Here be another narrative intended for inclusion in a book I’m writing about some major life changes that occurred after my 40th birthday. I’ve shared these chapters in quite a few recent blogs, like here and here. I write them in blog form because that’s the one way I know I’ll keep pressing forward with the book. This half-chapter is about my first days in Los Angeles, following a job promotion.
I pulled into Los Angeles at night, 11 p.m. or so West Coast time. I’d just driven the final leg of a trip that started thousands of miles earlier. I was psyched up and worn out; ready to make merry and ready to sleep the sleep of the dead. This is how you feel at the close of a long journey that took days to complete, but really began years before – decades before – when you had it in your head that the world is a big and fascinating place, and you damn well wanted to see it. My vision of that world included spending a few years in California. And here I was. Finally.
It was early November, in the year 2000. That’s how we referred to it back then: the “year” 2000. I can’t remember the exact date. Either Thursday, November 9, or Friday, November 10. I consulted a 2000 calendar to narrow it down, but I’m still not sure which date is correct, and probably never will be.
What I do know is that I arrived in L.A. after election day, which took place on Tuesday, November 7, 2000. I was on the road while America voted, alone in my burgundy Nissan Sentra, barreling west, music blasting, the highway spreading wide before me, lots of empty landscape, blissfully unaware of the extraordinary clusterf**k that followed that year’s presidential results, contributing to a toxic political divide that would only worsen over the next quarter-century.
I didn’t know about any of that at the time, driving down the highway. I just knew I was headed for a new life in a new place, and cashing some checks I’d written in my head a long, long time ago.
*****
The drive began a continent away, in Rumson, New Jersey, a handsome little East Coast town where I lived before my employer gave me a promotion that required me to move from the New York City office to the L.A. office. I packed the Nissan full of clothes, sports gear, stereo equipment, records, CDs, cassette tapes, books, personal items, baseball cards, and various other whatnot. I strapped my bicycle to the rear of the car, and hit the road.
Rumson to Los Angeles is about a 2,800-mile trek, as the crow flies. But I detoured down south first, through Charlotte, North Carolina, my hometown. I spent a couple days there saying farewell to friends and family before hitting the freeway for the West Coast. When you add the Charlotte leg to the trip, the actual drive was more like 3,050 miles (4,910 KM).
I had just turned 42 years old that week, and was embarking on my third cross-country drive. The first two came in 1987, when I hauled from Charlotte to San Francisco, and back again (which I blogged about here).
I was still a very young man in 1987, not yet 30. In 2000, I was no longer a very young man. I was past 40, sliding into middle age. A lot had changed in the years since.
On my first cross-country drive, in 1987, I soaked up all of the experiences, breathed them in, and seared them into my brain. I was awestruck by the endless freeways, the wide open spaces, the vast changes in geography, the sheer breadth of these here United States of America. It was a life-altering journey for a serial underachiever who dreamed big but always woke up small. It gave me a whole new perspective on the world and my place in it.
Now, 13 years later, in the year 2000, I wasn’t looking for enlightenment on my cross-country drive. I just wanted to haul ass and get to my destination ASAP.
You can do most of the driving on one very long stretch of highway, Interstate 40. It runs straight across the continent, from North Carolina to California, roughly 2,560 miles (4,120 KM). In November of (the year) 2000, I zoomed down that highway on a mission, only stopping a few times overnight to crash at cheap roadside motels before moving along, putting in 600 or so miles a day.
The drive itself was largely uneventful. More like a daily grind than anything else. But I did have a couple of memorable experiences.
One took place in New Mexico, where I stopped at a Motel 6. I’m pretty sure it was a Motel 6. That was my lodging of choice on long road trips back then – cheap, clean, every franchise exactly the same.
At this motel, someone tried to steal the bike from the back of my car while I was asleep. I’m 99.3% certain of that. I could tell when I loaded my bag the next morning. The bike was hanging kind of loose, and you could see the effort to release it from the cables that locked it in place. But I had that mofo battened down good and secure, and the would-be thief failed. I can only imagine his (or her) frustration, and it warms the soul…..
The other memorable experience started in Flagstaff, Arizona, where my car and I were met by a thick, blinding blizzard that seemed to pop up out of nowhere and gain strength in a hurry. Flagstaff is a mountain town, roughly 7,000 feet up in the air. At that elevation, you’re bound to run into snow, even in early November.
This storm was so heavy and so harsh that you could barely see 20 feet in front of you. I slowed the car to 10 mph and pointed it in what I assumed was the right direction. I probably should have pulled off and waited it out. But no. I was a man on a mission. So, I just kept pressing forward, inch by inch, yard by yard, against my better judgement. I’m not sure how long the blizzard lasted. Maybe only an hour. But it seemed like weeks.
Then something amazing happened – something that can only happen in places like the American West, where the geography and climate can shift on a dime.
Only a few hours after driving through that blinding snowstorm in mountainous Flagstaff, I was in the Mojave Desert, where the skies were sunny and clear, and the temperature was probably around 90 degrees F (32 C). In the space of a few hours, I had gone from an arctic-type blizzard to sweltering heat. Amazing.
Those were my two memorable experiences during the cross-country drive in November of 2000. In a few more hours I pulled into Los Angeles
Little did I know how much more memorable all the ensuing experiences would be.
*****
Man, was I happy to be in L.A. Happy happy happy. Happy to be at the end of a long drive. Happy to pull off the freeway and onto some surface streets. Happy that I’d soon check into my new apartment, where a bed awaited me, and maybe a beer, if the gods smiled down.
