surf and sand

my friend, jett, picked me up and helped me tie my borrowed surf board to the top of his car. the day was warm but fairly overcast. even so, it was a perfect day to go out and try my hand at surfing again. still only learning, i hadn't been able to pop up on my feet yet, but any excuse to work at it and well, be engulfed in the high seas- i would take it.


once we attached the board to the car, he opened his trunk and showed me an enormous crab. the fishy smell wasn't pleasant, but the crab, though dead, had an amazing amount of life attached to it - barnacles and green sea-life that was fascinating. jett explained that he just wanted to show it off to people, but planned to put it back in the ocean.


after a quick pit stop for water bottles and energy bars, we cruised around the neighborhood overlooking the water to see where other surfers were catching waves, we settled near the pier and unloaded. jett's wet-suit was still wet, so he put a bag on each of his feet and slipped through the tight foot-holes while i fumbled for the long zipper on my back. the morning was cloudy. it didn't matter, the breeze was cool and the sky showed signs of sun.


we grabbed our boards and headed down toward the pier. i waded out, hopped on and efforted swimming over the waves coming right at me. an immediate chill went down my spine, the taste of salt, and i was in heaven. for the next two hours, i ducked through waves, body surfed, knee surfed and tried to find my footing on the 7 foot long board. i even forgot to duck quick enough to avoid another surfer's board knocking me in the head...an epic fail, but in the end, i was in the pacific, and i just didn't care. 


jett and i pulled our boards from the water and laid them on the sand, started peeling off our wet-suits and he skipped a few rocks against the waves. the morning was over and the sun dried us off. we headed back to car but not until we grabbed the crab that sat on the post above the stairs.


he dropped me off, i changed into work-out clothes and headed off for a good hour of hot yoga. my friends had been right, the cold/hot and physically exhausting combination was sensational and jett's suggestion to take haley's class was fantastic. 

when the dripping sweat hour was done, i walked back for a shower ready to take on the world...or at least the ocean beach farmer's market.
  

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (6)

Starting Line

New Year, new apartment, and thank heavens only a mile from the clear blue waters of the Pacific. The hustle and bustle of legal paperwork I had to sort through just to get approved for a legit studio California bungalow was enough trouble to make a person go bald by way of pulling all their hair out. 

January 1st - moving day and once again, I'd have to hail a Uhaul to drag my belongings from the dusty house to a smaller space with a pool. But I could live with that, the studio was the biggest I had ever seen. Truly - the living room could have added a wall and a door with room to spare. The long hallway led to a built in vanity at the end next to a walled off bathroom. A separate kitchen with counters and cupboards completed the space and I was set for time being. 

I dragged everything I owned into that apartment: the headboard, the foot-board, the glass iKea desk, the iKea shelf, the dishes, the pictures and well the guitars & cameras. The property manager, Beverly, gave me the keys to the mail box, the gate and my 1-car garage. But, of course, I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to unload and see how long it would take me to make it to the ocean. I was in a race for the sand between my toes and I wasn't due to be back to work until Monday. 

After about two hours of heavy lifting and probably damaging my back for ages to come, I locked up, hopped in my little Honda and drove down the street, literally - 1.2 miles - to the blue vastness that rushed over my toes. Since it was winter; the ice cold sent chills went up my spine. But I took a deep breath and released. Now, now I felt like I was home with a beach and a sane mind. 

I had no outlook on the new year, I just wanted to get through the first month, earn enough to avoid detaching my arm for expensive California living. And at the moment, I was content enough to be staring across of body of water that doesn't stop until it reaches the next continent. 

What would come next...

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (5)

First Step Misfits

The apartment was at the bottom floor of an old building that had once been of some prestige. Now it was drab house that looked out of place between two skyscrapers which scoffed at the vintage mystique. The bathtubs were from taken from a 1950s sitcom, the wood floors creaked and the so-called courtyard was really just a couple of wicker chairs where the neighbors came out to say hello while they smoked and spread the latest community gossip. They were all misfits, entertaining strangers, with the occasional joint and usually an alcoholic buzz.

