Welcome to Los Angeles: A Threshold Story
I thought my last night on the road to Los Angeles would be a buffer - a simple pause between two chapters. A night of reflection before stepping into a brand new life. I had already done the big thing: moved out, packed up, crossed state lines. I had my fat black cat in the car, the music queued, my optimism cautiously zipped in the passenger seat.
I booked a night in Desert Palm Springs. It wasn’t necessary - I could have driven straight through - but something in me wanted to land soft. Wanted a ritual. A final inhale before the exhale of arrival.
What I got was not ritual. What I got was the desert testing my readiness.
First, a mix-up with the Airbnb address. A pamphlet saying "Welcome to Joshua Tree!" when I thought I was staying minutes away. One hour of daylight left, cat in the car, me behind the wheel driving through the most surreal stretch of road - where the fast lane was going slow and the slow lane was speeding up, like even the cars weren’t sure where they were headed.
Joshua Tree felt like a lunar base. A place where people moved to vanish into myth. I was just a girl with a cat, a coffee thermos, and a suitcase full of hope. I arrived at what I thought was the Airbnb - it was the National Park headquarters. The real address was three pages in. An hour back in the opposite direction. Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool cool cool
By the time I reached the right place, the sun had disappeared. I was crawling down a road that barely deserved a name - five miles per hour, dodging rocks and dips, trying to keep my tires intact. This “street” had it all. Old tires, garbage, a grocery cart full of what? You guessed it, garbage! Maybe there was a person pushing it? I don’t know I didn’t look long enough!
Anyways, the house was a concrete rectangle. Retro. Strange. Fine. I leaned into the vintage and decided to call it a reset.
The next morning, the day of my arrival in LA, I tried to start gently. I brewed my coffee, played my music, opened the back door to take in the sunrise. Deep breath in… ahh! And then - click. Wait. Locked out. PJs. Slippers. No bra. No phone. Cat inside. Music blaring. Desert silence all around me.
I laughed. I nodded. I nodded again. And then some more. I think it was, seven or eight times? Then I started walking.
First house: abandoned. Second house: barking dogs. Ya no for sure. Third house: a kind older couple. Which was stellar news, it meant I wasn’t going to end up on Dateline with my yearbook photo and all my friends crying about how sweet I was. I told these non-serial killers the whole ordeal. Tried to log into Airbnb. No two-factor code. Called customer service. Got in touch with the owner. They gave us a lockbox code. Here we goooooooooooooooooooooo
Wrong code, because obviously.
It didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t mad. I just spent an hour talking to two non-serial killers in my pajamas, trying to fold my arms high enough to hide the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra. But don’t you worry, I wasn’t broken. I was becoming.
The sweet man waited while we called again. Got the right code. I got back inside. I didn’t break a window. I couldn’t. They were too beautiful. Too old. I had enough old things breaking around me already.
That’s how I arrived in Los Angeles.
Not on a pink cloud, not in a rush of promise. But through dust and grace. Through disorientation and small kindnesses. Through a lockout that whispered: “Are you sure you want this?”
I laughed. I nodded. And said oh hell yes.
And started walking again.
Just like my Grandpa, when I told him,
“You really march to the beat of your own drum.”
And without missing a beat, he smiled and said,
“No, I just listened for the music… and started walking.”
This story is for him.
He always told me to write down the cool things that happened.
So here I am, Pa.
Writing it down.
Listening for the music.
Still walking.