Passenger footwell = trash can

Big Sur is stunningly beautiful. Scott in San Fran suggested that I stop at this hilltop restaurant called Nepenthe that overlooks the ocean. And it was a gorgeous day. I started off a little later than I wanted from San Francisco, and had bad luck directionally three times (went the wrong way after getting gas in Gilroy, then missed my exit onto Highway 1) but finally, I made it through the curves. I had a very illuminating conversation with David Knox at Nepenthe who does the fund raising for a decorative arts foundation based in Milwaukee called Chipstone that may be familiar to some museum folk. We talked a lot of travel, especially his 10,000 mile road trip through the Soviet Union in 1968, the first year that foreigners were allowed to travel by car in the USSR. Him and his wife spent a thousand dollars and drove their little Porsche 356 starting from Oxford to I think Moscow. It makes me think of how relatively easy it is to drive these days, especially in the US with all the signage (even if sometimes it can be easy to get confused).

Driving in LA is not easy. I hit the rush hour this morning while last night as I was coming in there were several people that zoomed past me going well over a hundred. This white truck passed me on at least three occasions, once after having been pulled over. As it is the end of the month and with municipalities struggling to make ends meet, cops have been everywhere along my route.

I have not been taking many pictures. In Big Sur, I just wanted to soak up the beauty. Even on 101 into LA the drive was gorgeous, driving along the coastline as the sun went down. And in LA I just can't seem to destress, I feel a bit stifled and can't wait to get away. The girls I'm staying with are nice and seemingly very busy with their theatre careers. When I got into town, they were both out so I hunted around for a place to kill some time and I ended up at this bar called Dave's. Here's what I wrote in my diary there:

Cynthia Speer is playing "smooth" jazz. CDs are for sale. This is at Dave's, a bar described by the guy at the liquor store as dive-y. It isn't really, actually quite clean. I get the sense they're trying to build a clientele: it reminds me a bit of early Side Street days when the bartenders would introduce themselves and there would only be a few people there huddling around the one pool table. According to Regina the bartender, this is the oldest bar in Glendale, open since the 30s. Very friendly staff. It is pretty quiet; it is Monday after all.

There's a compatriot of mine a couple of seats over [of the Indian kind]. His accent is all the thicker for him being pretty drunk. He's been loudly describing his success at fending off "gangbangers" and firmly believes that one of those "crazies" will finish him off one day. He then proclaims his undying love to Regina.

Funny that Amber Bock would come back into my life twice in the past week. I had a conversation about the beer with a bartender in Portland. I told her how the last time I had Amber Bock was in Oklahoma and it turned out that she's from Oklahoma and went to the same school as me. She worked at the best local pizza place we had over in Stillwater and of course knows people I know who worked there. And now I'm drinking Amber Bock. It isn't the best but the don't have much else that's drinkable. Portland spoils one that way, although some of the best...

This is LA! A police chase on TV!

-end-

I think what I wanted to say when that last sentence was interrupted by the inevitable live TV chase (the guy was caught of course as he ran down the freeway; why do they always head for the freeway? Maybe it's because there are so many freeways here) was that a lot of the best beers are brewed in California.

Kris before we went to dinner in Culver City

I can't get my door panel off and I'm afraid I'll break something. Joe, the guy that sold me the spare part, has offered to surreptitiously fix things up for me for 35 dollars, versus the $95 that the service guys would charge me. I have to be back at Central Toyota by 11 30 when his lunch hour begins so we can hide in a side alley and he can earn some side money. Written out like that, I'm thinking, what the hell am I doing? Sounds like a drug deal. I guess I'm doing things LA style.


View Leg 2: Los Angeles in a larger map

"Do you have any fruit on board?"

The first time I ever became enamoured of San Francisco was while reading Jack London's "Tales of the Fish Patrol" when I was a teenager. This town really is beautiful. I just wish it wasn't that expensive.

My mirror held up over the 11 hours it took me to get to San Francisco. I'm sitting right now at Scott's desk as he prepares for bed. Scott and I shared a disastrous road trip in New Mexico; it was his car that I managed to upend back in 2002. I am glad that we remained friends after that. I try not to mention it every time I see him.

