In the JK Rowling books, you know how Harry's scar throbs when Voldemort gets angry? That is how I feel in USA. Except I have 350+ scars.
Oh America, land of big cars, bad food, good friends: I adore & abhor you most sincerely. Farewell, so long, goodbye!
One day we went out driving to look at all of Byron's youthful haunts. Our own disgruntled teenager quickly tired of the nostalgia tour so we turned the car toward modern entertainments.
The nearest movie theatre was at Westminster Mall but as we entered the parking lot something was most definitely not right.
Geese were nesting not just on traffic medians but straight across lanes. When Byron steered to avoid crushing them we noticed that the parking lot of what we remembered as the largest and busiest mall in the northwest Denver metro area was. . . entirely empty.
Of all the ways that writing as a profession sucks ass, the worst is dealing with the quesition "so what do you do?"
The question is hard to answer because people bring weird mixed up preconceptions to the conversation. Do I earn a living? Huh - would you ask a dental hygienist that question? Anyway: yes. Can you find my books in bookstores? Um. Well. Yes.
Books are often found in bookstores.
Throughout most of the years I lived in the United States military recruitment ads were selling a version of service that looked like a video game: fast action, high adrenaline, cool. They were compelling, visually interesting. They made the military (and war) look like fun.
Later, when recruitment figures went down, the sales pitch became more specific and elaborate: the credentials you could gain, the boost to your career, a free college education - the benefits were the promotional angle.
Now?
Memo: I came here in search of GOOD weather. Not historic cold snaps!
Snow storms? Rolling blackouts? Stranded in the desolate ruins of downtown Houston?
No problem, because I discovered a secret portal to another world.
Looking for un-sexy, anti-fun, dystopian design? The Houston Tunnels have it all!
One observation from my travels:
Now that I'm old, a different type of creepy stranger hits on me! Whereas I was once pestered only by peers, recently I have had unwanted attention from a larger variety of socio-economic and age groups.
Though it is possible I was just too stupid to notice in youth.
Driving around in rural Texas I was amazed by many things, like abandoned houses, empty storefronts, and desolate car lots - all of which look as though they were thriving until recently. Like, say, weeks ago.
Marisa is a good friend, dependable, steady, perceptive, patient. She is the secular equivalent of a godparent to my children, the executor of my estate, an esteemed honorary member of the family. She is there if I need someone to listen, or a ride, or a friend to fly to the other side of the world and just hang out. And I would do the same for her. We don't talk much, because we don't need to; our friendship occupies a space beyond performance.
Final observation: here in California, despite plentiful allocation of street and private options, valet parking dominates the commercial landscape. Hotels, stores, bars, restaurants - even cheap shoddy restaurants!
And all the attendants, regardless of heritage, look like Jason Bourne.
Why? Are they anticipating a sudden call for an undercover mission, are they hoping to be cast in a movie, are they so bored they have nothing better to do than lift weights, or do they just enjoy the aesthetic?
Meandering down a Santa Barbara side street in the twilight I was not at all surprised to encounter Andreas, last seen where? Paris? Berlin?
My friends do tend to wander. Though right now I would prefer to have them over for a dinner party at my own house.
Summary, Week 4, Great American Road Trip: I miss London.
Santa Barbara: what to say? Great place, if you want to view the first offshore oil rigs in the country. Awesome, if you enjoy literally kicking homeless people out of the way to shop for high-end handbags.
