Observe and Report

Once, in my first couple of weeks here, I needed to complete some work at the local library. I wrapped this up, and headed outside. There, a gentleman who looked like the lovechild of James Hetfield and The Dude (from Metallica and The Big Lebowski, respectively) was carrying a conversation on his cell phone.

"Yeah, I don't know what to-- Hold on a second." He looked to the sky. "I'll be damned. It's raining! No, I'm not kidding, it's actually raining!"

It was hardly raining. I've been in humidity that has been wetter than that sprinkle. I decided that Dude Hetfield was over-reacting and kept walking.

Continuing down the street, I gave a "good day" smile to a pleasant looking middle-aged African American woman. Pleasant as she was, she smiled back. Her smile seemed broader-- more cheerful than the traditional "good day" smile. It was the smile that we Midwesterners only dust off for special occasions: Christmas, birthdays, asking to borrow money, etc.

"Rain in the Summertime, huh?" she chuckled.

In the hours to follow, I discovered that I had witnessed the kind of phenomenon that Southern Californians evidently ask for as a sign that God exists. It really, actually, truly never does rain in Southern California. So people here need sprinkler systems, and car washes. [Author's Aside: At this point, it is unfortunately evident that I still need to get a handle on "the need for a car wash" part.]

Just like the Great Summer Downpour of 2011 (which lasted all of six minutes), there have been a number of little things in my neighborhood that had caught me off guard. Happily, though, they have just make my transition a little more adventurous. These things include:

Parrots. Real, live, feral parrots roam the hills of LA. Especially when one is trying to sleep. Somehow. I first discovered this when I heard a pair of parrots screeching from the telephone wires that run by my house during a morning workout routine. I stared wide-eyed at them, grinning from ear to ear, and thought to myself, "I bet this won't seem quite as enchanting if I hear them screech like this every morning." It isn't.

Actors. Los Angeles doesn't have any horrible cockroach problems that I've heard of so far. However, there are neighborhoods where, if you turn on the kitchen light, you will see five thespians scramble under the fridge. In some clubs and bars toward Hollywood, Studio City, et cetera, people don't ask "What do you do for a living?" Rather, they cut to the chase: "Are you an actor?" My response is typically, "No. Are you?" Then they get all excited that you figured them out. It's kind of cute.

Immigrants. From all over the country, and the world. This is an authentically nice thing to have going for me since I am, in my own right, an immigrant. Making friends in Los Angeles is easy, because nobody is from Los Angeles; nobody has a preexisting social circle that you won't fit into. The diversity also gives you something to talk about with everybody you meet: where they are from, what kind of food they miss, how much they wish they were a Packers fan, and so forth. It's also a great opportunity for me to broaden my own horizons. In my little, mostly-Asian side of town, I've been able to experience excellent, authentic Chinese and Japanese food. While dining at one Chinese restaurant, I got to experience pictures of seabirds, deep-fried, head and all, in the menu. (I ended up getting the barbecued ribs.) Of course, when there are large populations centralized in specific locales, diversity is a given, but assimilation is not. I couldn't even order at one Chinese restaurant because it was a freaking CHINESE restaurant. The sauteed jellyfish smelled really good, though.

Palm Trees, Beaches, and Mountains. Occasionally, I find myself looking back nostalgically on my times camping in Wisconsin. From the bluffs to the lake, and all the hills, forests, lakes, and prairies in-between, outdoor enthusiasts have it made in the Dairy State. But then, at the end of the weekend, I would leave these places, and I would go home. Unlike home, the scenery in Los Angeles sticks with a guy. If you leave the mountains, they're still towering over you in the distance. The palm trees and cacti intermingle as if the shore to the West were shaking hands with the deserts of the East. Every moment of scenery is as radically characterizing to the area as a post card, while being as comfortably familiar as wall paper.

It has been a terrific journey so far. Every day has been filled with one little adventure or another. Every morning, I am able to wake up excited to begin.

Viva, Wisconsin!

God bless LA.

A Deep Breath

As I approached Indio, CA, I quietly murmured to myself what I assume to be the the cliches of many bygone explorers: "What kind of place is this?"

Go West, young man, and don't take an airplane. Drive a '98 Merc Sable. All the headaches and heartaches and fatigue involved in my decision to head to this new land were justified just east of Indio. The rain that poured on the distant mountain to my left washed uncertainty away as the bright sunshine directly overhead spread its light on the green valleys of a new place to call home. Having traversed the continental divide days before, I took my foot off of my accelerator and coasted. For the time, I was done fighting my way to a new start. Now, as my trusty, white, and rusty version of a magic carpet glided down the mountains that served as the deserts' boundary, the landscape sucked me in, willing or not.

