28 Days Later: The Prologue

Los Angeles is fantastic; I am having way too good of a time, and then find myself leaving way too soon.

The first few days I spend lying around Allison's apartment. I watch a lot of TV, and stave off boredom by alternating between the upstairs TV and the downstairs TV. At night, I go running at the track of a local private school. The air in Los Angeles is crisp and golden brown, so it's easier to forget how dirty it is at night; it needn't be mentioned how wonderful the weather is. I bought groceries and cooked my dinner like a fully domesticated human being. I feel like an imposter doing such normal activities; like I am pretending; a character in a charmingly mundane play.

I get 2 days of work on a short film as a 'PA', which is the lowest position on ANY film set. It's fun having so little to worry about. People talk to me encouragingly; in their eyes I am a young upstart with motivation and a 'can-do' attitude who is about to take this PA gig and slowly work my way up the ladder. I laugh to myself about it, until I start to get mad about it. Day 2 of the film shoot I go out of my way to make sure everyone knows that I am a marginally accomplished New York Film Executive.

I eat great Mexican food
I drive a fancy car down the freeway
I eat great Sushi
I navigate the terrible LA bus system
I get offered a job as a bike patrol security guard, working nightshift corralling drunks on the Sunset Strip
I turn down a job as a bike patrol security guard, working nightshift corralling drunks on the Sunset Strip
I sleep in on Sunday; waking up only to watch bad movies.
I attend a pot luck dinner, and my offering is: garlic bread
I attend Shrimpfest, and eat only 7 plates before they shut the kitchen down.
I eat at 2 separate Chili's; one has valet service
I find out that I am leaving for the Czech Republic in 4 days.
I scramble to get everything taken care of before leaving the country.
I do a bad job and just end up shipping everything to my sister in Tampa
I am given a pocketful of Codeine to ensure I sleep on the Transatlantic portion of the plane ride
I say goodbye to all my LA friends; who I will miss terribly.
I get way too nervous walking through Airport Security with a pocketful of codeine
I get mad when I find out that I have to go through Security again at O'Hare in Chicago.
I debate dumping the codeine every time a drug sniffing dog walks by me.
I take all the pills upon boarding the plane
I DO NOT SLEEP AT ALL; not even for 5 minutes
I am now in the Czech Republic, Prague.

Prague is beautiful, albeit very cold and constantly wet. It's good to see Marv, Ellen and Matt (collectively: the family). This is my first time being jet lagged, and I think of it as a sort of neat new experience... until day 6 of the 9 day adjustment. The last 3 days I'd be willing to strangle a dolphin if I thought it would give me some small energy boost. I am constantly being introduced to new people, and can barely bring myself to grunt 'Hello'. My official greeting is to yawn, rub my eyes a few times, and then mutter something about taking a nap.

I run every day in the park behind our apartment; it sits on a cliff that overlooks the entire city. I slowly learn a few Czech words, and a working knowledge of the Metro system. At the same time, I grow increasingly frustrated at not being able to find a job, or a Burger King. Unlike most every city I've visited this past summer, I adjust to Prague slowly, and only after 2 weeks do I realize just how wonderful a place it really is. I ride the tram into the city and then go for long walks through the old town at night; slowly discovering my way back home. This is truly going to be an experience I will remember in detail for quite some time. So strange; living on the third floor of an LDS church in the shadow of a GIANT castle in Prague.

I don't think I've mentioned cycling once in this final entry... which I guess says it all. When I am walking to the store, cooking dinner, or running in the park, I no longer think of these activities as 'a novel change of pace'. I no longer think of the world in terms of cycling at all. I am no longer an imposter; a pretender. I am not a character in a charmingly mundane play. I am just a guy cooking dinner, or walking to the store.

...but every once in a while I will look back at all the pictures i took, and remember that they are only blurry and ill-composed because I was moving too fast to get off my bike.

THIS MACHINE HAS KILLED ITS FINAL SQUIRREL
BUT WAIT....

http://theweirdparty.blogspot.com

Day 99: It Certianly Is Strange To Be Here...

October 29th, 2007:

I wake up for the transfer in Sacramento. An ugly town if there ever was one. This is Central California: Ugliness extends beyond the horizon and on into infinity. Everything is brown, except the lawns of fast food establishments which are well manicured and watered a deep green. Small and tacky oasis’ in a sea of dirt colored houses. The bus gets full, and I end up sitting next to an elderly Asian woman, whose husband sits a row behind us with a watchful eye. At one point in the trip, the middle-aged Asian woman sitting in front of me refused to give her seat to a black guy. It was pretty awful.

Nick had suggested I read The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel on my way down to Los Angeles. Wow… Am I ever glad I did. Some of the best writing I have ever read; it is profoundly emotional without resorting to stupid flowery prose. This woman is amazing, and reading her wry, smart and beautifully constructed sentences makes me want to write again. Truly inspiring.

The bus drops me off in North Hollywood where I am planning to catch a city bus to Sherman Oaks. Well… apparently the busses here don’t run but every half hour. I walk most of it, and the weather is amazing. I forgot how good the wind feels out here. I could spend every day outside in the sun.

I call Allison from the AM/PM by her house, but she is on set. I call up Allison’s roommate Dani K, whose parents helped me out in Chicago, and we made plans to get dinner. It’s good to see her again; she lets me into the apartment, and I stay up late waiting for Allison to get home.