I somehow got gas at non-major gas stations both times I stopped. The first one was at the Country Junction, 3 miles outside of Glendale, Oregon. They also had a greasy spoon where I ate lunch and I think, I'm not sure, but I think I was hit on by an older woman. I'd passed her on the freeway and we both ended up at the same gas station and she came over and chatted with me a little bit while I ate at the bar. I hemmed at her with my mouth full, smooth as always.

The second stop was on I-505, the little shortcut freeway that connects I-5 to I-80. That freeway really has nothing around it and I remembered stopping at this gas station on my last trip down here because I always make the mistake of not stopping for gas on I-5 before I hit the emptiness of I-505. I think this gas station is near the town of Madison and shares a bathroom with the bar of the Mexican restaurant that's behind it. I was a bit spooked on I-5 before I-505 by a big wreck near Artois that stopped traffic for about an hour. I saw only one truck already loaded onto a tow-truck with plenty of debris on the road.

I was quite touched last night with the people that came by the Bonfire to bid me farewell. Of course it went on a little longer than I wanted and I still feel a little hurried and unprepared. My packing was very haphazard and I don't quite know where what is. I do think I got everything that I needed.

California is an odd state. They love their laws over here. This must be a new thing for this year because it wasn't there when I drove down back in August of last year. Soon after entering California, I came to an inspection station which at first I thought was only for trucks but turned out to be for all vehicles. I stopped, unsure of what this was all about, fearing some kind of Homeland Security clear out of my car. When I did stop, the bored-looking lady in the booth asked me whether I had any fresh fruit "on board". I'm sure some of you would say that yes, there was one fresh fruit on board, but I just replied no and almost laughed at the question. And she said have a good day. I looked it up and apparently California doesn't allow any fruit from outside the state to come in.

Big Sur tomorrow. Excited.


View Leg 1: San Francisco in a larger map

!

I'm outta here.

The jerry-rigged mirror

17 in Kentucky

In answer to Kate's question about what my exotic location was when I posted drunkenly, that would be the Bonfire on 28th and Stark, my new local. Drunken posts are hopefully not to be repeated, for reasons of cliche and uncomfortably unnecessary candour.

Today has, needless to say, been hectic and stressful. I spent my morning trying to figure out what I might need to replace the broken side mirror. I bought a piece of glass after a nervous drive out to Beaverton. It fits in my receptacle, but it is designed for the manual version of my electric mirror. As it is, I have somewhat jerry-rigged it to the mirror so I at least look normal, even if I have to bend a little bit to check for cars. The actual part that I need will be the whole wing mirror assembly, which will cost me a significant chunk of my trip budget. And naturally, there is only one of this particular part on the West Coast and it happens to be located in Los Angeles. I've decided that instead of waiting until Wednesday for the part to arrive here, I'm going to drive to Los Angeles instead and get it there. For anyone who is interested in these things, there were 19 of this wing mirror in the country, 1 in LA, 1 in Boston and of course, 17 in Kentucky. I think I've decided on this evidence to skip Kentucky on my trip.

On the plus side, the girls that Katie and I were supposed to stay with in LA are still cool with having me stay despite her not being with me any more. Rather generous of them, I must say. Courtney and Lisa will feature on this blog pretty soon. I definitely have been affected by this setback of sorts; there was some chair kicking and door slamming earlier. I feel quite stressed, and a couple of things I meant to get done today have not gotten done as I've been struggling with the door mirror. But I still am determined to leave tomorrow morning at 7, and I do believe I will in some shape or other. For now, my car stays in the driveway.

Setbacks

Isn't it too early to have setbacks considering my trip hasn't even begun yet? I came home today to find that someone had hit my driver side rear view mirror, knocking out the glass and probably breaking the electric mechanism that adjusts it. The housing is still there so I'm hoping that this can be fixed tomorrow and I can still leave on Sunday. The frustration that I feel is probably a little more than I should and perhaps it'll all be okay in the end. I do feel this impotent rage towards the inconsiderate fuck who hit the car and did not leave a note.

Katie is not joining me on the first part of this trip as was planned. This might mean that the place to stay that she had arranged for both of us might fall through. I think that will be okay as I can stay in a hostel, something that I've never done before. Of course that means more money spent but I'd rather not thrust my company on a couple of girls that haven't ever met me before. That could be awkward.

