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Los Angeles
Jan. 20th, 2001 12:00 amSo on Monday morning I was on the train again, gliding north from Irvine, Orange County flashing by as it only can from the railroad. I felt relaxed, relieved. Nothing to worry about, keep track of. I was out of the house finally, just me and my Kodak bag with a few material things: a pair of jeans, cordorroy pants. a Cal sweatshirt, other clothes. a Minolta camera and some film in my backpack, two notebooks and a mechanical pencil, graphite in two degrees of softness, all tucked away in my bag. Coming off an initial caffeine rush from my morning coffee, I was content to gaze out the window and contemplate the meaning of my journey. I was finally going in to Los Angeles and I felt humbled before that great city. I speak the name "Los Angeles" with reverence, as I know it is a great and significant place. My private agenda was to go into the heart of Los Angeles and hopefully come to see it as a legitimate city, to experience Los Angeles on its own terms. The other part of my journey would be much less idealistic, a sober reality I did not yet believe -- to break up with my girlfriend of three years. I tried not to think about this, it was too unreal. Santa Ana, Fullerton. Cars waiting at railroad crossings.
Two days earlier we had gone on a trip to Joshua Tree, where she said she wanted to break up. Actually it wasn't like that. I had to ask, "are we breaking up?" And the reply came slowly, "I... guess.. so." I broke down after that. "I.. didn't mean to make you cry," she said at length, apologetically.
I knew it was coming of course. Subconsciously, consciously even, I knew that that was what this trip was all about. After all, we were moving apart. Physically, I mean. Me to Sweden, then her to New Zealand. And then to graduate school or whatever, who knows where, and and for how long. But not like this. This was premature, and independent of our upcoming travels.
The next day passed in abstract sepia tones, a disconnected trek to some lonesome oasis in the middle of the desert, a stand of palm trees eeking out their existence in desert solitude at a remote aquifer. Just like in the movies. Casablanca. More and more tears as she drove us home, the 10 to the 91 to the new toll road.. it was horrible, the absurdity, and how she seemed utterly unaffected.
After that I didn't want to do anything, anything at all. I wanted to be back in Berkeley, but instantly. I wouldn't have my car for a week and I had to wait for it. Bumming around the house proved intolerable, so I got on the train bound for Los Angeles, in search of answers.
After Norwalk I began paying attention. I was beginning to wake up for real, and this was new territory. I remember clearly the skyscrapers emerging from the mist above an industrial wasteland, just before entering the rail yards antecedent to Union Station.
When you pull into Union Station, you don't see the station. You see train tracks in the midst of an urban expanse, rising out of an eerie mist. "LA Unio----n station," intoned the Conductor. "For Metrolink train Six-Oh-Seven," he continued, "this is the end of the line."
Two days earlier we had gone on a trip to Joshua Tree, where she said she wanted to break up. Actually it wasn't like that. I had to ask, "are we breaking up?" And the reply came slowly, "I... guess.. so." I broke down after that. "I.. didn't mean to make you cry," she said at length, apologetically.
I knew it was coming of course. Subconsciously, consciously even, I knew that that was what this trip was all about. After all, we were moving apart. Physically, I mean. Me to Sweden, then her to New Zealand. And then to graduate school or whatever, who knows where, and and for how long. But not like this. This was premature, and independent of our upcoming travels.
The next day passed in abstract sepia tones, a disconnected trek to some lonesome oasis in the middle of the desert, a stand of palm trees eeking out their existence in desert solitude at a remote aquifer. Just like in the movies. Casablanca. More and more tears as she drove us home, the 10 to the 91 to the new toll road.. it was horrible, the absurdity, and how she seemed utterly unaffected.
After that I didn't want to do anything, anything at all. I wanted to be back in Berkeley, but instantly. I wouldn't have my car for a week and I had to wait for it. Bumming around the house proved intolerable, so I got on the train bound for Los Angeles, in search of answers.
After Norwalk I began paying attention. I was beginning to wake up for real, and this was new territory. I remember clearly the skyscrapers emerging from the mist above an industrial wasteland, just before entering the rail yards antecedent to Union Station.
When you pull into Union Station, you don't see the station. You see train tracks in the midst of an urban expanse, rising out of an eerie mist. "LA Unio----n station," intoned the Conductor. "For Metrolink train Six-Oh-Seven," he continued, "this is the end of the line."
