Do Over

So here I am in California. Again. I've been here for seven months now, and it looks like this time it might actually stick. While I still consider myself a newbie here, it seems like I should be exempt from any cosmic hazing rituals this time around. Here's why:

The first time I moved to Cali, I was fresh out of college. I had dreamed of coming out to the Land of the Natural Disaster since I was a kid. My favorite aunt had fled here to escape our family's loving-but-smothering control when she was in her 20s, and over the years, I had visited her so often that it felt more like home than home did. So when I was ready to forge my own life, it was practically a given that I would follow in her footsteps and head west. I packed up, said my goodbyes, and lugged my belongings across the country to seek my predestination.

Looking back, there were signs right from the beginning that things were not going to turn out as well as I planned, and I hadn't really planned anything all that well to begin with. For starters, I was headed out with not much money, no car, no contacts, no real job experience, no permanent place to live...and no clue as to how to go about getting these things. But I had one thing in my favor -- I'm stubborn as all hell, and I was going to give it all a try.

California smacked me around from the get go. For starters, I had chosen a cheapo fare that involved a very tightly timed stopover in Atlanta airport. If you've never been there, it's a HUGE place, and often connecting flights requires a long walk from one terminal to another. This was the case, and since I had pretty much all my worldly possessions in carry-on bags, I made a frantic dash, dragging about 80 pounds of crap from one side of the airport to the other. I finally tumbled, sweaty and hyperventilating, into my seat for the second flight, and thought that all would be well from there.

Ah to be young and ignorant. My second flight hit some bad weather, and my fellow passengers and I were told that we would not be able to land at Ontario airport (about 2 hours east of Los Angeles International airport), as planned. We detoured to LAX and were coming upon the landing strip, when they reopened Ontario and re-re-routed us back there. Again, we were ready to land, when fog closed the landing strip AGAIN, and we were forced to circle for another hour. The plane finally touched down about six hours later than scheduled, and my poor aunt, who had been following the landing saga for hours, was able to pick me up in our original destination.

A few days passed, as I adjusted to jet lag, friend lag and ambition lag. I hadn't anticipated how odd it would be to live with family but not know anyone else around to talk to or relate to. My aunt Elaine worked crazy hours, and traveled often, leaving me alone with her dog, Mackenzie, for most of the week. I spent most of my days sending out resumes and sitting in her backyard, wondering what the hell I just did, and why the hell I did it. But on the weekends, Elaine would try her best to find ways to entertain me and help me familiarize myself with my surroundings.

And then she told me she was leaving for a week. She and my uncle were going to Hawaii for a vacation. I was fine with being on my own, and I was excited that I would have access to her car while she was away, so I could explore. But no more than eight hours after they left, I took the car to get some gas, and it died. Right in the gas station lane. Not knowing anything about cars, and not knowing anyone in the area, I did what I had to do: I panicked. Then I found a pay phone, called my aunt's neighbor, and begged for them to bail me out.

In retrospect, it was no big trauma. It was just a freak bit of car trouble. No reason to regret my relocation. It wasn't like the earth was crumbling beneath my feet or anything.

Then a few days later, the earth crumbled beneath my feet. And everyone's feet...and homes...and freeways. The Northridge earthquake was a 6.9, one of the biggest in southern California in many years. It hit at around 4 am, only about an hour after I had gone to sleep that night. I awoke to a sound that was like someone pounding on the door to my locked bedroom, trying to get in. Except that the door wasn't locked...and late-night bedroom intruders rarely throw picture frames, suitcases and entire bookshelves down on the floor next to your bed while trying to force the door open. This time, panicking seemed a much more standard reaction to have, so I took the excuse to freak out.

Aftershocks followed by the hundreds, and shaky, unstable buildings tossed bricks at unsuspecting passers-by during the next few weeks. An already weak job market was thrown into complete disarray as businesses spent their days looking for new office space and equipment, rather than for new employees. I was starting to get disheartened by my turn of bad luck. Little did I know that this turn, in turn, would turn just plain strange.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Smell Ya Later

Today's Freeway Scent: 405 N. smells like baked bread and chocolate croissants.

So far, the only smells I've noticed have been breakfast foods. Even in the afternoon, it's been eggs or toast. I'm trying to reason out a cause for this. First I thought that maybe there's a large Diner District that I drive past on my way to work every day, but that seems unlikely. Less likely is that someone is robbing a bakery supply store, stealing ingredients and stashing the uncooked food under my hood every night and when the car heats up, the food starts to cook. But as much as I like my Bakery Bandit theory, even I'll admit that these types of crimes rarely occur outside my imagination.

Speaking of...of course, my first thought was that I'm imagining these smells. But I know my brain pretty well, and if I'm going to imagine a foodstuffs smell, it's gonna be something I like or crave on a regular occasion, and I've never been a fan of breakfast. The day I smell garlic fries or pasta primavera, I'll accept my scent psychosis.