The fairly wealthy Hispanic woman who lived in the corner had been in apartments the longest, a chain smoker and never without a full bottle of wine led the pack with stories about her daughter's ungratefulness. She admitted to sleeping with the mysterious Navy guy at the other end of the house and always hoped her latest fashion statement would impress him. Then of course the Navy guy, himself, had three kids, barely afforded his child support and admitted to being a heavy drinker just to block out thoughts of the children his ex-wife took from him. He often told me the Navy was the only thing he knew and believed he'd probably be a bad father anyway.

There were two awkward tenants above me - one woman, who worked at the Salvation Army. She talked about church and homeless people, but her loneliness was evident. She frequently isolated herself in her apartment except for the occasional cigarette and was rumored to have strangers in and out her home. Her neighbor, the Gothic-hipster who rarely appeared sober enjoyed conversing about the meaning of life, but the bunny trails usually led to video games, his jobless existence and his handicap mother who provided for him.

The two who often kept my attention the most were the two "besties" who both lived at the back end of the apartment building. She was tall blond hippie and he was a flamboyant red-headed cosmetologist (the Gay best-friend). She was a dog walker - her obsession was caring for pups that belonged to rich people -- of course I think it was really about being able to overnight in luxurious apartments. Somehow she managed to enjoy the high life of clubs and Hollywood attractive men with little cash in her pocket. Then again, her other source of income - as she boasted - was her ability to donate her eggs several times a year. 


She clung to her fashion obsessed hair dresser as if he were going out of style - and he was the apartment informant who always had a tale to tell about his latest client or a revealing secret we just didn't want to know. The two were awkward, but colorful and were always asking me to wine and waste time on those hideous wicker chairs.

For the next 5 weeks, this little community would be the only people I would have any real interaction with. Ironically - they were all as raw and real as anyone could be, they hid nothing of their reckless existence. Disappointed dreamers, lost in the whirlwind of meaning- one they couldn't figure out - and desperate for anyone, a stranger - a friend - an enemy to listen to their story. 


I felt like I was conducting an experiment - testing their souls in a strange game that moved way beyond the bounds of everyday "people watching." In the heat of it all, it was like an endless play that never exited stage right and because there was no audience to applaud-- what did it matter if the curtains never closed? They weren't acting any way. Most of the time, it was a distraction...from the silence wrestling with me in my quiet-unpacked apartment.


The Winter holidays were almost over...

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

West Bound Road: A Series of Absurd Essays About A Journey to the Coast (2)

Fade In: Kin & Courting

Odd as it were; I had only just seen my cousin a couple of months ago. I had only met her a few times in my life. She was of the older clan of cousins we shared. But I'll never forget, she said, "I want you to come. I want you to be here." And when I arrived, she said, "Welcome home." I didn't have a clue what she meant. I shrugged it off and accepted a glass of wine. My friend and I would be sitting with the family for dinner, throwing - jokes and jabs-- with three little munchkins who fell into the quick rhythm of dry humor. It was like a backwards family reunion with kin, connected only by the past and by the fathers who grew up on opposite ends of an awkward Irish Catholic upbringing. Nevertheless, it was where I was to stay for the next few weeks as I got my feet wet and made the best of a nomadic attempt to hide underwater. 

My friend and I had driven six hours from Phoenix to L.A. - and frankly we were both done with driving for awhile, at least that's what I thought, but if you've ever been in L.A. traffic, you'd know it's a pain the ass and no one has time, but then again be prepared to take you're time because you'll be stuck bumper to bumper for a while. The brightest moment between the two cities was the lonely gas station just outside the California border that had gas for less than three dollars and personal pan pizzas that I don't think went well for either of us in the end. Needless to say, the ride was over - and she was leaving while I was to make my way on the west coast from now until...well, whenever. 

I settled back into a mode of thinking that ultimately was a robotic way communicating among family types that seems so easily familiar and quickly gave me room to forget the reason I had come in the first place or why I had left in such a hurry from the last place. It wasn't as if I were looking for anything in particular, except a job in a town where everybody's and actor and a waitress - and pressing their luck with plastic surgery to get into the industry. 

The friendliness was fake, of course, and the routine of every meeting I went into, I felt like I needed to have a song and dance ready for an audition, -- media skills and production just weren't what they were looking for and I swear my height was examined every time I applied at a restaurant -- or maybe I didn't show off enough cleavage? Who the hell knew, but what I figured out was that this wasn't meant to be easy, nor did I have the time. Deep down, I don't think that I had the stamina to stay in big bad L.A. where everybody is somebody even when they're nobody and knowing somebody is the key to everything. How far was So-Cal?

