Ennui in L.A.

Okay, so it wasn't the Los Angeles trip I wanted.

Not every trip is great. But even at its worst, a trip to L.A. is never that bad. Because it’s L.A. I can’t think of a better place to be miserable.

Even a rough couple of L.A. days can be improved with a mortadella and olive butter sandwich on focaccia and a still-warm fig scone at Proof in Atwater Village.

I’m not going into the details of my complaints. Mostly because they were all nicely resolved, and because there are far worse things in the world right now. And there were good parts to the trip.

Once again, I stayed at the Chandilier House, where I was spoiled rotten by my host-friend Adam. His guesthouse lacks a television and a workspace, and for this I’m grateful. It forces me to cut out the brain-dead background noise and the urge to constantly be productive. On more than a few occasions, I spent spans of time staring into one of the four chandeliers in my quarters, thinking. Feeling my feelings. Working through some shit while engulfed in the fragrance of the biggest lilies I have ever seen.

Every time I stay at Adam’s, the lily bouquets get bigger and more extravagant.

I did almost none of the things I planned to do on this trip. My friend Chip was unable to leave work in Sacramento for the art show opening that included his work. One of my favorite L.A. friends got waylaid with family commitments. I cancelled my reservation to Darling and skipped the show at Gold-Diggers out of exhaustion.

But that’s okay, because I got more than a great meal and easy entertainment during this trip.

There was an emotionally-charged dust-up with one of my friends. The kind that, not long ago, would have sent me into hiding and avoidance until the relationship died of neglect. Knowing that I was leaving in a few days alerted me to the urgency of the situation. If I left town without resolution, I might never return. And that thought broke my heart. So we did the hard stuff and worked through it. I have a better understanding of my friend. They have a better understanding of me because I took the leap and made myself vulnerable. That’s a pretty big deal, and I’m better for it.

While all of this happened on Saturday, so did the highlight of my trip: I drove the 90 minutes or so to Riverside to visit my friend Donna, her husband Bob, and their menagerie of little dogs and big cats. They treated me to lunch at Tio’s Tacos, which I made a point of not Googling in advance.

I’m so glad I resisted, because I was completely unprepared to walk into a sprawling wonderland of labyrinthine mosaic sidewalks and floors through towering junk art sculptures. I know I only really took in a portion of the art, and photos don’t really do it justice, but it was an ideal spot to spend an afternoon on a patio, catching up with dear friends.

There was also a wet burrito the size of an infant that took three mealtimes to eat.

Wet California burrito, covered with cheese and molé, filled with al pastor, guacamole, hopes, and dreams. My big paw for scale.

I was very satisfied with my choice.

Awaiting my burrito, blissfully unaware that what’s coming will be larger than my cat.

After lingering over lunch and talking, we took a drive around Riverside, checking out the Mission Inn (stunningly beautiful) and sprawling Fairmont Park. Bob commented that the park, which would normally be full of families on such a beautiful day, was all but empty since ICE started its raids. People are afraid to leave home. That said, a photographer with a large passenger van was capturing images of a passel of girls in swirling bubble gum pink quinceañera dresses by the lake. For a moment, watching the girls giggle and twirl with each other, it seemed like they might have been able to forget what is happening, at least for a moment.

I skipped our planned visit to The Cheech, because my back was aching. I didn’t realize until I was leaving L.A. on Monday that I had my rental car driver’s seat in a really unsupportive position. I was full of mistakes on this trip.

But I did something right. At the odd time of 8:30 Sunday morning, I had a meeting with a literary agent, and a second meeting with another at 9. The meetings were via Zoom, hosted by a writers conference in Philadelphia. Hence, the time difference, which I was so sure I had screwed up that I showed up to my meetings braless, in pajamas, with bedhead.

But that’s fine, because both agents requested the first 25 pages of my manuscript and a chapter-by-chapter synopsis!

I spent Sunday in a coffeehouse, hunkered down and working, happily being a part of the L.A. creative community, contributing my writing energy to the cloud that swirls over every coffeehouse in town with a Wi-Fi connection.

So while it wasn’t the L.A. trip I wanted, I came away from it with the flush of a day with a dear friend, emotionally stronger because of another, and this much closer to my book publishing dreams. And I managed to squeeze in a mezcal Pimm’s cup from Club Tee Gee to boot.

But it’s been back to reality since my delayed flights home on Monday night. I looked at my finances and realized I shouldn’t take my planned trip to New Orleans for my birthday in a couple of weeks. Tomorrow marks seven months unemployed with no end in sight. I’m bummed, but canceling this trip means I’m more likely to make my postponed trip to Monterey, which feels more pressing right now. Such is life in 2025. I’m grateful to have choices. The unemployment is making it possible for me to throw all my energy into finishing the last bit of rewriting on my manuscript and continuing to shop for agents. I can’t put a price on that.