I sat passively in a moving theater; vineyards, mountains, and electricity-producing windmills towered overhead. "Are you ready for this?" I could hear it. It was the land that takes us in, and the land that spits us out. This is the place of tested mettle. This is where Levi Strauss made a fortune changing American life while others searched for gold that simply wasn't to be found. This is the set that John Steinbeck used as a backdrop to some of the greatest works in American literature, finding success while describing the slowly deteriorating dreams of others. This is where the wealthy head to squander it all, and those who have run out of options go to chase (and sometimes catch) impossible dreams. This is California. "Are you ready for this?"

I managed to make it to Alhambra half an hour early. My landlord, who has been terrific to me on many levels, was happy that I was reliable the one time that I had needed to be relied upon.

"Ah good, you came early."

I smiled. "I'm a numbers guy. That's what we do."

Then came the greatest joy of all. While examining my new apartment, I discovered that I wouldn't need to buy a bed. One was... one was provided. There was a functional BED in my apartment! Even as I sit here weeks later, I look at the bed with a certain euphoric fondness. Practical providence is the sweetest of joys.

The house itself is shared with a terrific blend of people-- people who come from all over the world and many different walks of life. Yet they share the vital courtesy and decency that living together with strangers depends upon. The yard is like a small park, exhibiting various vegetation that still seems exotic to me. I have three fruit trees growing in my little space (two of which are native to China), a prickly pear, and a very small palm tree. It's a palm shrub.

The thrill has never worn off, but I knew, while wearing even the rosiest-colored glasses, that there was a mountain of mundane that I needed to climb. Parking passes, driver's licenses, birth certificates, bills, and (most importantly) applications for jobs needed to be sought or organized, and aggressively. This amounted to me running all over a strange new town, and coming to a realization: the only thing worse than performing the mundane is not quite performing the mundane. T's weren't crossed, I's weren't dotted. Eyes were crossed when I got through with it all. I found myself with my life: a jigsaw puzzle. It was mostly assembled in Wisconsin, but I had seen fit to take it apart, put it in a box, and ship it off to California. Now here it is, urgently needing to be reassembled.

As I pieced these things together, I took some time to take liberties as a tourist. I went to meet Chris in Hollywood. Concerning Hollywood: no surprise there. Everybody who hangs around Hollywood looks like somebody who would be hanging around Hollywood. After a few drinks, we went to a friend of Chris', whose husband is a fairly successful model. They live in a gorgeous house, with walls that are bejeweled with pictures of him half-naked. I would recommend this to anybody. In my case, I would think that it would keep the Jehovah's Witnesses out.

And so began my next chapter. Slightly disoriented, yet steeled, another resident had come to California to see if there was any gold left in those hills.

"Are you ready for this?"

Wisconsin to LA-- Tucson by Tonight

I stumbled into Craig and Angie's pad in Tucson around 9:00 that Friday night. I had left Eastern Texas a short eighteen hours before, managing to get through the Dallas/Fort Worth area before the morning rush hour. The morning had two major struggles: 1) Fighting the ongoing effects of fatigue 2) Truck stop bathrooms. I ended up succumbing to both of these in due time, but the fatigue wore off. The memories of those bathrooms never will.

After endless miles of the Texas flatness, the mountains were an exclamation point to progress paying off. The vast low deserts of Texas, followed by high desert terrain in New Mexico and Arizona, gave testimony to the resilience of the few who call these places home. Sometimes the radio would begin to fizzle, signalling that I was almost out of range. When I would try to scan for the next station I would only hear the sound of my engine as it dutifully strained in the heat, while the radio went through its entire dial without avail. As a recovering history addict, I thought about the first to cover this territory. Thank God I wasn't on foot.

I almost got a nap in El Paso, but sleeping in the mid-day desert isn't what one would call particularly possible. Other than that, I was running off any energy that I mustered from the three hours of sleep that I got after seeing Hamlet the night before. I was disgustingly tired; my mind was sickeningly worn out. I was tripping-- on awake. This is important because, as I found out, the lack of atmosphere and high altitudes make for sensational sunsets over high desert in Arizona and New Mexico. I would also discover that Eastern Arizona has a truly eclectic radio station that isn't above playing European prog rock during these twilight hours. It was an awesome experience. Homer found his soul mate.