Aaargh!

Sound sleep

Utter exhaustion hit me last night. I dragged the poor dog onto the couch with me and promptly fell asleep until she couldn't take it any more and wriggled away. While I did sleep, I dreamed in music for the first time. I've had dreams in which music has been playing in the background, usually a song I know (Radiohead's Pearly* is a stark memory) but this time it was all original music with no images. It sounded like a jam session actually because I remember almost controlling it, thinking a riff here or a drum fill there would sound great. And it did, of course. I don't think I'll ever write a song but now I know what it might feel like.

Music is of course an integral part of this trip. There is a lot of music on my computer and iPod that I haven't listened to, some of it dating back a few years. I am determined to get to it on this trip although I'm afraid that I will revert to listening to music I already know I like, even if it is just to stay awake.

I just finished reading Damon Galgut's The Impostor for review on Litmob. Quite an interesting novel about escape and an attempt at rejuvenation, which could be said to be the point of my trip. I am very much looking forward to getting away, not only from work but also from this city that I love and even my friends that I love. I think being away will rejuvenate those things and make me value them even more. Distance is a great tonic for good relationships, which sounds a bit surprising (to me) but isn't really.

Ah, Bubbles. I didn't like Bubbles at all when I first met her. She was, um, too bubbly for me, which is why Pierre came up with that nickname. I was dating Duda at the time and didn't pay much attention to her. One evening I ran into her while waiting to go see a play and realized how much into theater and music she was. We talked for a while and I realized that I'd definitely dismissed this rather interesting person out of hand. The day after Duda and I ended for good I went to a Luau with the business school, events I generally avoided. I had a blast, or more to the point, The Mullet had a blast. He also got a "date" with Bubbles to a musical on campus. I could never figure Bubbles out. Part of me though she was attracted to me but another part also felt that she really was just a bit bored. Maybe I'd been interesting at first and then outlived my usefulness (usually the case with me; I reveal too much of myself too soon). When I decided to go on my first road trip in my new car (the Toyota I drive now) after graduation, it was to Denver to visit my old roommate Jake and his fiancee Susan. On the way there, I talked to Bubbles on the phone and she suggested I visit her in Nebraska, where she was staying for the summer.

Denver was a lot of fun, and on leaving, I decided to drive through Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park on my way to Nebraska. The roads over there are the highest paved roads in the country; I was 12,000 feet up in my car. Driving down from that highpoint, I drove alongside the rushing rapids and saw the lodge where I decided I would spend my honeymoon if I ever did anything as conventional as marriage. When I saw those mountains I knew I wanted to live somewhere that had mountains and somehow Portland seemed like a good idea. Nebraska is probably the exact opposite of what I saw in Colorado, flat and rather boring. And that probably describes, perhaps a little harshly, my visit with Bubbles in Scott's Bluff. We had a decent enough time but she was rather awkward. My last night there we were supposed to drive to Cheyenne, Wyoming to watch a movie. In the end, I spent my evening playing Halo with her sixteen year old half-brother. And probably the best part of my visit up there was my first visit to a wind farm. This was a really small one, only 7 turbines, but it still had that weird presence that all wind farms have. It's like walking on a barren alien landscape and all of a sudden coming across evidence of intelligence and civilization. And speaking of intelligence, or the lack of it, I had to fend off a rather stubborn herd of cows to get the picture I wanted with one of the wind turbines. They just stared at me, chewing slowly, with this uncomprehending and slightly offended look in their eyes as I ineffectually yelled "shoo!" and "ha!" at them.

I went out again with Bubbles before I left Oklahoma. During dinner we talked about whether this was a date or not, which I believe worried her, and I told her it wasn't. I secretly had hoped that it could be but our moment, fleeting as it was, had gone. I still call her my rebound from Duda but it definitely wasn't a physical rebound, which would have been more fun. Maybe she still lives in Dallas and I'll see her on this trip. Would be fitting somehow.

