LA, Betrayal
LA and I are celebrating our 10-month anniversary this month, and that’s a milestone I know that some people never reach, be it geographically or romantically. Unfortunately, I’ve lost the sense of belonging to a neighborhood, despite the fact that I see the same grim and smile-less corporate clones each day and smell familar [usually disgusting] smells.
I often miss the public places of my hometown with more memories than I can count and the friends’ houses that I grew up in. Even strange neighborhoods in Washington felt familar, especially when they had Christmas lights up or goofy Easter bunny decorations in the front yard. There were street signs and lamps if you got lost and a sidewalk everywhere except near my neighborhood (until about two years ago when the city finally decided to put one in). People didn’t often pass you in the suicide lane and didn’t dare go above 45 in a 35 mph zone. I liked driving by my high school and all the churches, all of which who would put clever sayings or funny things up on their signs that not everyone could understand. It was nice to know that there would always be free parking, even at Radio Shack, though I never wanted to go there and never did.
Despite LA’s challenges and complete opposite-ness of my hometown, I’ve carved myself a niche in the stucco palace next to the freeway that I call home. This is figurative, of course, because if I carved an actual niche I would likely have to pay for it. Nevertheless, I traipse through downtown iPod-free, eager to hear the city sounds and avoid losing my life to an oncoming ambulence (more irony there, but it has happened, I’m sure) or taxi. I know where to hold my breath and at which points to quicken my pace. My walk is calculated, and based on the number of crosswalks I choose to use, it can take me 10 minutes to get where I need to go, or 20 minutes if I’ve left my apartment far too early and risk being 20 minutes early for a job interview (not ironic, it actually happened). I know what times to avoid the school computer lab, the grocery store and most importantly, the overpass that I sometimes walk under. I avoid driving my car where and when I know I will have to pay for parking, and I guiltily smirk when I see people paying the meters after 6pm (they’re free).
I remember telling my friend Jane about my initial worries of moving here, once it was certain. She had just been visiting New York and was so excited to tell me that I would be able to go to the grocery store each night to pick out fresh foods for my dinner, and that art fairs and farmer’s markets would be envelop my swanky and enviable downtown lifestyle. I would spend evenings out on my balcony and see celebrities whenever I went near Hollywood. I laugh when I think about this now, and how I avoid walking anywhere if I don’t have to, and get groceries only about once every three weeks (and spend way too much) because it’s easier to go out to eat. I always wanted to have a balcony, of course, but I never asked for pack-a-day smokers to live above me and uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs. I spend most of my apartment time in my room, in bed, with the shades closed because of aforementioned [nosy] neighbors whose windows and balconies face into mine.
From the homeless man I saw doing God knows what in the “oasis” today to the angry glares I got as I turned out of my apartment building, I take it all in stride. I was going to go more into depth about this, but I’m tired from walking a mile round trip to/from school today with a 40-pound rolling bag in tow. All I can say that is no matter what LA throws out to me, I hold my head high and wear my Wayfarers like I’m the riskiest business in town.
In case you were wondering, “oasis” is the term I’ve coined for the clumps of trees and bushes that they put around freeway onramps to obscure the ugliness of the freeway. However, they turn into humble dwellings for streetfolk, as well as trash vestibules, so they are made of pure irony, as such as an oasis in the desert.
