West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (4)

Down 101, Up 5

Thanksgiving, a time when we decide family and friends are important enough to call together and and stuff our faces and watch football...or something like that, because what would it be without a good old fashioned commercial plot to kill a bird for fun and divide his stuffing by color? Of course, you get the idea but that was besides the point and I was in rush. My time was up. Los Angles failed to have any non polluted, breathable air.

I had a Great-Uncle and Aunt in San Diego hiding out in a retirement community and taking a break from "The Vegas," so I spent the time with them and figured out how to make the next move without the universe calling "check-mate." 

I had an interview with a local news station on Thanksgiving Day, because well - the world never sleeps and neither does anybody who's chosen the profession or the title, "journalist." And as such, on the days recognized by the rest of the world as  important enough to be absent from work, even in a local newsroom - people are working around the clock to keep you informed like busy ants building up a food supply for the winter. Running low on time and scratch, I needed a job, so I hastily agreed to the meeting with the news director at the local CW. Seemingly impressed with my resume, the affiliate of a larger network and owned by a Mexican company - they were in need and I seemed to fit the bill, of course a writing test and a chat around the newsroom would be the real evaluation if I could keep up. I didn't have any doubt that I would get the job after bantering with the news director about our connections back east and my praises of California. But to be sure, I threw in the extra charm and acted like I fit in just fine. 

The whole endeavor only lasted around two hours, much shorter than I anticipated for how much the station hyped up the position, the job and the people I'd be working with. This is not to say there wasn't talent, there was, but the whole scenario was a little less than what I expected. Then again, this was California, the schedule includes morning surfing, followed by afternoon responsibilities and a night life with music, drinking and salty sea air. Frankly it was the style I was aiming for anyway, so I jumped in with both feet and in my state of mind, it would be an easy transition.

****

After putting my belongings in storage just short of a month earlier, I was set to load and unload it all over again - and this time in my own little apartment right in the middle of downtown San Diego. So I hitched another Uhaul on my tiny Honda, grappled with the lock and since my "promised help" flaked out, I grabbed the nearest flat bed and moved all of my stuff from the second floor of the storage to the trailer on my own. Really, the only thing that mattered at that point was getting out of L.A. I was stuffed up immediately entering the city and not the kind that causes one to look down on another, no, literally, my sinuses were insulted by the pollution.

There was not an official offer from the station yet, but it didn't matter. I had no doubt it would come soon and for the time being, I felt robotic and was moving fast enough just to get things done.

I wasn't sure how I felt about living mid-town, frankly, it was claustrophobic and just because my height indicates that I can fit in small spaces, doesn't mean I enjoy it. Even so, it was cheap, it was month to month living and well the neighbors I met seemed nice enough. I had no plans to stay squished for too long, anyhow.

Once again, I was leaving behind what was there, only to find myself "here," in a place a little closer to the waves, a little more distracted by my thoughts and the grace to find a new home. What was to come, I couldn't be sure. What I needed was for life to pick up the pace just a bit more -- for the sake of my own sanity that seemed to have left me long before I ever reached California shores. 

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (3)

Driving 45s**

Simi Valley, California is 45 minutes from everything interesting in L.A. Sure, it's got it's own little community and it has everything one needs to live on daily basis, and it's suburbia for the convenience of families who don't want to be near the hustle and bustle of Hollywood, or want to raise their daughters to be valley girls, though it might come close. What it really meant was that I had to drive to get to the beach, it was a trip and I would have to go through the canons, over the bridge and through the woods or something like that. I was closer than I had ever been, and frankly, I don't actually think I minded the drive, it gave my brain time to relax and think so that by the time I reached the Ocean, I was ready to turn off completely. 

Once I reached Malibu beach, in the middle of the fall, and seriously with no one there, the stillness is suprisingly unsettling, I was on my own and a wide open space of vast waves that would reach Japan. The emptiness would soon feel comforting as soon as I had a moment to empty the pockets of insanity that lingered on my mind. As I looked out the at the waves, each thought began to slip away and I was closer to bliss that I had ever been. Then again, facing the demons is a task no one is ever ready for and it usually begins with the death of one gray thought and the humiliation of another. But such grimacing memories were soon given a break from the swarming buzz they created in my head. For the moment, it was all just white noise.

