except for one bound for work, one full of personal files, and another half-full of kitchen stuff that now seems somewhat silly for moving in to someone's existing home. Did I not think Bing had knives?
I also got my social rounds going early, driving over to Hollywood to meet Seamus and Vince in the midst of their (and really mainly Seamus's) self-guided Raymond Chandler tour. After realizing we were all underdressed for Musso and Frank's and thus could not hobnob with the Marlowes of the present day, we reconvened at Stout for burgers and, in my case, a post-drive celebratory beer.
That dinner, this morning's trip to Target, even last night's walk over to Seamus's to watch Rick and Morty, it all feels so surprisingly normal. I could almost forget that I just moved my entire life across the country to resume my career, rebuild a settled life, and in some ways construct a routine from scratch. Despite this pleasant familiarity, the months to come will be filled with new adventures, or so is my intention in being here. With the traffic, the cost of living, and a million idiosyncrasies, LA demands you live a life worth the effort of residing here. I think I'm ready to give it a shot.
As I sit at my new desk, in my new room, in my new apartment, I hear both the voice of my new roommate drifting up from downstairs and the sound of the rain on the other side of my little balcony door.
I arrived yesterday just after 1pm, after a fairly nondescript morning driving out of Arizona and into California. The Arizona sky was clear and bright over the red ridges on either side, while things grew more overcast and, yes, smoggy as I grew nearer to Los Angeles.
After my first welcoming taste of LA traffic, I turned into Los Feliz and down Alexandria Avenue to where my roommate Bing stood waving me down. He directed me into our driveway, past a row of cars on the left and in between a wall and a chain-link fence to the assigned spots. We both remarked that it was a tight fit for CJ's big build, with less than six inches of clearance for the mirrors on either side, but the spot sat right beside our front door, which helped with the unloading.
Bing showed me around the apartment, which remains way more than I could have imagined as I pored over empty, expensive studios several weeks ago. Even now, I'm sitting at a wall-mounted desk with my books in a bookshelf, a candle on a small chest of drawers, and my clothes neatly tucked away in a walk-in closet.
I spent every spare moment yesterday setting the room up, as I have always had a thing about unpacking immediately. All of the bankers boxes were emptied except for one bound for work, one full of personal files, and another half-full of kitchen stuff that now seems somewhat silly for moving in to someone's existing home. Did I not think Bing had knives?
I also got my social rounds going early, driving over to Hollywood to meet Seamus and Vince in the midst of their (and really mainly Seamus's) self-guided Raymond Chandler tour. After realizing we were all underdressed for Musso and Frank's and thus could not hobnob with the Marlowes of the present day, we reconvened at Stout for burgers and, in my case, a post-drive celebratory beer.
That dinner, this morning's trip to Target, even last night's walk over to Seamus's to watch Rick and Morty, it all feels so surprisingly normal. I could almost forget that I just moved my entire life across the country to resume my career, rebuild a settled life, and in some ways construct a routine from scratch. Despite this pleasant familiarity, the months to come will be filled with new adventures, or so is my intention in being here. With the traffic, the cost of living, and a million idiosyncrasies, LA demands you live a life worth the effort of residing here. I think I'm ready to give it a shot.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
Southwest History Trail
Feels like I've already covered yesterday morning's time zone misadventure, so I will start with the road from Amarillo into New Mexico. I had noticed Thursday that CJ the Azera was nearing her 45,000 miles and, given the sheer distance we've been doing each day, she would definitely hit the mark Friday barring some catastrophic breakdown.
The morning's drive began about 200 miles away from the big one, so I spent the first few hours scanning the nearly spotless Texas landscape, particularly amused by the legions of wind turbines receding over the horizon. Take that, BOB. I have Tyson's back.
I crossed the border into New Mexico sooner than I expected, realized my time zone error, and then focused on the increasing odometer. I wanted to pull over for a picture once she hit 45,000 and given the 75 mph speed limits, it could be easy to click to 45,001 while looking for a suitable spot. Thankfully, the shoulders were bare and I was able to cruise to a dusty stop shortly after CJ celebrated her 45,000th birthday. Hard to believe I got her at around 6,000 in November 2013, but I took her in for a pre-cross-country check-up and she got full marks.