Every day I went out to the field, accepted an interview, filled out a million applications and asked for the head of who ever was in charge. And every day, I came up empty. Blasted all. Then again, where was that guy that called himself Eric, with a successful media production company out of Georgia and California who had promised me a freelance gig editing material for various clients and when I showed up, he never did. No emails, no return phone calls and that promised meeting never came to pass. I had heard rumors about him that he was flakey and really just a jack-ass, and he wasn't proving them wrong. But I didn't have time for him, so I gave up and haggled with my other sources. I didn't know what I wanted, but I knew I had to find it. I was determined, I'd figure it out, at least that's what I told myself to get through the day. 

Meantime, I was doing my best to go to football games, cook dinner and offer anything I could to earn my keep. It was a full house and it was bustling all the time. Four children from age 3 to 19 - it was like a scene out of a Roadrunner cartoon, only with more characters passing each other day and night with feet that looked like faded circles; they were spinning so fast. Often the dinner table was the one moment where everything was calm and gentle laughter bounced off the walls of the kitchen. 

Then again, there the awkward moments of parents disciplining children or perhaps a flustered phrase that exceeded the normal levels of conversation and on such occasions, as I was not the subject for any of the loud noises, I escaped to the room I was given and tried to preoccupy my mind, not remembering I had left months of arguing behind. The safety of that small space was the only place I could go and certainly my own mind wasn't a blank sheet of paper anymore, it was over run with words and phrases and pictures and ideas that honestly weren't actually going anywhere. They were just there and I was not here, for I left here and fled into there, - the crazy was too complicated to really put down, only because the phrases on paper were too simple to really define what was going on in my mind. 

The weeks were passing quickly and it was almost Thanksgiving  - almost a month and I was ready to move on. One tried to convince me that I would not make it in LA, let alone California at all, another told me my decision to leave behind a steady paycheck and benefits was the stupidest decision I could have made and if I ever came back, I'd better be ready to commit, while still the days I was spending at my cousin's were growing weary for me, for her, for all. I was exhausted, I was very grateful and I was ready to be on my own. 

There was still no job offer on the table and I had accepted the fact that I didn't really want to be in a city where I was expected to compete with everyone I met on the street. San Diego looked promising and so I worked my way down for interviews and scouting. Would it work out? Hell if I knew, I was just ready to be somewhere a little more chill and a little less busy. This west coast thing was becoming a burden and LA was starting to feel like where I had come from. I was suffocating. Gotta go, new place, new space.

I was wearing thin...

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

A Place To Go

It's not as if i was in the corner, like an imbecile scraping the carpet behind the couch for single penny and pressing my luck to a lottery ticket. The fact was I was completely thrown for a loop and landed in an environment that had reached beyond the threshold of my eyeballs and frankly, I was just tired of it. Nothing mattered anymore and I didn't give a damn who or what was next - frankly, the only thought that kept crossing my mind was, "I gotta get the fuck out of here." So I did. 

Heading west really just seemed like the thing to do. I didn't know if there would be any meaning or rational justification worth my while, but it was far away, the other end of the country, and it had an ocean. But sentimental thoughts about its existence weren't even on the table. It was just a place to go. 

I packed my bags and filled Uhaul, b/c well, this is life and that's how it's done. I called up a friend and we jumped in my little Honda, started for the road. Would it be adventurous? Maybe. But we were gunning it on the road, so, honestly? Who the hell really knew. She was my alibi. Whatever would happen, at least there'd be someone to witness it -- on an empty road headed west. And honestly, I admit, I don't think Highway 40 is any way to travel. It's more boring than you'd realize. I mean first, sure there the mountains, smokey - beautiful and majestic. I could feel it in the air, but unfortunately, late on that Sunday night, the most I ever saw were silhouettes against the blackened sky. It was hard to believe I had just left a city I had spent so much of my adult life in, and yet I didn't even look back. I was running. Maybe. 