I carve out a corner of the room where I can keep my stuff. I am reunited with a bag of clothes that I had sent here before the trip began. My hard drive with my music collection. A different pair of shoes. 4 walls. A large bed. A kitchen. A TV. Video Games, a 7-11 down the street. It’s not “home”, but a facsimile that might one day earn a place in my heart, enough for me to think of it as home. The Bike trip feels so far away. I look over the old photographs from the first few weeks of the trip, just so I can fully appreciate the contrast between now and then. I am sentimental for all of it. The thought enters my mind that maybe I can ride the TransAM route sometime in the not too distant future. But that’s an idea for another time. Tomorrow I will start making plans and coming up with brilliant ideas for a bright new future, but tonight I will watch backlogged episodes of The Soup and stretch out across the bed, drinking Diet Coke and eating pizza like the king that I am.

And so I guess this is it… It certainly is strange to be here.

Day 98: On the Bus Mall

October 28th, 2007

My day revolved around my departure this afternoon. I wanted to sleep in, but couldn't for some reason, so instead I showered and made a breakfast out of the leftover food that past guests had forgot to remove from the hostel fridge. I had a conversation with a guy from Arizona who was my age and had absolutely no reason to be in Portland other than having a week off of work. These hostels are swimming with a lot of neat young adults with a desire to be someone different/better than they are. After breakfast I sat around the living room while my electronics charged; I would need to be prepared if I am to survive the horrible long bus ride. Killing time, I watched the older hostel patrons mingle. They are in their 30's, 40's and 50's, and seem to exist in their own world. A woman from Colorado is convinced that she can live her life without money or a job. She talks the ear off of an older gentleman who moves to a new city every 2 years, because he doesn't like to feel 'tied down'. I don't want to judge them too harshly (who am I to say that a life SHOULD be lived a certain way) but to me they are a cautionary example, a reminder to not let this year of traveling turn into a lifetime of not planting any roots. A good reminder to keep focused on what I intend to do with myself after this year is over. But I must reiterate that it is just my personal set of priorities; I am trying to make no value judgments on these folk.

I take a bus to the downtown and walk around a while. I grab breakfast. I stop by REI which makes me wish I had a lot of money. I buy a book at Powell Books and go to a park to read. I cannot concentrate, my mind is too caught up thinking about the next phase of this trip:

Downshifting. A whole new set of priorities. A job in Los Angeles. Riding the bus lines. Shirt and tie. Getting up with the sun. A stack of resume's in my backpack. My clothes in a dark corner of Allison's room that I have annexed for my own. I am excited, though anxious about the worst case scenarios.

I find the Portland Bus Mall, or what is left of it. It is in the process of being replaced with a new ambition to revitalize the 'old town. The Decemberists have a song called 'On The Bus Mall', which is about two teenage runaway boys who turn to 'hustling' in order to survive on the Portland streets, and form a strong familial bond in the process. Today, while waiting for my Greyhound Bus, I walked around the Portland Bus Mall, with the hopes of witnessing the backdrop that inspired Colin Meloy to write such a beautiful song; I walked around until my back hurt and my feet ached in my cycling shoes. I never found it because it isn't there anymore. The 'Old Town' is in the process of being turned into a high-end shopping district.

Obviously you can't get too upset when a run-down, crime-prone region of the city is bulldozed to make way for a fashionable shipping district, but you can recognize that this mostly benign action is just one small part of a larger problem in our cities. A condo grows in Brooklyn, and within a few years every business within a 5 block radius is catering to the money-flush clientele that long to live in the high-rises that overlook our city. Pretty soon, the money-less have absolutely no business being in this part of town; and this is how our cities are starting to feel more and more like Los Angeles. I don't know about you but I don't want to live in Los Angeles. I understand that it is all part of a process and new neighborhoods will emerge that cater to the wealth-challenged demographic but eventually the poor will get completely pushed beyond the reach of mass-transit, and then the city will be closed.

NOW... this being said I am fully aware that I myself am a gentrifying force, and there are poorer people in Brooklyn who would despise my effect on the neighborhood. So I guess I am also part of the problem, and so I don't really have an answer for any of this but I'm sure someone much smarter than me does. How does a city provide for those that make it culturally relevant (a young artist demographic), without hampering economic prosperity? There's not much I can do, so I will simply join in the Rent-Spike Shuffle and get a windowless bedroom in Bushwick, and dream of a better life in Denver.

Eventually I just decide to sit in some corporate Mexican establishment next to the bus station and just drink their refillable sodas and use their complimentary WIFI until my bus leaves. It is a fun way to kill a few hours. At the greyhound station I get yelled at for taking pictures inside the terminal; I understand, it IS a security risk. We load onto the bus just after sunset, and I luck out by not having to sit next to anyone. Immediately the personalities of the fellow passengers start to emerge. The loud guy is two rows behind me, and he will talk on his cell phone the whole time. He refers to his girlfriend as a bitch. At one point in the ride he and two others will start swapping stories of times they spent in jail.

The bus ride begins and it's strange to watch everyone go about their business, while I am hurried out of the city on a massive ugly chariot. I have a hard time trusting the bus driver as we navigate the curves and large hills of Central Oregon; eventually I resign myself to whatever fate may come, and decide to trust the aging driver with his gin blossom face, and nicotine breath. About every hour our low-rent caravan makes a brief stop, and I decide to take at least one photograph at every town. Salem, Eugene, Medford?, Other less notable places until I trust our driver enough to fall asleep.