Road Trip

what. The. F*CK?!

[reader discretion is advised]

The moments that shock us in life are those that are unforeseeable or unexpected. They are jarring and difficult to deal with precisely because we cannot prepare for them. Like when you bite into a Chicken McNugget™ expecting the tender goodness of all white meat but instead jam your teeth on an obstructive piece of cartilage. It’s gag-inducing and almost unsettling enough to stop you from ever biting into a Chicken McNugget™ again—almost. 

So it made no sense that I felt shocked to “suddenly” find myself in Los Angeles. Not after months of planning and, of course, the cross country roadtrip. Nevertheless, there I was, at the Airbnb in Hollywood with a steady stream of fucks running through my head. What the fuck am I doing here? What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck do I do now?

Fan(s) of this blog (Hi, mom!) will recall that I came here without a job, a place to live, and only knowing two people. So perhaps disorientation was the appropriate reaction to the (not sudden) upheaval in my life. Or maybe it’s simply that change is difficult and scary and the enormity of the relocation finally caught up with me once I stopped moving. There was nothing else to run towards or anything else to run from. Now I simply had to go about the messy business of creating a new life for myself on the west coast.

I lived in that stunned space for two weeks. I did a lot of writing to try to understand what was happening in my head. I had long talks with close friends where I reflected on my roadtrip and reminisced about my last two years in Connecticut. My Airbnb was nearby two famous boulevards—Hollywood and Sunset—and I walked them extensively as I found my way out of my funk. Both were filthy and smelled of urine but that only made me walk faster which was better cardio anyway.

Typical of PTSD, my brain erased most memories from those early days notwithstanding the fact that there was no actual trauma. I have access to a few and, stupidly, one of them is just me doing laundry. There is zero value in recalling that experience (it was raining and I had sushi for dinner) so it seems the human brain operates with an imperfect traumatic response mechanism. 

the second two weeks

Restarting a daily exercise routine brought me back to my senses; I wish I had done this immediately upon my arrival. I began each day with a three mile hike up and down Runyon Canyon Park. The sunlight, present most mornings, energized me and lifted my mood. The path I took incorporated a winding, steep climb to the top that yielded an amazing view of Los Angeles. My heart would be pounding by then, my breathing labored, and I would feel blissful.  

I also resumed taking HIIT classes (high intensity interval training) like I used to back home. HIIT workouts exhaust my body and clear my mind so I was delighted to find a plethora of F45 gym studios in LA. I embarked on a tour of all of them and slowly began to feel like myself again.

I lost valuable apartment-hunting time while I was in my daze. With only two weeks remaining at my Airbnb, I hurriedly went about looking for a place to live. This is how I came to live in a hipster community in northeast LA.

Hipsterville, USA

I had no idea that hipsters still existed. They might not outside of Highland Park, an area I knew nothing about when I moved in. I’m not using the term hipster pejoratively, either, but simply as reference to a group of people who make a concerted, but ultimately futile, effort to live outside of the mainstream.

Hipsters live in a constant state of irony because their very existence creates an absurd paradox. This is because it is not possible to live outside of the mainstream as a group. If enough people adopt a certain lifestyle then it becomes mainstream even if only within the subculture. This truth frustrates hipsters which is why they strive to do everything ironically—from the way they dress (out of fashion) to the way their hearts beat (irregularly). Hipsters have expanded the definition of irony well beyond anything Alanis Morissette could have ever imagined. 

It’s easy to spot a hipster out in the wild because of how they dress. Mismatching, usually black attire;  adorned in scarves and fedoras; pairing thick-rimmed glasses with skinny belts and thick belts with skinny glasses. Hipsters also move about slowly from exhaustion since they spend their waking hours pushing back against convention. Don’t get me wrong, hipsters are lovely people! They’ve normalized good things, like the legalization of marijuana, but also bad things, like putting sweaters on dogs.

I rented a room in a coliving house in Highland Park because it was available immediately and came with parking. Coliving is a concept that the internet tells me originated in one of the Nordic countries which sounds right because those people are always on the cutting edge of communal living. There are eight of us living in the spacious and beautifully renovated house. The rooms come with beds and we each have our own private bathroom. We share communal spaces— the kitchen, den, and patio— and the house provides all cookware, dishes, utensils, and cleaning supplies. Coliving is ideal for right now because I didn’t bring things like dishes or a bed.

So here I am, an interloper in Highland Park and officially a resident of Los Angeles. I’m already annoyed with the traffic, with how expensive everything is, and with the poor air quality that is slowly peeling years off my life. But LA is my home now and I love it!

