Yesterday, Thursday, I lived in San Francisco. Today, Friday, I live in Los Angeles.
Yesterday. Quite the day.
Three strangers walked into my apartment with boxes, tape, enormous rubber bands and blankets, and began deconstructing my life.
Wrapping things in plastic, pulling drawers of clothes out and wrapping them in blankets, carting out boxes with cruel efficiency. All to an endless soundtrack of packing tape being ripped from the reel, like short sharp bursts of ammo; me in the cross-fire. And the moment I had replayed in my mind so many times so suddenly there. They were gone. The truck was gone. My life in San Francisco, was gone.
I stood in my empty apartment and couldn't help feel like I was somehow letting it down. I was leaving it, after all it had done for me. Fireplace flickering, bright light, warmth, a place to host friends and family. I found myself standing there frozen. Unable to just walk out the door. Was I forgetting something? Not possible. There was nothing in the apartment to forget except for a vacuum cleaner I had left for James, who would be taking over the place in a few short days. Still unable to leave, I started vacuuming. Odd, given the fact that I had arranged for professional carpet cleaners to arrive within 48 hours.
When I finished I looked for something else that might need doing. Perhaps a counter needed wiping or some garbage needed removal. But there was only one thing left to do. Lock the door, with me on the other side of it. And so, ridiculously, I uttered the words, "Good bye" aloud, and did just that.
I headed downstairs to my garage, telling myself that I had done a fine job of reversing my car out of that tight spot for almost five years without ever scraping the side of the car and for heaven's sake, don't blow it now. After carefully backing out, I pressed the programmable remote that was coming with me, and watched the door until it was completely, absolutely, one hundred percent closed.
As I drove away I looked back a couple of times. As if somehow, I could take a mouthful of it with me that way. Store it in my cheeks for some difficult day in Los Angeles when I might need it for comfort.
And then, quite literally, as the first drops of winter rain started to fall from a grey sky, I left beautiful San Francisco, destination Los Angeles.
The drive wasn't one I aimed to rush. I sensed a transformation was taking place and I wanted to feel each moment. I had wanted this for as long as I can remember. En route I took a call from a friend. She asked how far out I was from Los Angeles. "Two hundred and fifty miles," I replied. And then it hit me. "Wow. Finally, I can give the answer in miles instead of years."
There were a few short showers through the northern half of the drive. I stopped briefly about halfway down the 5 to top up on gas and grab a little food. Thirty minutes later, I was back in the car and heading south. I can remember the front seat passenger of not one, but two overtaking cars giving me the thumbs up as they passed me. I must have made the trip to L.A. at least twenty times and this had never happened even once. Now, twice in one drive. Perhaps they saw that my car was packed with belongings and could see I was off to a new beginning. On this particular drive everything felt symbolic. It was a welcome sign.
As I approached the Grapevine, where the hills meet the southern end of the central valley, I was awestruck as always by the beauty of it. The sun was setting to my right, and ahead of me, filling the entire horizon, the land rose up suddenly; layered shades of green-grey silhouetted hills folded into each other. And in the middle of it all, dead ahead, were streams of headlights and taillights, descending from and ascending into the giant pass that would take me to my new home.
I crossed Los Angeles City Limits at 6:44 PM. The window was rolled down. Steely Dan was playing. But instead of the cold air I would normally expect at this time of night, there was no bite. Just ventilation.
I sought out Babylon Sisters on my iPhone.
"This ain't no one night stand/It's a real occasion/Close your eyes and you'll be there/It's everything they say/The end of a perfect day"
Thirty minutes later, and having hit absolutely none of the traffic that I had been bracing myself for, I turned the engine off.
I was home. In L.A.