Humbloggery

My dad learned to drive at the age of 13 in an old Ford that belonged to his father. I, on the other hand, learned at the age of 20 in our trusty Mitsubishi Galant. I remember that car fondly because it was the only car my father ever bought brand spanking new. That was in 1991. It's funny how I grew up in a tiny two-room apartment but my dad always seemed to have two cars, both, of course, not running. Both the cars that I grew up with were 2-door sedans and my sister and I considered four doors to be an amazing luxury. Not having to plop front seats forward before clambering in using yoga-like stretching was definitely priceless. Even when the Mazda 121 (hilariously known as the Mazda Cosmo elsewhere; Japanese carmakers have the funniest names for their Japanese market cars as a visit to Toyota's Japanese website will confirm) and the BMW 3-series died, we had two Mitsubishi Lancers that we interchanged, one blue and the other brown. Finally, though we settled on the Galant. By 2000 when I learned to drive in it, the car was on its last legs. I'm sure I wasn't too gentle on the clutch.

After moving to Detroit, I had a month of mandatory learner's permit driving in a Hyundai Accent that my dad's friend Ahsan bought for me. I drove on that permit to Chicago and back, which I guess would qualify as my first road trip. Pretty uneventful as far as I can remember, except that it was 18 hours long and I had a cramp in my right foot from all the driving. I lost the car about 7 months later when I couldn't take living with Ahsan any longer and moved closer to downtown, near campus. And so when I moved from Detroit to Oklahoma via Philly, the first major road trip I ever took, I did it in a Buick Regal that National Rentals was nice enough to let me return free of charge at Tulsa International Airport. Thinking back now, I did it extremely unprepared and without a lot of driving experience under my belt. I don't think I ever checked my tire pressure, I didn't have a first aid kit and I had all of my possessions in the trunk and back seat.

In a way, that trip was boring. I only used interstates, and I drove a lot on I-70, which is only interesting in the Appalachians. I visited my friend Viswam in Philly, which was the whole point of the outlandish detour between Detroit and Oklahoma. I liked Philly a lot, although coming from Detroit that might not amount to much. I mostly remember walking around South Street and taking exception to the perceived rudeness of a waiter in an Indian restaurant. I remember watching the fireworks near the bridge into New Jersey on a bitterly cold New Year's Eve 2001. There's some bitterness attached to Viswam too, who graduated from Temple and got a job somewhere in Connecticut and then promptly disappeared from my life and the lives of all his older friends. I'm not sure exactly what happened or what I or the others did, but he just stopped talking. He still exists, of this I know, but apparently has no interest whatsoever in communicating with all the people he knew back in college in Dubai. Makes me a bit sad because I liked my old Vinu B.

The other friend I visited on that trip (Jacob was the first in Dayton; another disappearing act of sorts, but somehow less bitterly felt) was Sadi in Wichita, Kansas. Sadi was an amazingly funny guy from Tajikistan who was just a sweetheart. He loved his souped up Nissan Sentra and lived with a bunch of Indian guys. I had driven about 12 hours from Plainfield, Indiana to get to Kansas and he was still closing down the Burger King where he worked. He let me in and fed me, and I promptly fell asleep while trying to write something in my trip journal. I think he's got three kids or something now and is working in his dad's bank back in Dushanbe. I never got to see him again despite living only 2 and a half hours away.

There were other, more minor road trips while I lived in Oklahoma, one of which ended badly, and upside down, on a state highway in New Mexico. Perhaps I'll condense those in another post before I relate the tale of my visit to a girl nicknamed Bubbles in Nebraska in 2006. It was during that trip that I made the decision to move to Portland.

I have never been cut off

Is that a statement to be proud of or only a virtue of exclusion or plain luck?

I certainly am quite worthy of it tonight. The only thing that I enjoy about drunkenness is the loose lucidity. Everything is very clear for a very prominent moment and then it all blurs to an extent that I can't even begin to articulate. That makes things all the more frustrating. I'd like to write more when I am this inebriated but the constant use of the backspace button (I just used it three times on the word "backspace" [and six times on the mention of the word "'backspace'"]) is very frustrating. So I will resist all urges.

The person who was cut off at the bar tonight seemed quite embarrassed about it, as did the bartender. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to cut someone off. He did state that most of the time he gave consideration to the fact whether the person was driving or walking. I think I'd like to be cut off once at least. It would give credence to me experiencing a lot of new things in the last year of my 20s. I was arrested when I was 19, so that's out. Maybe I could get cut off in an exotic location, like Las Vegas or New Orleans.

Do they cut anyone off in a recession?