Driving YMK's Style

I had to go to San Marino yesterday to a needlepoint store. Another confession: I needlepoint, and have for years. I know, all of my 'hobbies' are those taken up by most octogenarians. Needlepoint, I find, is incredibly relaxing, much like the baking. The unfortunate reality is that I needlepoint quickly, so that I'm forever finishing projects that most women have abandoned. You may think that is a good thing, but the cost to finish a needlepoint into a pillow, of which we have plenty, or into a wall hanging, is the price of a small country's GNP. It's absolutely ludicrous, and I only started when I quit smoking cold turkey. I found it was the only thing that stopped me from throwing my husband out of a second story window--really much too low for death, so therefore could only mean a life spent caring for an invalid.

Anyway, I don't go to this store all that often, but I, obviously, needed to go since I was moving. Now, most rational people would have driven there via freeway, even if that freeway was the 210. But no, not me. I have discovered that Mapquest can provide you with directions to any location avoiding freeways, if you so desire. And so desire I did. This avoidance of freeways--I'm trying to figure out how long it would take for me to drive on surface streets to get to Legoland since I've promised my son one last visit before departing and the idea of being on the 405, or worse, the 5 throws me into a profound panic--provides me with an opportunity to see parts of the city that most people don't know exist.

For instance, during yesterday's drive I went past Highland Park, a part of the city that is mentioned as an area of gentrification. And what I noticed were the number of California bungalows that is a mixture of a Craftsman and a simple small house, that was the house De Rigeur in this area. You may think this avoidance of freeways to be a) crazy and b) a waste of time. But I will disagree since this scenic drive through some unscenic areas only took me a mere 30 minutes. Some would argue that I could have done the drive via the freeway, but all of us knows how easy it is to be stuck on a congested freeway, so that the 20 minute drive (notice the freeway only saved 10 minutes) could easily turn into 40 minutes. And for me, it was so much more relaxing, or as relaxing as driving can be for me, which is not that relaxing, but at least I tend to keep the profanities to a respectable level on surface streets, unless in Hollywood, c0mpared to being on freeways. Yes, my husband can't believe I've survived living here for as long as I have given my profound dislike for driving.

One thing I can say about traveling via roads is how it provides you a truer picture of the socio-economic landscape that is LA. There's no road that does this better than Sunset, if you take it from the PCH all the way past Broadway into downtown. This drive is the one that shows you the immense wealth here, and the immense poverty. And how those two stratas are separated by a mere 4-5 miles. It's fascinating if you realize that for most who reside in the Palisades, Mandeville Canyon, Bel Air, Holmby Hills, Beverly Hills, West Hollywood--it starts to get less genteel after Doheny since you can't help but notice the tattoo parlors and sex paraphernalia stores--, the poverty you notice on the corner of Sunset and Alvarado is another city entirely. And since this city is one of the most segregated I've ever lived--this is not an indictment, but a statement of its vast geography and driving culture that separates communities--I can see how easy it is think 'your LA' is one that is about sun, nice cars, farmer's markets, and your personal trainer. I once told a woman at a needlepoint class in Brentwood that it was easy for her to assume she wasn't racist since she never had to think about it in her every day life. She lived in Brentwood, drove a three mile radius to do anything, and never confronted her own prejudices by having to cross paths with too many "black men" or "Hispanic men" that might make her uncomfortable because we know how ubiquitous they are in Brentwood and the Palisades.

After departing the needlepoint store, I drove into Old Town Pasadena via roads--such a hyper-real city since all of it is faux, replicated to make one feel like you are in a small town or smaller city--to go to the Container store. You can imagine how much this store appeals to my obsessive, organizational tendencies. It was almost as good as going into the shoe department of Neiman's. I said almost. The interesting thing about this store is that they provide valet service, can you imagine?

The thing about driving is that it shields you from confronting the realities of life that is less attractive. What it does is not only shield you as to make you impervious to the imperfections of a city that is about those who have and those who serve those who have. The invisibility of those who ride our buses--yes, the fare hikes are needed, but unfortunately those who will bear the brunt of it are the same ones who can least afford it--are the ones that will determine this city and this state's future. It is their children, the same ones that are not getting educated, that will not be able to fill the jobs that will require the most bodies: education and health care fields. Oh, let me stop. I didn't mean this blog about my quirky, crazy driving habits to turn into a philosophical rant about what we Angelenos need to do to insure our state's future.

So, after leaving Old Town Pasadena, I drove home via Colorado Boulevard, again avoiding the freeway. When I got to the corner dominated by the humongous box-like structure of Costco, I glanced up and noticed the charred hillside. The trees that were still standing looked fossilized, as one would imagine the landscape to look if our world were to experience a devastation of the apocalyptic variety. The hills that are green during the winter, rainy months, and brown during the season of drought, looked beautiful in its haunting quality. For the briefest moment, all the cars disappeared, the noise of the radio faded, as I believed myself alone, the only survivor. God forbid.