The Art of Living

Gary appears to have mastered the art of living out of duffle bags:

I am still working on it:

Welcome to Westlake

Sirens are screaming. Car alarms are beeping. Helicopters are thumping overhead shining bright beams of light into the streets. Cars are driving by with open windows and throbbing bass-heavy noise. People on the sidewalk are swearing yelling angry. Welcome to Westlake, a 2.72 square mile neighborhood that is home to more than 110,000 people. Welcome to Westlake, the second-highest density community of any in Los Angeles County. Welcome to Westlake, home to my son, and for a few weeks, Gary and me.

Jason and his girlfriend live in a tiny studio apartment in a funky old building with an out of tune piano in the lobby and a basement that could double as a horror movie set. They are on the third floor. They have three large unscreened windows overlooking the street that are always open. There really isn't room for us here. We are sleeping on an air mattress in the only available floor space next to the big open windows. The first night in the apartment I am awake for what feels like hours. Everyone is snoring and I am lying wide-eyed, questioning every decision I ever made in my life that got me here to this floor on this night that is filled with noise. I am wondering how I am going to exist here without any sleep. I finally find my ear plugs, put my pillow over my head and drift off. By the third night I don't need any earplugs. The chaos outside barely registers. I am sleeping soundly, amazed at how quickly I have adjusted. I am usually almost hyper aware of sounds. But people can get used to just about anything. We adapt. And in the process we can become oblivious to the things that surround us every day.

One thing that surrounds you in Westlake, besides the noise, is Latinos. The population of Westlake is 73.4% Latino, 16.5% Asian, 4.5% White and 3.9% Black. My son is half Latino, so he fits right in. My husband is Japanese and Chinese and Hawaiian and German. When people look at him they are never sure exactly what he is, but he sort of fits in too. Me, not so much. Gary and I walked downtown yesterday through the streets of Westlake and for most of that time mine was the only white face in sight. As we walked it seemed like every man we passed was staring at me. Full in the face staring. Not at Gary. Just me. Sometimes there was a quick glance at my companion, and then it was right back to me. I haven't had this much attention from men since I was a young and nubile 16 year old. It was a little unsettling. But not frightening. I think they were just trying to figure out our story. Much as I was trying to figure out theirs. In the end I think neither one of us had a clue.

Another thing I have no clue about is all the garbage that surrounds you in Westlake. Everywhere you go you see overflowing trash cans and rubbish on the sidewalks and in the street. Yesterday on our walk home we were following what looked like three middle-school kids. One of them was drinking something out of a plastic cup with a lid and straw. When he finished drinking he dropped it on the ground and kept walking. He seemed almost defiant about it, not just letting it fall, but throwing it down with purpose. Like he was making a statement. This is who we are. We drop trash in the street. What are you going to do about it? We have all been discussing theories about why there is so much trash and why no one seems to care enough to clean it up. Maybe the city is partly to blame. In the end we really don't have a clue.

What I do have a clue about is gentrification. You can smell it in the air here. Westlake is up and coming, but not quite arrived. Right now the rent is cheap and it is close enough to downtown to bike or even walk to work. Right now my son can live here and not have to drive in L.A. traffic to get to his job. He can live here and pay half what he was paying for his last place in the Fashion District. A place he says was even noisier than this one. Plus, he can look out his windows and see trees across the street. He says that's one of the main reasons he moved here. He needed to be able to see trees. Because sometimes trees can make everything just a little bit better.

I was thinking about trees and people and people needing trees as we walked home yesterday from downtown L.A. It was late afternoon and kids were getting out of school. We were following a woman and her two children. A boy and a girl. They both had cartoon character backpacks. They were both eating ice cream treats as they walked. Their mom was in front. She was carrying a gallon jug of orange juice in one hand and what looked like a heavy grocery bag in the other. She looked tired. Her kids were walking on sidewalks strewn with trash. There were sirens and car horns and exhaust fumes. There were a few scraggly trees planted in holes in the sidewalk along the way. When she got to her building she put her bag down to unlock the gate. As she turned, she noticed how close we were behind her. I think we startled her. There was a flash of fear on her face. It only lasted a second, until she realized we were harmless. But I couldn't get that look out of my mind. I couldn't get her and her children out of my mind. I was thinking of my own children and the environment they were raised in. An environment where I felt so safe I sometimes didn't lock my doors. An environment filled with an embarrassing abundance of natural beauty. I thought about this tired mom and I hoped that one day she would find the energy to take her children here.

To Topanga State Park. A place that is 32 miles away from Westlake. A place where you can smell the eucalyptus trees through your rolled up car windows. A place where you can wander for hours on long and looping paths in gentle misting rain. A place with vistas so beautiful a camera in a phone simply cannot do them justice.