And so did Craig. And Angie. Like Chris, I have known Craig since my formidable years. He and Angie got married this year in a lovely ceremony surrounded by friends, family, pets, fields, and an open bar. Both of them have gone off to see the world on their own, and, against all odds, actually managed to spend enough time on the same continent simultaneously to fall in love, make a cute couple, and rewrite history. Then they let me crash on their air mattress in Tucson. I can't think of enough kind things to say about these two.

In the morning, everybody went on the patio and read a book. I was the last one outside, about half-way through the essay I was reading, when Craig came out to me. He said we were going to the mountains. The essay could wait.

The road wound through the mountain passes and up the sides, with Craig at the wheel, Angie in the back, and me riding shotgun. "At the top of each of these mountain are a variety of plants and animals that can only survive at these altitudes," Angie was explaining. She gave a lovely description of the ecological uniqueness of these Sky Islands, while Craig confidently navigated the mountain roads. Meanwhile, I was smiling like I lost my mind; ogling the surroundings like an infant looks at a mobile. It was simply spellbinding.

And I knew, within the first half of a mile on the trail, how stupid I was for hiking at 9,000 feet altitude one day after partying in a honky tonk with Shakespearean actors at sea level. I have never sucked wind on a hike like that before. But the views were also breathtaking. As far as one day in the mountains, if I had to pick only one, I would just as soon have that day as any other. The coolness of the altitude, and the occasional breeze gave a familial feel to the otherwise rugged landscape. We watched a distant desert rain fall on Tucson as the sunlit trail guided us through ponderosa pines, rock formations, streams, hills, and valleys. As if the mountain knew I had only one day to spend there, Craig and I also got the treat of (safely) encountering a thirty inch rattlesnake. I had it all, just outside of Tucson.

The rest of the evening was filled with a giant cookie, Vietnamese food, and the hotel that John Dillinger was arrested at. Tucson is a beautiful place, filled with beautiful people. The lawns are decorated with cacti and pebbles, in neighborhoods that house quail and the occasional coyote. The nightlife is filled with people that carry themselves with the independence and self-assurance that calling the desert "home" would bring. Angie calls Tucson's vibe "grit". She says it's comparable to Milwaukee in this way. Reflecting on this, I've come to agree. It's peculiar that 115 degrees and dusty can drive a city to the same feel as one that's -15 degrees and snowy.

Even aside from the graciousness of my most hospitable hosts, Tucson was a personal celebration for me. I had only one border left to cross. From the moment that I drove over the Wisconsin state line, I had been committed, but now I could feel it in the air. In a short time, I would be out of my comfort zone for good. And that place, away from my lifelines, is where I've always felt the most comfortable.

Shakespeare and Shiner Bock, Together at Long Last

The freeway out of Illinois was long, hot, and boring. My phone kept updating... and updating... and updating. I would later find out that this was because my Crapberry had evidently caught a virus. I would also find out the value in purchasing the (relatively affordable) insurance policies that can cover smart phones. But for now, I was in the process of finding out how my '98 Mercury Sable could handle a one thousand mile drive between Illinois and Texas with absolutely no avenue for help in the event of an emergency.

This stretch of road led me to the biggest discovery I made during my trip: evidently, between the Mississippi River and the California border, people actually drive the speed limit. I saw the numbers on the signs bump up from 65 to 70, and I thought to myself, "Do I really need to be going 78 miles per hour in this heat, while driving a car that was born when Clinton was President?" Much to my surprise, however, the opportunity never really presented itself. Evidently, fellow Wisconsinites, there isn't just one state that has the Mississippi River on one side, Lake Michigan on the other, and God-awful motorists in-between.

Wink.

So through the congeniality belt I went, every now and then touching base with locals along the way. As the day drew on, the people seemed to get friendlier and friendlier, and my knuckles seemed to get whiter and whiter. After all, night was creeping up on me, and my mission for the day was to find a dorm room somewhere in the largest state in the contiguous US without any means of communication.

Heading westbound through Arkansas, after finally deciding that I hadn't misread the directions and missed my exit 150 miles before, I smelled radiator fluid. My concerns were amplified by the fact that it was scorching hot out, even in the late afternoon. A chill ran up my spine when I saw the drops hitting my windshield, and I stuck my hand out the window, desperately hoping that the mystery liquid wouldn't burn. They drops stung, but they were so small that I couldn't tell whether or not they scalded. My heart rate shot through the roof, my stomach dropped into my shoes, my mouth dried up, and I committed to the idea of being stranded in the middle of nowhere with dignity. That all changed when I saw the stranded vehicle on the side of the road and realized that somebody else's radiator had blown during a light rain shower. I had been pranked; I had been pranked by God.