One of the tragedies of growing older is that we stop seeing magic in the world around us the way we used to as children. Back then it was effortless. On windy autumn days, for example, I would make a game out of dodging colorful falling leaves, imaging them to be missiles that would blow me up on contact. Putting that potentially concerning memory aside, the point is that we have to be intentional about finding magic as adults. It’s still there. I experienced a magical moment in New Mexico when I stood on a field surrounded by hundreds of hot air balloons as they lifted off during a mass ascension. It was extraordinary. 

I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I was driving through New Mexico when my uncle texted me that he was on his way to the state for a balloon festival and invited me to join him. I made a u-turn in Roswell—after first making contact with a fast-food loving alien—and met up with him in Albuquerque. We got up at 3:30 a.m. the next morning to be at the gates at 4 a.m. for the launch that didn’t even start until 7 a.m. And we weren’t the only ones. Thousands of people showed up to watch. I met several locals who enthusiastically told me that they never missed a year. The official tally for the nine-day event registered an astonishing 828,800 visitors!

The international Balloon Fiesta celebrated its 50th anniversary that week. What started in 1972 with just 13 hot air balloons grew into the largest festival in the world! Albuquerque eventually built an incredible 360-acre park specifically for the annual event. The expansive park is open for public use the rest of the year so the space doesn’t go to waste. Vendors selling refreshments and souvenirs surrounded the 80-acre grassy launch field where I stood. 

“Mass ascension” refers to the launch of all the hot air balloons that participated in the festival. More than 500 balloons lifted off that morning over the course of two hours. Dozens of launch directors—known as “zebras” because of their black and white striped shirts—helped the balloons take off safely. The zebras ensured that the airspace over the balloons was clear since the pilots could not see what was happening above them.

So what was it like? Words don’t fully capture the experience. Neither do pictures but at least those are fun to look at! At first there was quite a bit of tension as it seemed that the weather would not cooperate. But then a green flag suddenly went up in the back signaling the all clear, the crowd went nuts, and balloons started inflating everywhere one after the other. At first I only heard burners igniting in the distance. One somewhere to my left. Another somewhere behind me. Closer and closer until suddenly I saw and felt the intense fire close by. It was spellbinding, mesmerizing, and just remarkable. 

There was more excitement once the balloons inflated as passengers filled the gondolas and we waited for them to float away. Every time that happened, the surrounding crowds—myself included—burst into applause and cheers. I enthusiastically waved at the strangers going up, partly envying them while also remembering my fear of heights. Of course I still would have gone up if given the chance; I once jumped out of an airplane in Hawaii! But a one-hour balloon ride that day cost ~$595, an expense I had not budged for on my trip. And the tickets were sold out.

The fun thing about hot air balloons is that they move slowly. Once they were high enough, they appeared to be suspended in the air. That was my favorite part. When I did a Hollywood-inspired 360° spin, big smile on my face, watching hundreds of hot air balloons fixed against the expansive blue sky. 

The other fun thing about hot air balloons is that they eventually have to come down and the balloons we saw land did not alight gracefully. Despite the pilots’ best efforts, most landings ended with the basket tipped completely on its side until the chasers and ground crew pulled it upright again. Suddenly I didn’t care to be in the gondola. 

Balloon Fiesta is the kind of event that is worth experiencing in person—add it to your bucket list! What made it spectacular was the sensory overload I experienced which is what I can’t fully describe for you here. I was overwhelmed by the brightly colored balloons that towered over me; the roaring sound and heat coming from the igniters; the excited buzz from the massive crowd; and the sheer wonder of watching such large and clumsy objects floating gracefully up from the ground as if by…well, you get the point.

The city of Moab, Utah, just outside of Arches National Park, glows in a spectacular autumnal hue that has nothing to do with the season. Red sandstone blankets the surrounding mountains and the wind redeposits particles in the streets where they accumulate into miniature red dunes. I loved it.

During dinner with a friend, I mentioned that inspiration for my next tattoo finally arrived from that mysterious place from which brilliant ideas emanate. I wanted a mountain range on my left bicep, an idea surely derived from my outdoor adventures to that point. Similar to my eagle tattoo, though, I was frustrated by the uninspiring images I found online. The mountains were too triangular, the lines too sharp, the images too defined. They weren’t minimalist enough for me which, we all now know, is my aesthetic. Fortunately, I knew that patience was key and that eventually the universe would respond.