In New Mexico, rock formations began punctuating the run-on flats, with ridges and mesas punched from the horizon every few miles or so. As has become familiar in the west, there were no signs of civilization between the far-flung towns. I think I could count the outposts over the 200 miles from the border to Albuquerque on one hand.
At one point, I passed a sign that said "Carlsbad Caverns: Next Right," which came as a surprise. Mom and I went to Carlsbad when I was 10 and I remembered it being pretty far south. Sure enough, beneath that sign, it said "240 miles" or so. My first, snarky thought was "it's a little more to get there than taking the next right, wouldn't you say?" Then, I realized that, given the thin spider web of western highways, if someone traveling I-40 misses that right turn, they aren't going to Carlsbad Caverns.
I pulled into Albuquerque at quarter to eleven and sought out the coffee shop Kat recommended. GPS guided me into the parking lot of a shopping center cobbled together from old shipping containers. The quirky aesthetic had a post-apocalyptic feel to it until I walked into Epiphany Espresso to be greeted by its two friendly owners. I sat with a Lobo Latte (not a Loco Latte as I first though, which makes sense given the college team nearby) and blogged in bliss.
After finishing the blog, I ordered another coffee, put on some sunscreen, and took General Washington up to one of the rooftop patios. The views were stunning, as the desert opened up beyond the city limits and the Sandia crest loomed to the northeast.
Kat arrived shortly afterwards and I followed her lead in ordering at Amore Neapolitan Pizzeria. We took our table flag up to another patio and began catching up about the complexities of our last few years, our sentiments on where we live or will be living, and general news. Happenstance has provided the backbone of our ongoing friendship since college, with an unplanned overlap in Vegas and now this breeze through on my way across the continent. Despite the randomness, the conversation always picks up easily and flows naturally. I think we even gathered our empty pizza plates in the same moment.
From Albuquerque, I forged west, facing my largest single GPS direction yet, 460 miles on I-40 until turning into Kingman to stop for the night. I lined up podcasts and spent the next few hours swerving around the brilliant red rock formations that took me through New Mexico.
In the mid-afternoon, I saw a sign for Acoma Pueblo, a Native American pueblo fixed upon a towered mesa. Dad had taken me there during our rambling road trip in 1997 and I could still remember the intensity of the ascent. I had just talked with Kat about how I haven't been south of Albuquerque, into what mentally qualifies as "Dad country" since a year or two after his death in 1998. Now, despite a cautiously wide berth, I had stumbled back into old memories. I contemplated driving to Acoma, to willfully reconnect with that trip, but the detour was 30 minutes each way and I would already be arriving after dark. After considering the choice along the dusty shoulder of the original route 66 (alongside I-40), I continued on, passing snow-dusted ridges on all sides as I entered Arizona.
Luckily, another chance presented itself around sunset. As the sky split into rainbow bands, I saw a sign for the Arizona Meteor Crater. The words hit me square in the chest. Dad took me to the meteor crater, too, on the same trip, several days before Acoma Pueblo. I remember standing beside him, awestruck at the yawning hole 3/4 of a mile across. It was stunning and it made me and the Earth beneath my feet feel so very, very small. That feeling and the feeling of loss when Dad died gave me the name of my now-set-aside book about our travels: Crater.
The sign said the exit was only a few miles ahead and a quick GPS hit showed me the crater was less than 10 miles off the exit. That detour I could afford. Even as I chose the crater as my new destination, however, Google Maps warned me that the park was closed. I didn't care. I had to get as far as I could.
I took the exit for Meteor Crater Road after the sun had slipped below the horizon. Dusk lit my way down the thin, empty road, past a gas station with a helpful sign advising once more that the landmark was closed up for the night.
