It took me over an hour to make a twenty-minute drive today. Traffic had nothing to do with it. Turns out, Venice blocks every important road in town for a huge group of runners and bikers. As I’ve mentioned, my GPS has seen better days. As I cruised down my normal one-way street, looking left at every cross street, I saw nothing but yellow tap and orange roadblocks. I reached the next large crossroad to meet only more yellow tap and orange roadblocks. Luckily, a cop guarded that intersection.
I got out of my car, “What can I do to get out of here?”
The Hispanic man answered. I, of course, had no idea what he said.
“I’m sorry, what street is open?”
“Dewey,” he said, I thought. “Go back.”
“Go the wrong way down the one way,” I asked.
“Yes,” he pointed, “other way.”
“There’s no such street as ‘Dewey’,” Walt said, from the other end of the phone line.
“He said Dewey,” I insisted.
“There’s a Dudley Street,” he said.
I agreed that maybe he was right. I reached Dudley and when it reached my main street that I needed, it was blocked as well. My hope dwindled and my lip quivered.
I turned down the next one way toward my main street, it looked clear. An Asian woman shouted at me. I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. I burst out in loud, gasping sobs.
“Are you crying?” Walt asked.
“Yes!” I heaved. “I’m lost. And a lady just yelled at me. And I just want to go back to my apartment and wait until this stupid running thing is over.”
The Asian woman seemed to be approaching my car.
“The lady who yelled at me it walking toward my car. I need to turn around.”
“Gross,” she yelled, “Gross is open.”
“Gross is open,” I told Walt. “Who names a street ‘Gross’?”
“Rose,” Walt said. “Rose is the next street.”
I pulled up to the next roadblock; the cop guarding the intersection pretended not to see me.
“How do I get out of here?” I asked. “I need to get to the 90.”
“I’ll let you through here,” he said, lifting the yellow tape.
That helped me cross my main street that I needed to cross, but I still didn’t know where I was, I’d been driving for twenty minutes and nothing looked familiar.
Finally, I flipped a U-Turn to try to make my way back to my apartment, I’d just miss the first lecture of the day. A cop pulled behind me in an amazing feat of car gymnastics. On flipped the lights. I tossed my phone into my cup holder, hoping the cop hadn’t seen my phone.
The cop rolled down her window. I’m used to male cops. They don’t make me feel like I’m a wimp for wanting to be a writer, not a female firefighter or police officer.
“The only reason I’m not giving you a ticket is because I don’t have time,” she said.
“I’m really lost!” I exploded, more of the sobs I couldn’t control.
“Then you should pull over and get directions,” she said. “Where are you trying to go?”
“The 90,” I said, holding my breath.
“Just get on Lincoln,” she said.
“I can find Lincoln!” I’d reached the point of no return. I was now publicly sobbing to a local cop. I’d been searching for Lincoln for thirty minutes.
“You can’t be talking on your phone,” she said. “You’ll hit a pedestrian.”
I nodded frantically. If I were going to hit a pedestrian, I’d do it whether I had one hand, two hands, or five hands on the wheel.
She sighed and looked ahead to the street, “Follow me.”
I followed her, and in a few turns, she had me on the street that I needed to enter the freeway. She pulled up beside me and yelled through her open window, “The 90 is straight ahead.” I didn’t understand exactly how shouting with her across car windows was safer than me talking on my cell phone, but I was grateful, nonetheless.
I pulled into the parking garage, still breathing and ten minutes before the first lecture was set to begin. Allegrophobia, for the win, again.
After a nightmarish start to the day, things went great.
The first lecture of the day was about the American road novel and how writers can explore the idea of self-discovery through a road narrative. She offered tons of self-discovery novel recommendations with the road as a central theme and mapped a diagram of the process that the character evolved through.
The next lecture was well-attended, shocking even the professor. “Teaching Academic Writing,” he opened, “why are you all here?”
Everyone joked that we all needed back-up plans for writing. We’d need to get jobs eventually. The detailed the “conversation” that’d been happening in the education circles since the 1950s and how thinking had evolved since then.
The first of Lunchtime Student Readings was today at lunch. I’m pretty bummed that I didn’t get on the list to read this term, but I’ll be here four more times, so the opportunity should come up.
This afternoon ushered in panel conversations by an instructor from each of the genres about using non-linear constructions to tell a traditional narrative. Loved it.
Tobias Wolff guest lectured for us today. He’s an amazing writer who doesn’t contain his talent to one genre or one format, writing short stories, novels, memoir, and a bit of poetry, I think. He revealed a lot of his secrets and gave us all kinds of tips for various genres through explaining how he worked through any problems that he encountered and reassured us by admitting that nothing he writes happens easily.
The night wrapped up with a graduating student group of readings and a reading by Tobias Wolff, “Her Dog” and “Bullet in the Brain.”
To wrap up an almost-perfect day, I found my way home and used the same combination of roads as I did last night, a first for the trip. Great day, minus the surprise marathon roadblocks this morning, of course.
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