By the time the first night fall passed we had left the state of Georgia...a long way behind, making our way through the South and sharing as much intimate conversation as two friends might do when all you have in the world...is time. And certainly time is exactly what we had - mostly due to the fact that a little Honda Civic with a Uhaul on the back only means your the slow car in the far right lane and as each driver passes you, yes even the hefty semi-truck driver; they look at you with disdain, honk and belittle your efforts to exceed 60 miles an hour...downhill. We were either a comedic sight for sore eyes or we were the zit on the road no one wanted to admit was there. It was laughable and rather frightful all in the same breath, especially because we were determined to continue moving the vehicle forward, avoiding at all costs - the agony of backing it up. 

I don't know if I thought much about anything at the time. It seems a blank sheet of paper existed in my head and the words I formed were out of robotic instinct to say something rather than emotional response to feel something. It was a soul-less time, where words and heart seemed to disappear and perhaps maybe once I dipped in the freezing cold of the Pacific Ocean, it would all wake up again. But if it didn't, I didn't care, I just needed to get somewhere that wasn't "here." People are often cruel to themselves when they have no handle to grasp, no life to celebrate and their very joys have turned in annoyances one too many times. Ultimately, their dreams are no more and therefore, their pithy plan to move up has given them the power to check out. Who knew this would ever happen to them? I didn't. You didn't. It just was. All that kept crossing my mind was, "change of pace, gotta go."  That and well, honestly, I just can't sit still long enough. I get fidgety - sometimes for the better, other times for the worse, either way, I like peeking over the edge of cliffs. The view is just too interesting. And who knows? Maybe I'll free-fall.

So there we were in the middle of South - Tennessee, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas. The most interesting thing we saw between Georgia and New Mexico was a Cracker Barrel - and that's mostly because we were starvin' for a real food...or as close as we could get. Our goal was to make it Phoenix -- we had to make it California. She had a funeral and while I'd like to say I had a wedding, we all know this is a lie, so the truth is I had a business meeting (which turned out to be a fool's errand, but that's another story). Needless to say, much of our conversation had died down - and we traded off driving shifts to sleep. Of course, who the hell sleeps on a road trip anyway? The roads aren't exactly made for a solid cycle of sleep. Then again, neither is the passenger seat of Honda. Curled up, Squished, and even stretch out - it just doesn't work and you really end up running your body on fumes...the smoke smelling of body odor and disinfectant gel. At least the latter comes in handy after leaving a dirty outhouse behind the last gas station. 

By the time we reached New Mexico, the scenery was a little more interesting. Ok, so it was the desert, but a Cactus plant and a few tumble weeds make for fine scenery when, essentially, we've seen nothing of interest thus far. Then again, we both had tunnel vision and hitting the Arizona border meant switching every 30 minutes. We were almost there and we were dreaming a bed to sleep in, and well, more importantly, a shower. Going through the mountains the terrain seemed impossible to cross and my car was over-extending itself, even at the lowest 40 miles an hour. The moment I recognized my own blinking, I elbowed my friend and begged her to take over. She did. Then I did, Then she did...we finally made it - 9-am on a Tuesday morning. 

The site of our pit stop home was the most inviting thing I had ever seen. It almost seemed like a mirage. I may have had to rub my eyes a time or two to believe it. There was still no emotional attachment, no banter or grace. Just zombie like movement - having left something behind, racing to the coast, and absolute exhaustion from driving such a long way. 36 hours, I think we said. Our hostess and friend jumped up to greet us and make us a nutritious breakfast before letting our dreams take us into a peaceful dark cave. 

Have you ever stepped into running water, closed your eyes and drifted off a place where no one else could find you? I did. It was as if every drop coming from the shower head felt like the first drop I had ever experienced. The heat relieved my cramped body and I was soaked in the tears I could not produce myself. The world didn't exist, my destination didn't exist, my life up to this instant didn't even cross my mind, I was absorbing the moment. Time and space seem to simply disappear when the naked human body and the raw human soul come together for a single breath. It's as if all the senses come into play and a supernatural experience just...takes...over.

Later that day, I would visit with my grandfather, have wine with my aunt and uncle, settle into read. But for time being, the only thing I wanted, the only thing I could tap into - was my mind and body's need for silence, darkness, sleep. I was just hours from California. What would come next was yet to be determined - and frankly, I had no intention of trying to do that. It was just a place to go. It was there - not "here," the place I was. I didn't really care what was waiting for me. It had an Ocean and it had Sand and I could justify my odd collection of flip-flops. 