Finally, I pulled into Kilgore College, following signs that led to the campus. I decided to circle the perimeter of the the school until I found my friend's car. After one turn, there I was, asking about where I could find him. After fourteen hours on the road, watching both a sunrise and a sunset from my car's window, suffering extreme heat, and navigating back-country Texas roads which Texans evidently have no scruples about giving names to in Klingon, I knocked on his door, tired, yet relieved. "Chris! It's me!"

The response? "Go the !@#% away! I'm busy!" You can all take the surgical masks off. It turns out that Southern hospitality isn't contagious.

After I asserted that I would not be going away (Chris had just thought I was somebody else, or so he says), he introduced me to the Texas night-life. BBQ, beer, baseball, and pool. Chris had grown up by me, and we have known each other for about fifteen years. Although he makes his permanent home outside of LA, he made his pilgrimage to the Lone Star State this summer for the same reason that most people would head to a small town in East-Texas oil country: Shakespearean theater. He and his fellow actors were mastering their craft at the Texas Shakespeare Festival. And master it they had.

Every year, for over a quarter of a century, thespians from New York to LA descend on the sleepy town of Kilgore to perform in the Texas Shakespeare Festival. It is, in my opinion, an amazing ordeal. The actors leave some of the most prestigious Drama schools and theatrical hubs in the nation to go to an incredibly hospitable town that offers home-cooked meals to dozens of them at a time in the private homes of theater supporters. It is a level of reciprocated appreciation that few theater companies ever achieve: first-class hospitality is exchanged for first-class culture. The results are outstanding. You have not seen Hamlet until you have seen it in Kilgore, Texas.

Likewise, you have not gone to a honky tonk until you have gone to one with a small army of Shakespearean actors from the coasts. Being in this scenario was a beautiful form of culture shock. I'll never know if the Texans out-friendlied the actors, or if the actors out-schmoozed the Texans, but I had a riot. Watching one hundred people dance in perfect unison, unrehearsed, in cowboy boots and high heels, just for fun, must have been a little humbling for those who need to rehearse for weeks in order to do the same thing professionally. Cowboy hats and pool cues and beer and baseball and bikinis (Yes, bikinis were worn with chaps by the bar girls. Say what you will, this is a terrific business model.) were muddled into a gorgeous potpourri with discussions of plays and professions intertwined. I can only hope to experience anything like it again. It was the definition of Gemutlikeit.

Through my entire stay in Texas, I kept grilling Chris about his experiences in California. I'd asked question after question about the mundane points of life out West: traffic, work, social life, beer prices, housing, etc.

"How are the bugs?" I'd ask.

"No bugs," he'd say. My jaw dropped. Each response seemed to push the big picture a little closer to idyllic.

I was getting more and more eager to see this Golden Coast at the very time that I had quietly predicted to myself that I'd be starting to reconsider my decision to go. Instead, I felt more driven; more committed.

Seventeen-hour-straight-through-drive-to-Tucson committed.

On to the Old Stomping Grounds

I started my journey southward after I said my fair wells to those in Milwaukee, including a few of my friends' kids of whom I happen to be quite fond. [Author's Aside: never say goodbye to anybody under the age of four. Quietly and quickly sneak out of the room while they're down for a nap or in the bathroom. Actually verbally saying goodbye is too heart-wrenching.] My first stop was going to be a little town in Northeastern Illinois that one side of my family has called home for something to the tune of, oh, five-- maybe six generations. I suppose that we liked it, so we stayed.

On the trip to said Mayberry, I saw the last Wisconsin sunset that I would see for a while. It was definitely worth the price of admission. I also relished my last opportunity to get irked about Chicago traffic. And, in the hundreds of trips that I've taken through Chicago, I finally, for the first and possibly last time, visited the city's luxurious and scenic South Side. What's the occasion? Well, it just seemed like it was time to indulge (after almost running out of gas on the freeway). I'm glad I did, because I found that the South Side of Chicago is just a great place to get away to with every worldly possession that you own packed in your car in the middle of the night when you don't know where you are and you may run out of gas at any minute. Take it from me.

Finally, I got to my home away from home. There, my Grandmother and Uncle stayed up past their bedtimes and the three of us talked about this, that... practicalities and the sort. My Grandmother and Grandfather both had seven siblings, and my mother is one of five, and pretty much everybody else is still in the area, so, when we talk, there's always news. To spread the word of my departure to all these people, I made one phone call to my Aunt. In a small town, that works like a charm.