The apartment was in Marina del Rey, a beautiful little seaside community known for its harbor and close proximity to the more famous Venice Beach and Santa Monica. Marina del Rey is one of many such communities and towns that make up West LA. It’s as far west as you can get, hard against the Pacific Ocean.
My apartment was at a sprawling complex called Oakwood Marina Del Rey, not far from the beach (something I would only learn later, on a bike ride). Many of the units were furnished and used as temporary corporate housing. That’s what I got – one of the corporate units.
My employer, Investor’s Business Daily (a financial newspaper), kept several units on hand for employees who moved to the LA office and needed temporary housing before finding something permanent. My memory is that the company paid the first month’s rent.
My unit was a small studio apartment, maybe 300 square feet. It had two rooms – the bathroom, and the combined kitchen/dining/living/sleeping space. It also had a balcony that looked out onto the Oakwood’s parking lot.
The unit was equipped with an old-school Murphy bed, the kind that you fold into the wall when you don’t need it. It’s a brilliant idea, the Murphy bed. When you wake up in the morning, you don’t worry about making the bed. You just fold it into the wall, and all of a sudden you have a lot more space in your living room.
I remember the layout well. You walk into the apartment and the bathroom is directly in front of you. You turn right and the kitchen and dining counter appear on your left. You walk a step further and you’re in the living room/bedroom. Beyond that, to the right, is a wall desk and chair. The sofa and end table are on the left wall. At the rear is the balcony.
It wasn’t fancy. But it was functional. And it was home, at least for a while.
As for the complex itself – it was its own little village. The grounds held six or seven different residential buildings, spread out rather than up, because I think the buildings were only like three floors high.
The complex had a little convenience store that carried various food, beverage, toiletry and grocery items. There was a lobby where you could check in, check out, and consult with staff. I believe there were a couple meeting rooms. And a gym. And laundries galore. Tennis courts. A swimming pool with Jacuzzi. An inner courtyard with greenery and places to chill out. Lots of palm trees.
Another bonus: The staff worked 24/7 to serve tenants – including those who arrived around 11 p.m. in early November of the year 2000, after driving thousands of miles, from the Jersey Shore through North Carolina, and then onward west, through blizzards and deserts.
I checked in, got the key, bought some food and a couple beers at the on-site store (hell yeah!), and strolled to my apartment.
*****
Can I tell you how much I adored that little ol’ studio apartment? Do I have the verbal acumen to describe my elation when I crossed the threshold into its four walls?
Well, it was love at first sight. Truly, it was. I was thunderstruck the moment I stepped inside. I will never forget the feeling I had when I entered it. On my dying bed, I will remember it.
The staff left some fresh flowers in a vase to greet me, which was a nice touch. I’m pretty GD sure I had ever been greeted with flowers in a vase in the endless series of dumpy, roach-infested apartments I’d lived in during my adult years.
But never mind that. The important thing was this: The apartment was mine. All mine. Nobody else’s – just mine. I wanted to hug it for that reason alone.
Prior to that, for more than a year, I had shared living quarters with others.
One was in Wallingford, Connecticut, where I moved from Charlotte in September of 1999. I went there to live with a friend who rented a place in the backyard of a stately old New England home. We shared that place for about five months.
The other place was in Rumson, where another old friend owned a home, and where I stayed for about eight months.
Now, as roommates go, they were just fine. Better than fine. Good roommates.
But: They were roommates. And at my age, early 40s – the lower floor of middle age – I did not need roommates. I needed my own place, my own space. My own rules, and schedule. I needed to wake and see myself and myself only. I needed to come home from work and see myself and myself only. I was 42 years old. This is not the age when you really want to share a place with anyone outside of a spouse and kids. And I didn’t have either of those at the time.
This is partly why I fell in love with that little studio apartment in Marina del Rey. The other part is that it was close to my new job, only 10 minutes by car. In massive, sprawling Los Angeles, that’s a damn miracle.
To this day, the Oakwood unit remains one of my favorite apartments ever. Maybe my favorite apartment ever. (Emphasis on apartment. I didn’t own a home until 2008, at age 49, when my wife and I bought our first one. Before that, my adult life was measured in apartments).
I loved that apartment because it was mine, and close to work, and because it was located a continent away from the life I’d left behind, in the hope that I would finally find my rightful place in the world, at the age of 42.
In a few days, after I’d gotten settled in, I was going to start a new position that required me to be at my professional best. It was the highest-ranking and best-paying position I’d ever had in my life, at a national publication with around 300,000 subscribers. I knew I had to bring my A game — every day.
More importantly, it was probably my last, best chance to fulfill ambitions I’d held for 20-plus years. I couldn’t afford to blow it this time. At age 42, there might not be a next time.
Maybe that’s why I loved that little, nondescript studio apartment in Marina del Rey, California. Because it was my gateway to a future brighter and fuller than I ever dared imagine.
Coming in Part 2: My first days on the new job, and my determination to not screw things up this time.
Image: Rolling into LA on the freeway, courtesy of the World Wide Web
Bonus image (below): My beloved Oakwood at Marina del Rey apartment complex, where I ended up staying for more than a year, because I couldn’t bear to leave after the month-long corporate lease ran out. This photo was from many years ago, the early 2000s. The complex itself has since been razed. RIP, old friend.
Vance Cariaga 