I passed only one car along the way, wondering if it was a park ranger, but a cloud of dust from the next dirt road revealed they had come from even farther off in the countryside. I thought about rangers, whether any might still be there almost an hour after closing. I thought about the serendipity of Joplin, how I took a chance that paid off so well. Maybe someone would still be there, someone I could tell about my vacation almost two decades ago, who might take a little pity so that I could just see over the edge quickly.
No such luck, unfortunately. As I neared the curved ridge around the crater, I saw the parking lot gated off entirely, with only an abandoned park vehicle up near the visitor center. I had hoped that the road might have a view into the depths, but that prehistoric impact lifted the land all around it, curtaining me off. I felt a little disappointed, but then let it pass. I had tried and I had come. It was the closest I have been in decades to any of the ground we covered back then. I had mentally roped the area off for so long that I couldn't have imagined driving down the same road as Dad had, behind the wheel of that black Jeep Wrangler he called Das Jeep. Now I had, and though I couldn't put to words the closure or the ease that brought, I drove back out to I-40 glad I had added that little bit onto the day's travels.
Several hours later, I pulled to a stop in Kingman, checked into my room, and eventually fell into a deep sleep.
Today, LA begins.
The morning's drive began about 200 miles away from the big one, so I spent the first few hours scanning the nearly spotless Texas landscape, particularly amused by the legions of wind turbines receding over the horizon. Take that, BOB. I have Tyson's back.
I crossed the border into New Mexico sooner than I expected, realized my time zone error, and then focused on the increasing odometer. I wanted to pull over for a picture once she hit 45,000 and given the 75 mph speed limits, it could be easy to click to 45,001 while looking for a suitable spot. Thankfully, the shoulders were bare and I was able to cruise to a dusty stop shortly after CJ celebrated her 45,000th birthday. Hard to believe I got her at around 6,000 in November 2013, but I took her in for a pre-cross-country check-up and she got full marks.
In New Mexico, rock formations began punctuating the run-on flats, with ridges and mesas punched from the horizon every few miles or so. As has become familiar in the west, there were no signs of civilization between the far-flung towns. I think I could count the outposts over the 200 miles from the border to Albuquerque on one hand.
At one point, I passed a sign that said "Carlsbad Caverns: Next Right," which came as a surprise. Mom and I went to Carlsbad when I was 10 and I remembered it being pretty far south. Sure enough, beneath that sign, it said "240 miles" or so. My first, snarky thought was "it's a little more to get there than taking the next right, wouldn't you say?" Then, I realized that, given the thin spider web of western highways, if someone traveling I-40 misses that right turn, they aren't going to Carlsbad Caverns.
I pulled into Albuquerque at quarter to eleven and sought out the coffee shop Kat recommended. GPS guided me into the parking lot of a shopping center cobbled together from old shipping containers. The quirky aesthetic had a post-apocalyptic feel to it until I walked into Epiphany Espresso to be greeted by its two friendly owners. I sat with a Lobo Latte (not a Loco Latte as I first though, which makes sense given the college team nearby) and blogged in bliss.
After finishing the blog, I ordered another coffee, put on some sunscreen, and took General Washington up to one of the rooftop patios. The views were stunning, as the desert opened up beyond the city limits and the Sandia crest loomed to the northeast.
Kat arrived shortly afterwards and I followed her lead in ordering at Amore Neapolitan Pizzeria. We took our table flag up to another patio and began catching up about the complexities of our last few years, our sentiments on where we live or will be living, and general news. Happenstance has provided the backbone of our ongoing friendship since college, with an unplanned overlap in Vegas and now this breeze through on my way across the continent. Despite the randomness, the conversation always picks up easily and flows naturally. I think we even gathered our empty pizza plates in the same moment.
From Albuquerque, I forged west, facing my largest single GPS direction yet, 460 miles on I-40 until turning into Kingman to stop for the night. I lined up podcasts and spent the next few hours swerving around the brilliant red rock formations that took me through New Mexico.
