4/15/2013. - Day 20 - This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either. This is L.A.

 Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard...

 4/15/2013. - Day 20 - This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either. This is L.A.

All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die...
This morning starts off amazing because I get to Skype with my mom and my little sisters. They are eagerly showing me their outfits for the day, presenting for my admiration their new books and toys, and singing me their favorite songs. They are beautiful. I spend a bit too much time talking about their favorite colors and the ABCs so I'm slightly rushed to breakfast and checkout. I regret nothing about overindulging in Skype time with my favorite people.

I am becoming fluent in talking to strangers in the hostels, so I make a few friends at breakfast. Steph is from Australia and she offers me a smile and an open seat in the crowded kitchen. I have to inquire, due to the surge of Aussies I have recently met, as to whether or not they all made a plan to rush the West Coast together. We laugh and exchange stories with one another over the meal.

Breakfast is winding down as Steph departs, and before I am finished a young man takes her place. He asks where I am headed (which I have come to understand does not mean someone is going to stalk you--rather it is an understanding that we are all gypsies of a certain nature and this question is a casual conversation starter). I explain that San Diego is my destination for today but I plan to travel the southern states and then move to the east coast. Said stranger then states, "Isn't it a bit unusual for a girl like you to be traveling alone?".  A girl like me. What does that even mean. You have been sitting here for maybe 45 seconds. He catches my incredulous expression and pauses to add, "of course that implies several things that we don't need to get into."

No please, enlighten me as to the stereotype I present given you have had only as much time as it has taken me to lick the syrup off of my plate to evaluate me. Kidding. But seriously, tell me.

I ask what exactly a "girl like me" is. He cleverly answers, "a good looking girl, well educated."

Right. I am wearing a flannel shirt and have my glasses on because I was too lazy to bother with my contacts. We are going to skip over that first part and then assume the glasses have earned me the well educated appearance. I have to laugh.

As I wash my breakfast dishes, I realize I'm late for checkout. I make a mad dash to the counter to make my departure official, and then make my way to the parking lot. Parking has become the bane of my existence, but I have made friends with the man who owns this particular lot and he and I have agreed on a $20 per night fee. Woof. It is costing me more to park my vehicle than to it costs for room and board in the hostels. I am going to start sleeping in the truck.








Hollywood is a bit overcast today but it's still warm and my weather app promises sunshine later. I wish there was an app for parking spots, with filter options for price and distance. This morning I am going to Runyon Canyon for some hiking.  It takes about five seconds to find the gates to the park and another twenty minutes to find parking. The signs read something like, "No parking 7:01PM to 6:59PM. Closed days that end in Y for street cleaning." One side of the street is closed one day from certain hours, the other side is a different day and different hours. I can't handle this. It's honestly too much work to try to figure this all out and I'd probably risk a parking ticket if I wasn't going broke.

oh good, this looks safe

Honestly, I need some sort of legend to decipher this parking system. I might just park on someone's lawn because I'm fairly certain it will take quite a bit of time for them to find a tow truck that is big enough to tow the pickup yet small enough to maneuver this labyrinth of streets, and by the time they come to remove me from the front yard of one of these homes I'll be long gone.  I am beginning to understand the psychology of the cyclists. They are a population of individuals so desperate for parking spaces that they are willing to stuff themselves into spandex and risk their lives cycling through rush hour traffic just to avoid the severe inconvenience of parking. Clearly the frustration of this situation is getting to me if I'm willing to try to see the cyclists' perspective on life.

Runyon Canyon is above Hollywood and starts off as a nice flat trail. Then comes a fork and I can see I have a big decision to make so I ask a local to unravel the mystery of the two trails. She indicates that this trail (I can't tell which one she is pointing at) is less steep and paved and this trail (again, ambiguous pointing) is shorter but steeper. Great. #Thanksforyourhelp. #Istillhavenoideawhereimgoing.

I decide on the trail that most of the people seem to be going on. I think she said this was the steep trail and I'm looking for a bit of a workout so it seems like a good choice. Up above me at the height of the canyon I can see others walking and running and it seems they are extremely far away. Of course, when you see something like that, all you can think is "how did they get up there? I want to do that!". Something you should know about me is I have the mind of a super athlete. I aspire to run and jump and climb and go faster and higher and all that. And I have the body of a fuzzy caterpillar that isn't built for stamina, hibernates in the winter, and curls up when it gets scared. This creates a bit of an issue as there is a severe disconnect between the aspirations I have in my head and the ambition to follow through.

Anyway, I'm hiking up and it feels like I'm climbing straight up the side of a mountain. My calves are
burning and I'm being passed [uphill] by runners as I stagger along trying to simply continue moving forward. The sun has chosen this exact moment to peek its head out of the clouds and now I feel like I'm in Death Valley instead of Runyon Canyon. I am now also reflecting on my dramatic tendencies...

The trail winds through the canyon and the farther I go, the higher and higher I am and soon I am almost as high as all the people I watched from the very bottom and wanted so badly to be like. I'm not sure how this happened as I almost have an asthma attack just watching the runners continue to bound straight up the trail like mountain goats, seemingly without any effort. I pass a girl who has rolled her tank top up (probably just because she thought it looked cuter because I don't think it had anything to do with being tired) and is walking down the trail with her exposed amazing abs and great stomach muscles. I'm really really hot and sweaty so I roll mine up too, hoping there are abs underneath. There are no abs underneath. There is mushy white flesh slick with sweat, but it's so hot that I'm leaving it this way. In addition to my indecent exposure, I'm wearing the pants with no button as a reminder of why we don't eat eleven marshmallow bunnies and then drink two Frappuccinos. They are rolled up to my knees. I basically presenting myself as some sort of hillbilly/athlete poser. It is blazing hot. I don't care.

