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?"
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