T-minus six hours...

The Story: Planes Trains & Automobiles -- III

"I guess this is probably a good time as any to tell you this. Our tickets are only good to St. Louis. St. Louis to Chi-town is booked tighter than Tom Thumb's ass."

(Del)

Hurricanes, Failing Trains & did I mention and Automobile?

Friday came fast - we had crossed AZ, NM, and were trudging through Texas. But to my dismay, I received an email on my smart phone indicating that my connecting train to Atlanta from New Orleans had been canceled...and no reason was given. Immediately I called the 800 number and talked to a representative to confirm the information I had received. She, indeed, told me the train had been canceled and it was due to a Hurricane warning, which of course was odd, because at this point, the Gulf had not been under threat - and Irene was headed for the Atlantic Coasts. I even asked her, "why not continue to with the schedule? Do you realize a lot of people will be left behind." 

I kid you not, her answer to me, the most indifferent tone I've heard yet, "yeah, a lot of people will be stranded, but you can take your ticket to the counter when you reach New Orleans and they'll refund it for you."

I'm certain disbelief crossed my face. Nevertheless, I hung up the phone, informed my car tenant and the couple of people around me, in hopes that the word would get around. (By the way: it didn't, nor did the Conductor ever make an announcement). 

Afterwards I went to the lounge car and met Nate. New Orleans was where he called home, he was beatnik, in his mid-twenties and had just finished riding his bike 4000 miles from New Orleans to San Francisco in two months. Seriously, that's way too true for me to make up. It certainly made for great conversation, as we spent most of the day bantering and swapping stories - like where he camped out and if there were snakes or why I thought Jack Kerouac was an fine author. It all made up for the time we spent at a stand still in Texas - building up the hours we'd arrive late to New Orleans. 

We chowed on questionable food from the Amtrak dining car, toasted to our adventure with a shot of rum from his secret stash and in the end raved about the live jazz scene I wouldn't get to see that night. 

Finally, at 9pm Friday night, Amtrak rolled in New Orleans Union Station. 

My dear friend LaDonna, who'd been waiting hours - was sitting on a bench studying and waiting for me. Nate and I said parted ways, promised to keep in touch and LaDonna and I took off into the night - headed back to Pensacola. She told me her husband wanted to get up the next day and join us on the journey to Atlanta...the last leg. 

So after we had our fill at a Applebees (really Salad is about the only I could stomach) - we headed for the Panhandle....to pass out.

Morning came, and the Automobile took me Atlanta.....

Taking our time Saturday morning, we ate breakfast, rushed in and out of the bathroom, and made a stop at and Office Max for school supplies. Hey, ya just can't be a 15 cent deal. 

The last leg, while it was the shortest, it was perhaps the most meaningful with good friends, heartfelt chats and sandwiches for lunch. I wasn't sure I ready to come back to a city I had left behind in haste, but ironically the two people who convinced me to move here in the first place nearly 6 years ago were the two people escorting me back and pushing me toward the next step in my journey...on the verge of a dream realized. 

Grateful for their friendship and weekend inconveniences, I did most of the driving and it gave me moments to reflect - driving always did that for me. Of course, when nostalgia set in, I subjected my friends to music from my San Diego Family...and hey - the hippies gained two new fans. 

It took a lot to get here and I probably had moments of questioning what I was doing. Ultimately though, I have never felt so much peace and patience through a complicated situation. Somehow, it just didn't bother me and I knew then, my Cali groove was finally showing through. It felt great. And in spite of the losses, there was always a conspiring gain that fit the puzzle and gave me story to tell - a week long adventure. Amazing.

All it was missing...was Steve Martin & John Candy - no?

One more thing: Peace and Love to all contributed to helping me along the way - you're beautiful!

Neal: "As much fun as I've had on this little journey, I'm sure one day I'll look back on it and laugh." // Del: "Are you sure?" // Neal: "Oh God. I'm laughing already."

The Story: Planes Trains & Automobiles -- II

"Six bucks and my right nut says we're not landing in Chicago"

(Del)

And then there was the Train...