I reach the top, or the top of this trail. The view is awesome and it's nowhere near as hot as the bottom or middle sections of the canyon. It's actually chilly and windy and I can cover up the missing button and ab-less stomach now. After taking in the view and catching my breath, I begin the descent on a separate trail and come to an aggravating realization. The trail that I was so proud I had completed and followed all the way to the top was the EASY trail. The trail I am on now is more like a thin sandy goat trail carved into the rock and running straight to the bottom. It is steeper, and logically would be faster, especially if you fall and roll all the down. Which would be unfortunate as the vegetation here includes cacti.




I am not as sure footed as these other gazelles and goats running up and down the trail, so I am tip toeing down in my tourist outfit complete with Keens. A man wearing only tiny athletic shorts flies by me and continues running down the trail, leaping over rocks and other obstacles as he goes. Running. Running down the sandy slippery goat trail. My mind is blown. He must have spikes and/or some sort of adhesive gorilla glue helping him with traction. Again, I secretly want to be him and simultaneously want to curl up like a caterpillar at the thought of it. My aspirations and reality are a paradox.











I make it to the bottom and find my way back to the pickup. The hike was well worth the parking effort and the sun has decided to stick around for a bit. I navigate to Rodeo Drive to see the sites. I was almost that person who says "Where is Roh-dee-oh drive" until my mother corrected me. She has the most random knowledge. She was also quietly embarrassed for me. Now I saw "Roh-DAY-oh" drive like a seasoned Beverly Hills local.





Having marked off those sites on my to do list, it's now time to hit Santa Monica Blvd and get down to the pier.  I'm blaring Sheryl Crow on the radio and singing at the top of my lungs. I have closed the windows to avoid the embarrassment of the cliche lyrics, but I'm elated. I hit Ocean Avenue and am again sporting the crazy grin that says "I'm at the ocean and I LOOOOOVVVVE IT." I despise myself for being such a stereotypical tourist.











There are the shops of downtown Santa Monica, the pier with it's carnival (including a carousel) and beach, and the sun has blessed us with brightness and warmth and I am in love with the city. I managed to avoid anything beyond window shopping but did take a front seat on the roller coaster on the pier. Twice.

 

My unhealthy obsession with carousels continues...

    


 There are less people here dressed in scary outfits but I did see a man wearing a banana hammock, balancing on one foot on a large ball, and holding a snake in each hand. I now cannot unsee said man. I'm getting sunburned despite my liberal application of sunblock so I'm kind of worried initially about his exposed cheeks getting crisped. But then I realize he is a very dark African American man and I don't think he can be turned any darker so he is probably safe from charred cheeks. He is still a creepy street performer holding one of my worst fears in his hands so I avert my eyes and dart away.









I continue on Ocean Ave, this time singing Yellowcard because I am again, a very typical tourist/lyricist who cannot help myself. It's already late afternoon but I'm too curious about Venice Beach to skip it and make for San Diego just yet. The sun is still out and I take some time to journal while watching the surfers. A random guy offers to buy me a drink. I'm so clever in these situations (reference the incident with the guy from the Minneapolis bachelorette party) that I respond, "Oh, I don't drink. I'm sorry!" and walk away. I could have said you can buy me a milkshake, but then we'd have to revisit the pants button situation. Just a missed opportunity.




I'm finally on the road to San Diego. I'm insistent on taking the Pacific Coast Highway but it is now rush hour and after an hour or so of the scenic route and just a few miles progress, I'm opting for the freeway. While stuck in traffic, I did have the opportunity to observe a man playing on his steering wheel with drumsticks and jamming out for the duration of our entrapment. He didn't even stop to put a hand on the wheel when we inched forward, but continued drumming away and bobbing his head to the beat. I made a mental note to start carrying a white board and dry erase markers, so as to be prepared for happenings such as this and be able to then write, "We are meant to be--here's my number" and display it to potential suitors such as this. Humor gets so many bonus points. And humor in traffic gets additional bonus points.

Upon getting to my hotel in San Diego, I end up driving around the building five times looking for the door I am supposed to park by, and then try to determine which bags are essential and must be carried in. I finally arrive at my room after ascending 13 million steps, carrying a dozen bags, and really needing to get in to use the bathroom. The key card isn't working and I'm desperately trying it at all angles and then the doorknob turns, the door opens, and a man answers the door. Wonderful.

Awkwardness. Apologies.  I retrace my steps, dragging everything along with me back down the stairs, into the truck, and back to the front desk. I explain that they have double booked that room and leave out that I really need to use the bathroom and try to be empathetic instead of annoyed throughout the ordeal. As I find my way to my new (and now upgraded) room, I'm nervous as I try the new key card. This time I am successful and find an empty room. And I deadbolt the door to guard against any other surprises or unplanned roommates. Goodnight San Diego. Stay classy. And don't wake me up til at least 10:00AM.