This weekend I was on a mission: to touch the Pacific Ocean with my bare hands. It took some doing, but I managed it. First I had to drive six hours west across the desert and the L.A. basin, listening to each radio station for about three minutes before it faded into static. Then I had to find Dr. G, who was at a conference downtown. Then I had to help my little brother find me, as he was also driving into the city for the weekend. Many attempts to thwart him were made, including a fender-bender, bad traffic, and inexplicable tunnels and one-way streets near the hotel. He persevered and at last arrived. I also had to eat some yummy pumpkin and prosciutto pizza, endure an unannounced power outage due to “maintenance” and play constant phone tag with various family members. Finally I was in Santa Monica, trudging across a quarter-mile of sand to the water’s edge. There was a lot of trash in the water (pork chop bones, anyone?) and it didn’t smell so hot, but the seaguls were enjoying it. I put my hands in anyway.

I also visited a vintage clothing store recommended by a stylish friend of mine, where I scored some funky barely-used shoes. They look like leather sneakers, with skinny velcro straps instead of laces. The funky part is the tongue– a bright cartoon print, like children’s bedsheets. The brand logo on the heel uses the same print. Very japanse hipster. Now that the weather has become amenable to shoes other than flip-flops, I’ll be wearing them, like, totally, every day, and stuff, man. Rockin’. Trippindicular.

Then it was off to visit my grandparents, who once drove from a party in Palm Springs to Prescott, AZ, just to see if they would like it. We finally met up at my sister’s place in Long Beach for fun and conversation. This time we wisely left the Settler’s of Cataan on the shelf and watched the american version of The Office instead. We ate Mexican food and slept well. Church in the morning, fancy sandwiches, and a long drive back. I tell you, there was not a single occasion in Southern California that I got onto a freeway and was able to drive directly to my destination. Time of day and direction of travel didn’t seem to matter; traffic jams were inevitable. After sitting in traffic for an hour in Riverside, I begin to see why so many people are willing to leave their oceans and scenic byways and art and buzz and restaurants and celebrity sightings for the less happening but less crowded desert cities of Arizona. Me likey.

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