The winds of the coast were cold and I buried my toes in the sand for warmth as I closed my eyes and listened to the laps of water ride over each other, in an acardian rhythm. I tasted, inhaled and held onto the salty-sea air, because in this was the only place where I could really enjoy California. Until now, the bland and unimpressive Los Angeles was lost on me and I was thinking of every opportunity to escape. Then again, isn't that why I had come out here in the first place? "There" was now 'here' where I had run to -- in hopes of cutting off ties from that which I left behind  -- there. 

My days in Malibu were often defined by how much staring I did at the deep waters that were too cold to jump into, then again, there were surfers riding in the waves in full wetsuit gear and catching any wave that would grace them with that exhilarating feeling. I smirked, soon enough I thought, I will brave the waves on a board. 

One cannot drive so far to the coast and not touch the water --even if the anticipation of the temperature was too much to bear. Anticipation is always the worst and usually ends up being rather silly, but whether it's an interview, the pain of a tattoo or the cold winter waters of the Pacific, we all do it every time - forgetting that it wasn't all that horrible last time. Somehow our mind is tricked into believing it will be this time. 

I dipped my toes into the ice cold water, it washed my feet and sunk me deeper into the sand. At first it stung, and then - as if I had gone numb, it began to feel refreshing, renewing -- and my mind finally, it went blank. A grown woman on the edge of the western coast, nothing left to loose and at this rate, nothing to really gain, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, it was vast expanse of space - waiting to be rejuvenated, brought back to life. It was a fascinating moment, on the surface, my hoodie and rolled up warm-up pants and glasses-- surely I looked out of place. Yet at the same time, I started to realize what my cousin meant when she said, "welcome home." - No person could have given that to me, but the waves did and I was satisfied that West is where I needed to be, but I was resolved, I needed to head South, because well frankly, I wasn't ready to be somebody where nobody had to be everybody all at one time. I just needed to find me. 

And that's when it really all began...


**(Part 1) // (Part 2)**

#OccupyWallStreet - Between the Lines

I laid my eyes on the remnants of an old city and what I was about to encounter was an explosive scene beyond the bounds of a typical protest. 

Like a modern day refugee camp, citizens with cell phones and ipods danced around tents, tarps, piles of...whatever and sleeping bags that were sprawled across the cement park. A single pathway made it maneuverable from one end of the camp to the other and each station ran over the next with only a cardboard sign to identify its place.

A peaceful war with no destination or anticipated outcome, a spectacle to the public, a threat to city officials, an annoyance to local businessmen. The protesters were definitely sending a message - they weren't moving.

I snapped pictures, took interviews, made friends, and blended in.  Dressed in torn jeans, a hoodie, jacket, converse shoes and beanie, no one thought I was any different. I was absorbed by the scene and even the profundity of the protest and honestly, the simultaneous madness of it all gave way for an awkward narrative. As it were, I kept wondering if any comparison could be made with their protest predecessors nearly 40 years ago.

I zipped through the camp like a buzzing swarm, being short actually made it easy for me to dart in an out of crowds and well...crowded spaces. In a fast-paced city with millions bustling and subways racing - a movement of disgruntled locals translates no differently.

One such day of my visit, Golden Sachs was the target of unified loud voices, "Banks got bailed out, you got sold out!" -- voices that disrupted business, protesters who - void of employment and responsibility - were abandoning any prospect of their daily post to join in solidarity for justice..

It seemed that Wall Street was listening. Professionals, suits of many color were investigating the premises, wandering through the group of misfits, asking questions, taking notes. Would these hippies shape up and ship out? Or would they get a grip on how to solve the problems that ailed them? 

Of course, then again, who needed a solution - the "wigs" were already supposed to have the answers: stop being greedy, someone said. Maybe, just perhaps, they were onto something.