In the mid-afternoon, I saw a sign for Acoma Pueblo, a Native American pueblo fixed upon a towered mesa. Dad had taken me there during our rambling road trip in 1997 and I could still remember the intensity of the ascent. I had just talked with Kat about how I haven't been south of Albuquerque, into what mentally qualifies as "Dad country" since a year or two after his death in 1998. Now, despite a cautiously wide berth, I had stumbled back into old memories. I contemplated driving to Acoma, to willfully reconnect with that trip, but the detour was 30 minutes each way and I would already be arriving after dark. After considering the choice along the dusty shoulder of the original route 66 (alongside I-40), I continued on, passing snow-dusted ridges on all sides as I entered Arizona.
Luckily, another chance presented itself around sunset. As the sky split into rainbow bands, I saw a sign for the Arizona Meteor Crater. The words hit me square in the chest. Dad took me to the meteor crater, too, on the same trip, several days before Acoma Pueblo. I remember standing beside him, awestruck at the yawning hole 3/4 of a mile across. It was stunning and it made me and the Earth beneath my feet feel so very, very small. That feeling and the feeling of loss when Dad died gave me the name of my now-set-aside book about our travels: Crater.
The sign said the exit was only a few miles ahead and a quick GPS hit showed me the crater was less than 10 miles off the exit. That detour I could afford. Even as I chose the crater as my new destination, however, Google Maps warned me that the park was closed. I didn't care. I had to get as far as I could.
I took the exit for Meteor Crater Road after the sun had slipped below the horizon. Dusk lit my way down the thin, empty road, past a gas station with a helpful sign advising once more that the landmark was closed up for the night.
I passed only one car along the way, wondering if it was a park ranger, but a cloud of dust from the next dirt road revealed they had come from even farther off in the countryside. I thought about rangers, whether any might still be there almost an hour after closing. I thought about the serendipity of Joplin, how I took a chance that paid off so well. Maybe someone would still be there, someone I could tell about my vacation almost two decades ago, who might take a little pity so that I could just see over the edge quickly.
No such luck, unfortunately. As I neared the curved ridge around the crater, I saw the parking lot gated off entirely, with only an abandoned park vehicle up near the visitor center. I had hoped that the road might have a view into the depths, but that prehistoric impact lifted the land all around it, curtaining me off. I felt a little disappointed, but then let it pass. I had tried and I had come. It was the closest I have been in decades to any of the ground we covered back then. I had mentally roped the area off for so long that I couldn't have imagined driving down the same road as Dad had, behind the wheel of that black Jeep Wrangler he called Das Jeep. Now I had, and though I couldn't put to words the closure or the ease that brought, I drove back out to I-40 glad I had added that little bit onto the day's travels.
Several hours later, I pulled to a stop in Kingman, checked into my room, and eventually fell into a deep sleep.
Today, LA begins.
Friday, January 29, 2016
The Domino Effect
I don't know why, but I still haven't learned to skip stress and wait for the road to provide. This morning, I woke up in Amarillo, TX with only enough time to shower, do my morning pages, and leave. Not being able to blog was a visceral feeling, but I had lunch in Albuquerque with Kat Cox and I didn't want to be late.
Cut to the New Mexico state line where my eyes are flicking from the road to the odometer as I watch CJ approach her 45,000 mile birthday, my attention so focused that I almost miss the notification on the center console: "Time Zone Updated to Mountain Time."
I forgot the time zone change. I will be an hour early. Instead of facepalming, I feel a thrill. I'll find a coffee spot and blog out the wonders of yesterday. Kat pointed me to a place just beside our lunch spot and so I find myself sitting at Epiphany Espresso, sipping a Lobo Latte in a renovated shipping container.
The road provides. Now, back to yesterday!
I moved slowly Thursday morning, feeling my night in Joplin and especially my beer suicide. I took the time to do morning pages and blog, then set out on the road at almost 10:30am, a very late start for me. I had complicated the day's itinerary by planning to skirt into Kansas and Arkansas, crossing those states off my list instead of heading straight into Oklahoma.
Kansas was simple. Turning west onto I-44, I went about 10 minutes and turned onto 400. After less than a mile, I had passed the state line and quickly U-turned back to the highway.
