I hate driving. Like, I really, really hate it. After living in Phoenix for two years, I still refused to drive any routes that involved highways. I lived on the surface streets. While taking classes at Scottsdale Community College, I drove on surface roads for forty-five minutes rather than the eighteen-minute trip on the interstates. My driving anxiety is intense. Once, I parked in the aisle of a busy lot and demanded that Walt switch places with me, find a space, and park. I once closed my eyes when I felt like my car wouldn’t fit between the semi next to me and the rock wall on the other side. I’m the person who stays in the left lane going the speed limit because her turn is coming up in the next ten miles, I brake while changing lanes, and think that tailgating saves me time. You get it.
So, why oh why did I decide that driving to Los Angeles for my writing residency would be the best idea? It was cost-effective, yes (3/4 of a tank of gas to get here). Good for my health, not so much.
I took off from Prescott this morning at 7 AM, four red bulls in my front seat I originally planned to leave at 8 AM to check in with my vacation rental in LA at 4:00, an hour after their standard check-in time of 3:00. Walt suggested that I leave an hour earlier, in case I hit traffic, hence 7 AM. Because Arizona doesn’t believe in Daylight Savings Time, for some reason, I forget that time zones still exist (and they do). So, I gained an hour on my drive and didn’t account for it.
My GPS was cranking along with me the entire way, alerting me to the speed limits as they changed, mocking me with the changing estimated arrival time when I went below the speed limit, and warning me for upcoming turns. Like a Beverly Hillbilly, I cheered and clapped at the first sight of skyscrapers. Traffic wasn’t too bad. I began wondering if LA’s traffic was overrated, like Seattle’s rain (I’ve been there. It only rained once the entire trip.).
The GPS showed me the series of complicated exits, keep lefts, and lane endings. Then it shut off. I pushed the power button and it sputtered to life. It told me to merge onto CA-60. Then it shut down for good. Turns out, my Blackberry charger fits the GPS but it doesn’t provide the same amount of power. Dead GPS. I cussed at it and alternated tapping the screen and power button. I wanted to cry. I inhaled a few sharp breaths, trying not to cry.
Luckily, mom had sent me the directions in a text message when I left this morning. Still, I was left with only one form of direction, a form of direction that didn’t know how to speak to me or re-calculate if I took the wrong exit. I couldn’t have been more relieved to take my last exit and pull into my rented parking space in front of my rented apartment, two hours early.
Well, I’m settled in now, my Space Bags are unpacked, and my wrinkled clothes are hanging in the closet. It’s strange to have cable, colorful walls, and a blanket without a single piece of dog hair on it.
Just as I was planning my schedule for tomorrow and thinking about how much less time I’d need to allow to get to school because of the traffic overrated-ness and all, an old Phoenix friend posted this photo on facebook with the caption, “This is the not-so-fun part of LA.”Yipes. I think I'll be allowing three hours for my 6.21 mile drive tomorrow.
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