Californication

The wind buffets my tiny tent, exposed some 6000 feet above the jungle of Los Angeles. I abandon my shelter and climb into my tiny car, rocked to a fitful sleep by the gusts. I feel...alert. Hyper-aware.

Some time later....sunrise, we begin our descent. SoCal rush hour, Monday morning, is not nearly so pronounced an obstacle in the foothills east of town. The traffic report is in an indecipherable code:

Traffic heavy on the 405.

Vehicle stalled on the 10.

Century solid from LAX all the way back to the 1.

En que lingua, que significa, esta?

The jungle awakes. Mid-January, and already in the 70's. Today will be 85.

Traffic is heavier now. I make my way to the observatory in west Hollywood and begin to climb. Asian locals greet me on way up. They do not rush. They are a contrast to the city bustling beneath us.

Later, the city traversed, I am on Venice Beach. Somewhere behind me, in this insanity, is the Abercrombie model we met yesterday. And elsewhere, the Russian/German photographer that found a storefront so fascinating. And her little table that she took everywhere. She's there too, drawn to this jungle. I feel...connected. There is a depth to them that I now feel. We share a story. We share a place. This place.

My toes sink into the sand. A sixth sense, which perhaps only those of Irish descent can appreciate, tells me I am in the process of being sunburnt.

An otter swims near the shore and graces the children with its whiskered smile.

The day begins to wane. I wait. She waits. She sits outside Tom Bradley terminal, eyes intent on every takeoff. She's somewhere else. I want badly to ask her where.

Then 38,000 feet and an hour later, we fly over Vegas. They say things stay in Vegas, that we don't take them with us.

I've lived in Vegas. They lie.

But thank YHWH things don't stay in LA. I take every moment with me. And now I'm home, my strange seaside adventure playing over and over again inside.

This post will likely make no sense to you.

That's okay.