Like clockwork as the sun set from the afternoon and into the evening, drummers at Occupy Wall Street rigorously called attention to the protesters in Zuccotti Park. In Rhythmic fashion, they set the stage for sign holders to hoist their messages above the crowd. Cardboard pieces that said, "Wall Street, War Street" and others that declared. "This is Democracy." It was as if they were preparing for battle, a daily cry against all forms of injustice.

To the spectators who walked outside the barricades, snapping photos and recording video with their phones, the whole scene was a loud joke. One woman behind me said, "Most of theses people don't even know what they're out here for. This has just become a tourist attraction." Indeed - it seemed to be just that.

But others felt the emotion behind the music, stood together and cheered, rallied and tried to solicit outsiders. All this despite a heavy police presence around the perimeter of the park. And most people told me, "Eh, this is normal."

Several Occupiers wore the masks from V for Vendetta identifying with a character who's face was marred and spirit broken by the corruption and torture of a frivolous government. Flags were raised in declaration of freedom. It was a sight that could draw anybody in...it certainly brought energy and momentum to the spirit of the protest.

It was a mystifying moment as I peered upward at the tall skyscrapers on Wall Street, the rebuilding of the World Trade Center Behind me and the sound of a Sax leading the drummers into a melodious renegade that required something more than what existed. Change. Certainly those who criticized were missing the point. Then again, were the protesters also missing out on what they could really do to get the results they wanted?

In the mean time, meal time was often long lines through a tent at the center of the park and people asking how to get to the back of the line in anticipation of a hot meal - trying to brave 50 degree (and below) weather as the winds flew through the tunnels of skyscrapers around them. Even with thick socks, I think my toes froze more than once and since my body temperature is determined by the state of my feet, I had to find ways to keep moving around the camp just to keep my blood from halting transportation through my veins.

Despite the fact that the generators had been removed by order of Mayor Bloomberg; Occupy Wall Street didn't let that deter them from charging their cell phones - how else could they Tweet and communicate? Two bikes were constructed in the camp - for people to manually hook up their electronics and charge them or create other functions while they pedaled on the bike (I’m sure the physical fitness wasn’t hurting them either, another few minutes to stay warm). While I never got a good look at the construction of the machine, I got the point. It didn't matter what the Mayor tried to do, they weren't going to be thrown out over a little generator, they would just invent their own and keep going.

The leaderless movement they've grown so fond of seemed to function smoothly and yet there was something missing - volunteers at the various tables of information were not often under an area of expertise and who was in charge of organizing it seemed lost on them. But they're were armed with propaganda - fliers, a newspaper: The Occupied Wall Street Journal, and most importantly, "The Declaration of the Occupation of New York City," their creed and manifesto. They began with "We the people..." Much like the Constitution. They listed their frustrations, they wrote down, put in a booklet, got a sponsor to print it up for them and delivered their complaints. While it offered no alternatives, it grabbed my attention, because it existed. And most Occupiers found it "moving," "inspirational," and a point of reference for them them to talk to each other, like mindedness some said, they were searching for it. But I wondered - with so many minds here, were they finding it?

Wall Street, unlike Atlanta (for who I have been working to document since October), was definitely more focused on economics and financial dysfunction. At the heart of Wall Street and the financial district, they wanted change in their pocket and change in policy.

Atlanta over the weeks has moved in the direction of social change in the community looking to Civil Rights leaders as an example in moving forward and making a difference, if there's one to be had.

Some say it's the political Left's response to the Right's Tea Party. I say - I met too many people in the middle, on the Left, on the Right and well, those special Ron Paul supporters. I met Communists and Socialists and Capitalists who want reform. I met wanna be important protesters and homeless and college graduates. I met people running from their problems and others dedicated to the cause. 


I met multiple generations, all coming together - on both sides of the Occupy line, those for and against had something to say and they said it, even if it didn't make any sense, then again, maybe more people need to read between the lines.

#OccupyWallStreet - CNN Piece, "Who Are They?"

Package shot and produced by Ash Gallagher for CNN.com

Reporter is Ralitsa Vassileva