Monday and Tuesday passed quickly. I got some extra sleep, took care of making sure I had my apartment set up, and sold my dead car for scrap money.

((Side Note)) While all this was going on, Libya was exploding. Rebels had reached Gadhafi's compound and I watched CNN reporter, Sara Sidner - dodge bullets over her head. In between phone calls, I watched in utter fascination and disbelief. The people of Libya were claiming their freedom. Reporters were making phone calls while on lock-down at a government run hotel and I knew going into work less than a week after this was going to be something else.

But back to the next leg of the trip.

Wednesday came around and I was supposed to hop on a train at 3pm. It would make a pit stop in Chicago and Washington DC before actually arriving in Atlanta on Friday-- late night.

At noon, I thought it wise to make sure I knew where the Amtrak station was and quickly did an internet search. I called my cousin and we confirmed -- there was no such station in Las Vegas. I was severely puzzled and concerned at this point - so I checked my ticket and called Amtrak.

Sure enough, I had a blond moment. Apparently, I didn't fully read the city stations carefully enough. No, it didn't say Las Vegas, NV. It said Las Vegas, NM. Really? Who the hell knew there was Las Vegas New Mexico? Well, of course, my dad told me, he did. He'd passed through it driving and it was a backwater town with tumbleweeds. [Insert Grim Face Here].

Anyway, I talked to a lady at Amtrak and she was able to re-route my train from Phoenix to New Orleans and then to Atlanta. But, I'd have to find a way down to Phoenix...that is Maricopa, another small town just outside Phoenix that I had once passed through while visiting from California. Deep Breath, what a mess. But it was going to work out, and in the end, cost me less.

So- I booked a Plane.

I called my Aunt Margie and explained the ridiculous situation I had put myself in and asked if she'd be gracious enough to pick me up from the airport and whisk me away to the train station in time to make a 1030pm departure. Frankly my awkward misfortunes and adventure played well in her favor as it would give us a chance to hang out, however briefly-- before heading to the other side of the country.

I wasn't excited about the trip to an airport. With TSA under fire for molesting people and the pain of having to carry what luggage I thought was so essential (including a travel backpack, a large suitcase on wheels with as many clothes, a pillow and a computer all stuffed in it, a guitar case, a camera bag and Partridge in a pair tree) --and airlines charging for checked baggage, my annoyance level goes on high alert. But for the first time in a long time, I tried to go with the groove of day - which hadn't been so bad, just busy. I briskly moved through the counter and even talked the woman into only charging me for two bags instead of three (no, seriously, they wanted to charge me for my sleeping bag, that, by the way, was attached to my backpack. joy.).

Security went smoothly and I can only guess that's because the Mafia is running the Las Vegas airport...and they recognized me. Finally, I was able to head to my gate and just sit down. Of course this meant that my scenic view consisted of slot machines - meant to tempt my fate and steal my cash. Thankfully, I don't carry any.

The plane ride was short sweet and to the point.

I hopped off and waited in the terminal for my guitar - which the pilot carefully and kindly retrieved for me. Headed for the baggage claim and called my Aunt. We fumbled with Maggie the GPS - and finally calculated semi-correct directions to the train station. After being told the train would be late, Aunt Margie and I went hunting for a place to eat. Surely - at 10pm, all the restuarants would still be serving food. Then again, our choices were slim: a bar with bad music, McDonalds and Sonic. This after discovering Subway closed, Panda Express didn't have half of what they're menu said and a pizza place that wouldn't fudge to a make us a couple of slices.

I mean really, no charity for the starving hippie and her Aunt? What do people do in this town? The answer was obviously: nothing. So we settled on bad food and tasty drinks at Sonic.

We parted ways and finally, it was time to take the train - which by the way? I still didn't board until nearly 1am Thursday morning. Thank heavens I had two seats to myself to fall asleep. My back would pay for that sleeping position later.

At least I would see the country side, sort of, on the south west, south side. And, my layover was an overnight in New Orleans...so I would just make the trip complete with a night on the town, live jazz music and a fine dinner on Burboun Street. Classy. I called my friend in Pensacola and asked her to join me. - Of course - she said yes.

Settling in, despite on the mishaps, things were looking great and I was going to enjoy the ride.

TO BE CON'T....