The other bit of info that I received is that my Uncle (who's technically my cousin once removed, but who's counting?), wound up in the hospital due to heart problems. He would have gone to the hospital in town, but he decided that he felt sick enough, slow enough that his wife should keep driving to the other hospital-- the one that isn't known for patient neglect. He's the family historian, and I got to visit him while accompanying my Grandmother to a doctor's appointment.

He was laying in bed, wearing a hospital gown, stitched up, and giving me the details of his predicament. Intermittently, he would get up to spit in the garbage can that was a few steps away, with his unfastened gown showing what God gave him to the rest of creation. And I was there, too. Sadly.

We talked baseball, watched cartoons, and sooner or later started talking about my move.

"You know, for a while, California was the place to be," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I think Scott was even born there."

I had been taking notes from distant relatives' transgressions into the great beyond. My favorite cue was my Great-Grandmother, who became a fan of the AL Angels so as to not conflict with her allegiance to the NL Cubbies. Same with me and the Brewers now.

"So where you movin' to?"

"Alhambra."

"Really? I think ____ and _____ lived in Alhambra!" [Remember, hundreds of relatives. Thousands, practically. Names are hard.] He began to get up. "Op! I need to spit again." I rushed to move the garbage can to him, but he intervened. "No, don't worry, I got it."

Unfastened gown.

Strangely, despite the gown situation, I still left the experience feeling a little more at ease. People had done this before. They had left, seen what it was like, and had come back. Nobody in my Mother's immediate family had, but Mayberry forgives, right?

That night, I sat down with my extended family, ate spaghetti that we had been getting from the same restauraunt for as long as I can remember, caught up, laughed, hugged, and went to bed early.

I woke up at 4:30 the next morning. The relaxed atmosphere of the previous night had been replaced by determination. From here, it was all uncharted territory. I would be taking a fourteen hour drive to Kilgore, TX to visit a friend. The car sounded fine, my bags were packed, and all systems appeared to be go. My phone was updating, but how long could that last? I kissed my Grandmother and Uncle goodbye, and I got my early start, before the sun peeked over whatever it is that they have in Illinois instead of hills.

It was going to be a hot one.

In the Merry Month of July

... From my home I started. Wisconsin-- sweet Wisconsin. A bounteous land known for football, beer, festivals, motorcycles, fishing, and serial killers. Why anybody would ever leave, I still don't know.

But, I opted to. So I packed off and headed to California. It oddly enough doesn't seem like that big of a jump. California has Orange County Choppers, Wisconsin has a little upstart called Harley Davidson; California is getting better at dairy production-- an art form that was perfected back home. Microbreweries are popping up all over Cali. Beer? Yeah, we Cheeseheads have heard of it. So ultimately, it seemed to me that everything that had ever been perfected in Wisconsin sooner or later headed to the Golden Coast. Why should yours truly be the exception?

That being said, I'm writing this as a recording of my struggles. I can only hope that some of you will appreciate that. You should know that I did not have enough time to get to a computer and blog nonstop this past week, so some of the next few days is going to be by memory.

I left the Dairyland on a day so hot in July that thinking about it should cure any homesickness for the foreseeable future. All the ladies begged me, "Please don't go, you're so sexy." At least that's what happened as best I can remember it. With a wink to said lasses and a tearful goodbye to my folks and family, I took off. I also need to give a nod to my friend PBo, who organized a smokeful goodbye the previous night at the local cigar bar and watering hole.

The oddest thing about my leaving was that so many old friends came out of nowhere. One friend was passing through while on vacation from his post in Connecticut. I ran into others with whom I had attended grade school, and still others that I hadn't seen in a number of years. The odds of seeing all of these people, from so many different places, in such a short time are fairly staggering.

Part of my drive to experience new things, to do things like move to California on an educated lark, is because I don't feel like I can help it. I need to struggle, to indulge in what Teddy called "the strenuous life". I feel made for it; like it's in my fiber. That said, every lunatic in the history of man has claimed that their actions are because God, or the Devil, or Dan Rather drove them to act against their better will. I can't make that claim. This is my decision, the consequences will be mine to deal with. Still, I look back on the dwindling last days that I had spent back home and I can know that I'm blessed. And I can only hope that the chance encounters were maybe, against my typically cynical approach to life itself, not only a reminder that I am blessed, but a blessing on the journey to come.