We stopped for espresso early the next morning on our way out of Moab. The brightly shining sun lured us to a table outside of the cafe where we sipped on our drinks in silence as men sometimes do. I don’t know when Victoria showed up; I noticed her three tables away when I got up to use the bathroom. She was sitting by herself with a baseball cap pulled down to hide her face so that only her long, blonde hair was visible. I’m not even sure she had coffee so it’s possible she was both trespassing and loitering. 

I returned from the bathroom to find my friend engaged in lively conversation with this woman. She sounded heated but that was from straining her voice because she still sat three tables away. I resumed my seat and quickly realized that Victoria was bat-shit-crazy. I mean that descriptively and not judgmentally. She asked my friend questions related to NASA rocket launches as if he had astronaut-level knowledge. For context, my friend is short like me, out of shape, and has clearly never been put through the rigors of high-g-force training. Sometimes you can just tell that about a person and, in this case, you would be right. Nevertheless, Victoria persisted as if we were taking questions at a NASA press conference.

I’m not sure why I approached her. Perhaps a glance at her cap registered the image outside of my conscious awareness. I moved closer intending to make friendly conversation and that’s when I really noticed her cap. As the kids text these days: O-M-G! Victoria’s cap had THE mountain range image that I wanted tattooed on my arm. I broke out into a huge smile, turned toward my friend and stammered, “The cap! Mountain range! My tattoo!” My friend didn’t say anything but Victoria snapped, “Stop pointing at me!” so I did. 

To my delight, Victoria continued her spacey line of questioning instead of asking me what the hell I was talking about. Keep in mind that I was hovering over her and invading her personal space. Didn’t matter. She just wanted to know about a recent shuttle mission out of Texas. I let her finish and, instead of answering, asked if I could take a picture of her hat. Victoria scowled at me, took the cap off her head, and flung it on the table. “You can have the damn hat!” I kindly declined, took a picture with my phone, and began a slow retreat. The last thing I heard her say was, “You know we’re all products of incest? Adam and Eve.” 

I done told you she was crazy!

I never question the universe’s strategies or methods because the universe has been around a lot longer than I have. I needed to see that cap and, evidently, Victoria was the only carrier available. It must be like looking for an Uber during a busy surge– you hope for a five star driver but, at some point, you just take what you can get. I don’t have the tattoo yet because I like the idea of getting it in Los Angeles so that I’ll have one tattoo from the east coast and one from the west coast. But I already love the story behind this one.

I reckon that Jeanette and I quickly fell into an intimate conversation because she not-so-quickly folded her intimates right in front of me. That’s right—reckon! I was doing laundry at a campground in South Dakota, staring at the washing machines with gratitude after days on the road, when Jeanette walked in and startled me out of my spell. She moved quickly and spoke fast which amused me and I took to her right away. 

Jeanette and her husband, who was not there, had been camping for one week. She complained that the campground closed several amenities too soon now that summer was over. “Sure, the families are all gone,” she said “but those of us without kids are still here!” Jeanette and Husband (I don’t remember his name) live in Oregon although Jeanette is originally from California where there are, “just too many people!” She rolled her eyes and let out a depressing sigh when I told her that I’m headed for Los Angeles.

Husband is Jeanette’s second husband and I swear I didn’t ask. I always assume couples are in their first marriage as a matter of courtesy. They’d been married for 30 years and Jeanette really came to life (who knew she was holding back?) when I asked her the key to a successful marriage. Now sitting next to me like we were old chums, Jeanette told me she and her husband abided by four unbreakable rules to make their marriage work. The first rule was No TV in the bedroom. Because I already agreed with this point, I recognized that Jeanette was right and wise like Yoda. See how your marriage stacks up against Jeanette’s sacred marital rules below! This blog is now like Cosmo…

1. No TV in the bedroom.

The bedroom, Jeanette firmly told me, is for sleeping and sex. I would substitute intimacy for sex because connecting non-sexually can be just as important in a relationship. I’ve long maintained that watching television is not something a couple does together but something they do at the same time which may not count as quality time. I didn’t ask if it was okay to read but let’s assume that the answer is “yes” because I am a reader and don’t want books to be a strain on my future marriage.

2. Both people can have their own opinion.

Boundaries are the essence of all of these rules and, here, Jeanette is drawing a boundary around beliefs. One would expect that a couple’s beliefs are more in line than not, otherwise they wouldn’t be compatible. But your spouse is not supposed to be a carbon copy of you so part of respecting the marriage as a whole is respecting the differences that each person brings to the relationship. This can be difficult in practice which is why being strict about Rule 3 is critical.