And I hoped that one day that tired mom
and all the other tired caregivers in Westlake and beyond
would find the strength to take their children here.

To Griffith Park and Observatory - the nation's largest urban oasis.
A place that is six miles away from Westlake and designed to be "a place of recreation and rest for the masses."
A place where you can stand up high above the city and see how big the world is.
A place where you can contemplate

in a free museum filled with stars and planets and questions large and small.
A place where sometimes they put giant telescopes outside on the grassy lawn for anyone to look through.
A place where there are trees and trails and endless flawless sunsets.

You can see the Hollywood sign from Griffith Park. You can see it from Jason's apartment. Fame and fortune almost within reach. But I hope that tired mom doesn't think too much about that sign and all the things it stands for. I hope she doesn't worry if she can't afford to take her kids to Disneyland or buy them fancy phones or dress them in designer clothes. I hope instead she shows them trees. And trails and telescopes and endless flawless sunsets. I hope she helps them see what's possible.

When we first arrived in L.A. we were looking out the windows of my son's apartment. There was a beautiful old mansion across the street, and on the sidewalk and in the gutter in front of it there was a lot of trash. I said maybe we should all go out and pick it up. And then Jason's girlfriend told me that once a week or so a father and daughter come by and do just that. They pick up all the garbage. And that is what I hope for every child in Westlake and beyond. That none of them become oblivious to the things that surround them every day. And that every one of them has someone in their life that cares enough to teach them.

Welcome to Westlake, a place where a lot of people live and work and raise their families. Welcome to Westlake, where there is a lot of noise and garbage on the streets. A place where there are endless opportunities, if you take the time to find them. A place where at least one child is being taught to pick up the trash.

Chaos and Kindness and Bridges Too

Seven days in San Bruno.  Smack dab in the middle of seven point four million people.  There has been chaos.  There has been kindness.  There have been bridges.

A headless human torso is found in a suitcase in front of a Goodwill store in San Francisco.  Various other body parts are found nearby.  A young female jogger is killed in San Jose when two street racers lose control of their cars and pin her to a tree.  She dies instantly.  Or so we are told.  A 16 year old takes cops on a high speed chase in her parents' Mercedes.  She crashes her car into a pizza joint two blocks away from where we are staying and ruptures a gas main.  The resulting fire shuts down the street and destroys the business.  The nightly news is filled with monsters and murder and mayhem.  Seven million people creating chaos.

We risk our lives in the reckless running river of cars that is the Bay Area freeway system.  We spend time going up and down the roads looking for supplies to outfit ourselves for the journey.  We find winter coats and work pants and wool socks.  We find duffle bags and decency.  We find ourselves at the Berkeley Military Surplus store where Jerry takes the time to talk to us.

 

He gives us advice on camping.  He tells us places we must go.  He tells us we don't need lots of stuff, just the right stuff.  He gives us a discount.  I hear him talking on the phone and he is kind.  I think he is kind to everyone.

We venture downtown and remind ourselves what is possible.  We visit the Golden Gate Bridge.

We hear stories of fistfights and daily 'incidents' at the nearby Costco gas station.  People cutting in line.  People not waiting their turn.  Ugly angry people creating chaos.

We are treated with incredible kindness by Gary's sister and her husband.  They give us their bed.  They put bottles of water on our nightstands.  They make coffee in the morning and gourmet meals of Tagliatelle Bolognese and Portugese Bean Soup.  They have been babysitting our car for us and have it detailed before we arrive.  They might be related to us, but they did not have to do any of this.  They have chosen kindness.

We drive across the newly completed Bay Bridge during our search for supplies.  I look up with my mouth agape.  Never mind that the bolts they bought from China are already disintegrating.  We eat dinner at a restaurant in the shadow of the bridge.  The bridge is lit up.  The moon rises over it.  The sky is lit up.  We all stand outside looking up in awe, capturing the moment on our phones.  Bridges!  Look at the bridges!

While we are endlessly driving on freeways and making our way through parking lots it feels as if rage could break out at any moment.  It feels as if we are surrounded by a frenzied mass of humanity that is living on the edge of sanity.  Chaos just under the surface.  There is the feeling that anything could happen at any time.  There is the feeling that a gun hidden in the clock by your front door might not be a bad idea.

But every human being we interact with is kind to us.  The owner of the military surplus store honeymooned on Kauai.  It is his wife's favorite place!  The young man folding towels at the YMCA in Redwood City sees our Hawaiian driver's licenses and his face lights up.  'Are you from Hawaii?!'  'I lived in Waimanalo!'  The guy at the gym up the road from where we are staying is from Ewa.  Gary's grandmother used to have a house in Ewa.  Bridges, bridges, everywhere bridges.

And in other astonishing human feat news, at the end of the week we are actually able to fit all our stuff in the trunk of our car.