Right Back Where We Started From

The Los Angeles freeways felt disturbingly like home. I was coming down the Grapevine, driving 85 MPH just like everyone else, and there was the 55 MPH speed limit sign: I laughed at it and eased off the accelerator a bit. And then I saw the signs for Magic Mountain and there were the 20 minutes of stop and go traffic.

Passing by the exit for 210 East felt wrong—not heading to Claremont, for once—and so did listening to some random indie-folk as I elected instead 405 South. I changed up The Tallest Man on Earth for Mika; "We Are Golden" felt like Los Angeles no matter the singer's origins. And then I changed again, to the 2004 Braineater Pump Up Mix. "F*ck Wit Dre Day" was just right.

I'll be staying with my aunt and uncle in the Valley for the next few days, catching up with friends in the area and working as much as I am able. Los Angeles... California... what are these places?

I spent the last three days staying near Palo Alto with my cousin Cindy, her husband Jay, and their sons Adam and Eric. I played with Bionicles and regular-type Legos, drew pictures, sprained my ankle, went to the beach, and generally fulfilled duties as cool-older-cousin. So apparently one of the themes of 2010 is catching up with Bolivian family: in other words, being a better person.

On I-5 South, just a bit south of Gilroy and early in my drive today, I noticed first a black plume of smoke up ahead of me. It wasn't the smoke monster from LOST. I reached eventually a mess of brush fire and fire trucks on the opposite side of the northbound lane. Traffic was backed up for over three miles but at the front of this jam were half a dozen people or so, dancing and singing in the median with a trumpet, accordion, and tuba.

My aunt and uncle's street in Woodland Hills smells of sunshine and eucalyptus. California!