Duality, Los Angeles 2018

I’m finally back in Los Angeles after two months in Stockholm.

And it’s heartbreaking.

From the second I got off the plane and needed to get though passport control, I was smacked in the face with the brutal reality of how utterly run-down our infrastructure is.  The line wound back on itself I don’t know how many times… every masked person itching their noses, wiping their pits with their sweat-stained shirts and fanning themselves with their hands all waiting in a line that seemed infinitely long and complex and sedentary.  Since AM is a green card holder we didn’t get to do the line for residents–we had to wait in the cattle-call queue with everyone from everywhere.  The heat combined with sleep deprivation combusted in a white-flash panic-attack the second my feet stopped moving and my gaze moved down the never-ending contour of shoulder after shoulder blending in the end to a horizon of dark wood, industrial carpet and immigration posters.  The ensuing panic was luckily short-lived thanks to a helpful docent who, upon seeing Elliot moved us into the expedited service line for people with special needs.  Membership in the 47 club sometimes has it’s benefits–thanks bud.  Otherwise I’m sure I’d still be in that fucking line, hair on fire, ranting incoherently, every sixty seconds one minute closer to dying in an attempt to reenter the country that somehow managed to forget what a functioning society requires.

Victory was short-lived as the challenge of transporting five people and two moths-worth of  luggage ten miles from the airport to home swung steadily into view.  There are no cab pickups at LAX arrivals–you shuttle to a separate area of the airport where lines of Uber, Lyft and Taxi’s then shuttle you home which all sounds ok in practice but turned out to be more of a logistical head-scratcher.  The shuttle buses were ill-equipped  to handle the amount of baggage we had, of course, and they were hopelessly over crowded besides being too few and too far in between.  In the end, we walked from the international terminal all the way to the ride-share area–which just happens to be the furthest point from international arrivals as the crow flies.  So cut to five utterly exhausted and overburdened souls trekking for 25 minutes across all the concourses LAX has to offer just to get a cab. When we finally got there, I scanned down the line of cabs waiting… there were a bajillion of them of course, found the first mini-van, opened his trunk and started loading in the myriad duffels, suitcases and backpacks we had hauled all the way from Europa.  The driver got out, looking scared and confused, and said he might get in trouble for picking us up so far back in the line (there were twenty Prius’s in front of him).  He scanned the taxi queue for a second, considered silently for a second more than looked me in the eye and said, 

“Get in!”

So we boarded as he loaded the remaining metric ton of bags into the clown-car-style-cargo-hold of this surprisingly roomy Chevy minivan.  Relief washed over me.  I rolled down my window as we pulled away from the curb, the breeze on my face melting my tension for a short-lived reprieve as the minivan first accelerated then slowed to a stop after being signaled by the guardian of all things ride-share-related for a little tete-a-tete with our driver.  He said something like, 

“You can’t pick them up back there!” to which our driver said, 

“There were no other minivans, so I told them it was ok!” to which the guy who would offer to watch the class while the teacher was in the bathroom replied, 

“Yeah, but maybe the other people in the line (we were first in line) needed a minivan.  You do that again and you’re OUT OF HERE!”

…and we sped away.  Our driver later told us that it’s not uncommon to get banned from the LAX ride-share for making simple mistakes.  He liked it better the way it used to be before Uber and Lyft.  So did I.  

Driving to our house in Santa Monica is a straight shoot down Lincoln, quite possibly one of the ugliest stretches of American sprawl you can ever hope to not be stuck in traffic on.  Each donut shop, 7-11, liquor store, Chic-Fil-A, CVS pharmacy and weed apothecary we sped by peeled back another layer of the Taco Bell Chalupa Supreme of my soul to ultimately reveal what could only be described as carne-emptiness. 

I had spent two months living in beauty–both form and function.  The air wasn’t chocking me.  The water didn’t taste like chlorine, yet here I was, staring down a quickie mart that looked straight out of Grand Theft Auto 5, covered in trash, smelling like piss while people came and went with 2 gallon soft-drink cups in one hand and a hotdog or hot-lamp baked pizza slice drooping in the other.  

We got home and unpacked.  It felt strange to be back in the house again.  No one could flush the toilet right because they were having trouble finding the handles (after pushing buttons on the top of the reservoir for months on end).  Everything was just a little off.  Everything was just left when you thought it was right but nothing so jarring as Lincoln Boulevard in bright daylight.

Later I climbed into bed with AM and we pulled the covers up almost over our heads.   For the first time a familiarity overcame me and I was lulled to sleep almost immediately.  The next morning I was struck by the duality of it all–of being so sad to be somewhere you no longer wanted to be, but so unbelievably happy to sleep in your own bed.  Sometimes we need small wins to continue on. 

Shot on a LeicaM7, Kodak Tri-X pushed +2 at the Icon.