Arkansas, however, proved trickier. I was prepared to drive 45 minutes or so south to hit the state line, but my new Joplin friends had recommended going just a little further to the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. While I love a museum, I struggled with the idea of a sight-seeing stop in the middle of a day's drive (arguably the beginning given that I would have made NO progress westward yet). As I turned south towards Arkansas, I decided to make it a game time decision.
It turned out pretty much how one might guess. After making it to the state line, I was 15 minutes from the museum. From googling it, I knew the architecture was striking, so I thought there'd be no harm in a drive-by. I pulled off the highway, followed signs, and successfully pulled down the driveway. When the museum came into view, I knew I was staying.
After parking, I made my way to the main entrance, stopping to appreciate the view along the way.
I walked up to what I thought was the ticket counter, only to be told that admission was free. That was only the first shock.
Receptionist: "So here's your ticket. And would you like to tour our Frank Lloyd Wright house?"
Ian: "I'm sorry?"
R: "There's a Frank Lloyd Wright house on the property. I can get you in for a self-guided tour right now if you're interested."
I: "Wh...but...yes, yes, definitely."
I felt so overwhelmed, staggered at the prospect of a beautiful American Art collection AND a Wright house that I would have COMPLETELY MISSED had I not gone out to trivia in Joplin alone. I could feel the miles between where I stood and where I would have been if I had turned back at the state line. Meanwhile, the architecture of the museum loomed all around me.
The Wright house didn't disappoint, either. Since they didn't allow pictures inside, I just strolled around the two-story great room, staring out the floor to ceiling windows and the trees beyond. The difference between the blocked-off public side of the house and the nature-intwined private side was particularly striking.
After the Wright house, I walked the nearby grounds, enjoying the outdoor sculptures and the views back to the museum.
As for the artwork in the collection, I don't have the words, except to say it was one of the most well-curated collections I have ever seen. Knowing I didn't have the time I wanted to take with each piece, I concentrated on textures and snapped a picture of almost everything so that I can revisit it on my own time. I'll pick a few to show here, but I plan to put the rest in a Facebook album. Highlights included: Hamilton Portrait, Peale and Stuart portraits of Washington which resonated as I read his biography, a bajillion American landscapes, a sculpture called Free, Calder mobiles, and some favorite artists from the Brandywine museum back in PA.
One docent commented upon my smile as I walked the galleries and I explained the randomness of my being there and my slight sadness that I had to move on so quickly. Indeed, in a flash, I had reached the end of the exhibits and had to make my way out. I will flip through my pictures to try and recreate the experience of fascination, but I think I may just have to make my way back to Bentonville, AR someday.
Enriching the soul impoverished the body and mind, however, and I left the museum parking lot groaning at the seven hours between me and Amarillo, TX. Quiet backroads took me from Bentonville into Oklahoma, where I was welcomed by a half-dozen tolls both before and on I-44. Though I never really regained a second wind of road trip enthusiasm, the sunset over the broad flat fields of Oklahoma did my thinking for me, with a healthy dose of The Album Leaf and The Decembrists in the background.
Once the sun set, I still had a few hours to go, so I dialed up Savage Love podcasts, which contrasted well with the pitch-black Oklahoma and Texas nights. Finally, I pulled into Amarillo, checked into my hotel, and came to an exhausted stop in my room.
Thankfully, I got a good night's sleep last night and now, with the bonus hour, I feel like I'm no longer paying the price for my deeply satisfying detour to Crystal Bridges.
The road provides.
Cut to the New Mexico state line where my eyes are flicking from the road to the odometer as I watch CJ approach her 45,000 mile birthday, my attention so focused that I almost miss the notification on the center console: "Time Zone Updated to Mountain Time."
I forgot the time zone change. I will be an hour early. Instead of facepalming, I feel a thrill. I'll find a coffee spot and blog out the wonders of yesterday. Kat pointed me to a place just beside our lunch spot and so I find myself sitting at Epiphany Espresso, sipping a Lobo Latte in a renovated shipping container.
The road provides. Now, back to yesterday!
