The car came slowly to a halt for probably the millionth time. Involuntarily, I applied my left foot to the clutch, eased my right from the gas and with my right hand, shifted the car into neutral, also probably for the millionth time. All around me, traffic moved at a herniated crawl. Just over the right guardrail, I could see the tiny cluster of skyscrapers that make up Los Angeles’s alleged downtown standing lonely and isolated in the valley.
A good friend of mine had been very generous to lend me his car to take myself to his apartment, from which I was to catch a ride from his roommate to LAX to then catch a flight back to San Francisco. But as I sat in bumper-to-bumper hell I wondered if there was perhaps a later flight. I’m unsure what was more alarming, that there was that much traffic on the 405 on a Sunday afternoon or that a city so sprawling didn’t have an equally sprawling subway system. Mexico City, a megalopolis similar to Los Angeles in layout but even bigger, has quite an extensive underground system with subway cars uncomfortably packed to the rafters day and night.
The one that does exist in the city reminds me of the pathetic little Metro Rail from my native Buffalo, the transport equivalent of a ping-pong ball. The best word to describe LA’s metro system is quaint and because of its minuscule radius, limited is also a pretty good one. Besides, no one who visits the city even knows a subway exists hence invisible might be the best term.
I had the window down when the car was actually moving, but during the many standstills, I opted to roll them up and turn on the air conditioning. It was unusually hot that August weekend, so said a local friend of mine, and the heat from the sun penetrated the windshield enough to make me turn up the air even higher. After about ten minutes I was slightly freezing and commenced a vicious air conditioning/window roll cycle that should’ve gotten me sick.
LA’s traffic is a tired cliché until you’ve sat in it. Traveling 15 miles or so takes about forty-five minutes to an hour, and apparently that’s just on a Sunday. This is mainly the reason road rage seems to be a common thing. I could even feel it well up in me at the slightest provocation, like someone not exiting off the highway fast enough or a car blasting an annoying song way too loud. Trapped inside a stationary hunk of metal and upholstery in 85-degree heat while driving standard I found myself taking obscenity and profanity to new heights, and I didn’t care for the mood it put me in. I was easily frustrated enough at some points to drive off the side of the road, if I could only get over.
Fortunately, to offset my verbal tirades, lingering on my taste buds were the lovely remnants of a Korean barbecue meal prepared by another good friend of mine amidst a gathering of several good friends. It seems every time I come to the City of Angels, larger gatherings like those are the norm. Cars of friends arrive from divergent points of the city and beyond, across numbered concrete arteries and descend upon a place where the town’s compartmentalized citizenry can seek human contact. In this case, it was a living room near Los Feliz and gather we did around some of the best barbecue spare ribs this side of Korea Town.
Despite the many gatherings I’ve experienced there, it is easy, I think, to be lonely in LA. Regardless that to get anywhere in the city requires a drive, the term “walking distance” is used to describe a two or three-block radius, maximum. For these and other reasons, Los Angeles lacks the communal cram of New York or Chicago’s neighborhood camaraderie. So, you would think a town where the populace is constantly isolated in cars, houses and far-flung neighborhoods would be a town of snooty hermits. Maybe it’s attributable to the fine people I roll with in LA, but I can’t say I’ve noticed many stuck-up recluses.
After another iteration of braking and shifting, I gazed out over the endless procession of cars in front of me and let my mind wander. I thought about making LA’s traffic more of a tourist attraction. Maybe with T-shirts emblazoned with “I Survived the 405” or recruit tour buses to take tourists right into the thick of rush hour. Surely something as real and gritty as being menaced at by angry drivers yelling obscenities in several languages could be more of a draw than anything Universal Studios can simulate.
It wasn’t until I was about one hundred feet closer to a green highway sign I had been eyeing for the last fifteen minutes that I realized I was in the midst of another such gathering, LA style. All around me I was surrounded by Los Angelinos close enough to roll down their windows and have a conversation with. Of course it didn’t happen. Instead, we communicated with horns, blaring Top 40 radio, questionable maneuvers and even more questionable bumper stickers. I guess that’s something.
Sensing I was close to my friend’s apartment, I looked down at my cell phone and noted the time. It appeared I was going to make my flight after all. With not too much love lost for my fellow drivers, I happily exited the unhappy gathering on the 405 into a normal traffic pattern. Being able to actually drive at the posted speed limit was enjoyably refreshing, as was the thought of not having to get back on that wretched highway again for a long time. It’s just a damn shame I got off at the wrong exit.
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