3. Everything stays outside of the bedroom.

This rule draws a boundary around arguments and differences of opinion. You can and will have them—but they belong outside of the bedroom. The only thing crossing the threshold into a couple’s sacred space is love. What brought you together, and what keeps you together, is the focus of the bedroom which is why Jeanette doesn’t want a television in there. Love can’t possibly compete with quality programming. Just kidding. Jeanette used more colorful language to describe how she makes this rule work but I can’t repeat it here because I hope to one day write for Disney. 

4. You shouldn’t be in a relationship if you can’t get along 75% of the time.

Jeanette had a German boss during her first, bad marriage which, I promise, is relevant. Deutsche Boss—DB for short— educated Jeanette that, culturally, Germans approach and manage time differently from Americans. A quick Google search yielded this explanation from a non-Wikipedia source: “Germans are most comfortable when they can organize and compartmentalize their world into controllable units.” DB told Jeanette to consider the quality of the time she spent with her husband after deducting hours spent sleeping, working, or carrying out life maintenance. DB thought it was not worth staying in the marriage if Jeanette and her husband did not get along without fighting for at least 75% of the time. Who knows how DB came up with this percentage or whether Germans are truly this particular about time. Notwithstanding any of that, Jeanette ended her first marriage largely on DB’s advice and was happier for it. 

I’m glad I met Jeanette and not just because she provided content for this blog. Also because the campground wifi was down that day and I had no cell service. Why do you think I was staring at the washing machines? I was bored! And now YOU know to call a divorce attorney if you and your spouse only get along 74.5% of the time. Rules are rules.

It’s an eagle. WAIT, WAIT! THERE’S MORE!!

I woke up one dismal, winter morning in 2021 with a fervent desire to get a tattoo. It was out of nowhere and unusually obsessive. I’ve reviewed my journal and nothing in my life relating to tattoos precipitated that day nor did I have any illuminating dreams. Years earlier, there was some talk amongst college buddies about getting tattoos after we graduated but none of us had the cojones to follow through and I never thought about it again.

This type of fixation was new to me, so I relented out of curiosity and affirmed to myself that I would one day get a tattoo. But a tattoo of what? I felt like I was doing this backwards and was annoyed with myself for not already having some inspiration. The unconscious mind moves at a glacial pace, so I fostered patience and trusted that the universe would send me a sign which is as hippy as I get with my life. 

Days passed, then weeks and I still didn’t have a design in mind. The only thing I knew was that my future tattoo would go on my right bicep. First, so I could see the thing whenever I wanted and second, because that part of my body is usually covered so most people would never know that I had one. It’s not in my nature to be flashy and draw attention which is why I never grew past five-foot-six. 

Months later I read a book called Indian Boyhood written by Charles A. Eastman. The book, published in 1918, chronicles Eastman’s early life growing up in a nomadic Sioux tribe in the late 1800’s.  Indian Boyhood enthralled my inner child (okay, TWO hippy things…) and I became particularly attentive to Eastman’s descriptions of what eagles signified to the tribe. They thought the birds were spiritual because eagles could fly so high that the Sioux believed eagles could communicate with God. I researched and learned that eagles were also associated with strength, wisdom, and courage—all attributes I strove to embody. Eagles were also believed to be all-seeing as they have amazing vision but in spiritual terms it referred, I thought, to one’s ability to see inward.

When I went online to review drawings, I mostly found eagles designed to inspire patriotism. Eagles with intimidating stares that made you want to crush a beer can against your skull and scream out ‘MERICA!’ to no one in particular. I considered my aesthetic which, for years, had been wanna-be-minimalist: the less, the better. After a bit more searching, I discovered simple line drawings that were understated and more my style.  Eventually I found the possibly-copyrighted-image that I finally had tattooed on my arm at the end of August 2021. 

I love my tattoo. I see an eagle and have always seen an eagle. Some people can’t see it which amuses me. My father, for example, wondered out loud if it was a flower. Then there are those who don’t see it at first but after a sudden flash of insight, shout out “eagle!” and point to my arm. If you have a tattoo, you will not be surprised to learn that I want another one. Actually, two more. Just as the tattoo artist was finishing, I had a feeling that I should get a tattoo on my left forearm. Later, the thought came to me that I should also get a tattoo on my left bicep. I have no designs in mind but, now with experience, I know that I just have to sit back and wait for inspiration to arrive.