I moved slowly Thursday morning, feeling my night in Joplin and especially my beer suicide. I took the time to do morning pages and blog, then set out on the road at almost 10:30am, a very late start for me. I had complicated the day's itinerary by planning to skirt into Kansas and Arkansas, crossing those states off my list instead of heading straight into Oklahoma.
Kansas was simple. Turning west onto I-44, I went about 10 minutes and turned onto 400. After less than a mile, I had passed the state line and quickly U-turned back to the highway.
Arkansas, however, proved trickier. I was prepared to drive 45 minutes or so south to hit the state line, but my new Joplin friends had recommended going just a little further to the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. While I love a museum, I struggled with the idea of a sight-seeing stop in the middle of a day's drive (arguably the beginning given that I would have made NO progress westward yet). As I turned south towards Arkansas, I decided to make it a game time decision.
It turned out pretty much how one might guess. After making it to the state line, I was 15 minutes from the museum. From googling it, I knew the architecture was striking, so I thought there'd be no harm in a drive-by. I pulled off the highway, followed signs, and successfully pulled down the driveway. When the museum came into view, I knew I was staying.
After parking, I made my way to the main entrance, stopping to appreciate the view along the way.
I walked up to what I thought was the ticket counter, only to be told that admission was free. That was only the first shock.
Receptionist: "So here's your ticket. And would you like to tour our Frank Lloyd Wright house?"
Ian: "I'm sorry?"
R: "There's a Frank Lloyd Wright house on the property. I can get you in for a self-guided tour right now if you're interested."
I: "Wh...but...yes, yes, definitely."
I felt so overwhelmed, staggered at the prospect of a beautiful American Art collection AND a Wright house that I would have COMPLETELY MISSED had I not gone out to trivia in Joplin alone. I could feel the miles between where I stood and where I would have been if I had turned back at the state line. Meanwhile, the architecture of the museum loomed all around me.
The Wright house didn't disappoint, either. Since they didn't allow pictures inside, I just strolled around the two-story great room, staring out the floor to ceiling windows and the trees beyond. The difference between the blocked-off public side of the house and the nature-intwined private side was particularly striking.
After the Wright house, I walked the nearby grounds, enjoying the outdoor sculptures and the views back to the museum.
As for the artwork in the collection, I don't have the words, except to say it was one of the most well-curated collections I have ever seen. Knowing I didn't have the time I wanted to take with each piece, I concentrated on textures and snapped a picture of almost everything so that I can revisit it on my own time. I'll pick a few to show here, but I plan to put the rest in a Facebook album. Highlights included: Hamilton Portrait, Peale and Stuart portraits of Washington which resonated as I read his biography, a bajillion American landscapes, a sculpture called Free, Calder mobiles, and some favorite artists from the Brandywine museum back in PA.
 |
| While the initial impression I had was of a man bound, I crossed behind it to find one hand clasping the other wrist. Such a brilliant experience of my own perceptions. |
 |
| This was one statue...excellent placement |
One docent commented upon my smile as I walked the galleries and I explained the randomness of my being there and my slight sadness that I had to move on so quickly. Indeed, in a flash, I had reached the end of the exhibits and had to make my way out. I will flip through my pictures to try and recreate the experience of fascination, but I think I may just have to make my way back to Bentonville, AR someday.
Enriching the soul impoverished the body and mind, however, and I left the museum parking lot groaning at the seven hours between me and Amarillo, TX. Quiet backroads took me from Bentonville into Oklahoma, where I was welcomed by a half-dozen tolls both before and on I-44. Though I never really regained a second wind of road trip enthusiasm, the sunset over the broad flat fields of Oklahoma did my thinking for me, with a healthy dose of The Album Leaf and The Decembrists in the background.
Once the sun set, I still had a few hours to go, so I dialed up Savage Love podcasts, which contrasted well with the pitch-black Oklahoma and Texas nights. Finally, I pulled into Amarillo, checked into my hotel, and came to an exhausted stop in my room.
Thankfully, I got a good night's sleep last night and now, with the bonus hour, I feel like I'm no longer paying the price for my deeply satisfying detour to Crystal Bridges.
The road provides.
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