Leaving California

Before my coffee cooled, 40 years went by.  I arrived in LA, pert, cute, clueless, with two suitcases, the larger one filled with shoes, and $100.  I had everything, I knew nothing and I had a lot to learn.  For example, Sepulveda is pronounced Se-PULL-ve-da, not Se-pul-VEEDA. As a consequence of learning to drive in LA, I am a fearless driver, leaving the fear to others in my path, or in my wake.  Another learning point – the freeway. In the early '70's, freeways had character. They had names; I knew where I was -- the Santa Monica freeway took me west to Santa Monica, the Ventura freeway took me north to Santa Barbara, the Hollywood freeway took me to exotic locales; numbers on signs were secondary and inconsequential.  Being an astute young lady, as I barreled down the freeways, I frequently noticed the Junction freeway. Paying no mind to the number in the middle, I oftentimes pulled out my Thomas Bros. map book and tried in vain to find the mysterious elusive Junction freeway. If only I could get on that freeway, it would take me everywhere.  . . .

Speaking of exotic, the only exotic ethnic group to be found back east (the old country) were the Italians. Since I was of Italian descent, I didn't consider myself exotic. I wasn't exotic, but LA had plenty of exotics.  Never mind the colorful characters from south central LA, east LA, west LA, there were hippies, flower children, rockers, who later morphed into men with purple Mohawks, disco queens, queens, Goths, and all those cute young men lining Santa Monica Boulevard, why on earth were they loitering on the street all day wearing tight blue jeans and tee shirts.  There I stood, an island in pumps and pearls, asking embarrassing questions to my Bakersfield born and bred roommate who magnanimously kept her cool while she explained the facts of life.

Another major adjustment in LA -- the weather. Weather is a concept in California. There is no weather.  Fritz Coleman once bemoaned the fact that he was a weather man in a town that had no weather. 

High tech meant having a typewriter with an erase feature. An elder member of the firm came back from his executive meeting and told me that one day everyone would have a computer on their desk. I smiled patiently at the senile old coot . . . and remember the story while I type from my laptop.

A lot has changed since my arrival. Then, Jerry "Moonbeam" Brown was governor, oh, but wait, he's still governor. The more things change, etc.  And now, the time has come to take my learnings and move to Maryland. Will the culture clash be too much? Stay tuned.