Six months after leaving my boat in New Zealand, I once again boarded a plane and flew eastward to meet up with family. This time, instead of gathering to celebrate Thanksgiving, we were gathering to celebrate my cousin Maureen’s wedding. The journey began with a red-eye from LAX to Cleveland that departed at 11:00 PM PST and arrived at 6:30 AM EST. My attempts to salvage a few hours of sleep proved futile as my family converged on northeast Ohio and more attractive options than sleep presented themselves. Being in Ohio, we decided to do Ohio things. A visit to a thrift store is required by state law and I am nothing if not lawful. For lunch, we ambled over to the Silver Swan Restaurant in Cuyahoga Falls, home of “the world’s best burger.” This claim of “world’s best” was to prove a common theme during our stay in the buckeye state. In only three days, I saw the “world’s longest bar,” “the world’s best golf carts,”and “the world’s largest gathering of shirtless alcoholics” (the last one was my own designation). None of these claims were in any way substantiated, although many were easily refuted. The world’s best burger was okay, although what I really love about the Silver Swan is the surly octogenarian waitress and blue collar clientele (literally and figuratively). At one point during our artery-clogging feast (total cost $2.64), we observed a disgruntled elderly man in a flannel shirt fold up the Akron Beacon-Journal muttering despondently “it’s a sad state of affairs, a sad state of affairs” to no one in particular.
Piling into a caravan of overloaded vehicles, we drove northwest to the hallowed shores of Lake Erie. Reaching Catawba, we disembarked and consolidated the piles of baggage and wedding props into several cars before riding a ferry across to our final destination of Put-in-Bay. Off the port bow a nuclear power plant billowed what I am told is steam into the air while downwind on the starboard stern happy families at a trailer park fished from the flammable water. The island of Put-in-Bay is difficult to describe. It is kind of like Trinidad, only without the diversity. It is somewhat similar to the Virgin Islands, only without the clean water. It is sort of the same as Fiji, only without the stunning landscape, friendly locals, interesting culture, and terrific food. If I were pressed, I would say that it is the poor man’s Martha’s Vineyard. Like any tourist destination, it is probably charming when there are no other tourists around. On a sunny weekend in May there was precious little chance of finding solitude. During our visit, vast swaths of the island were populated by chubby, sunburned families puttering around in golf carts, shirtless men swilling overpriced cans of domestic beer, and enthusiastic boaters sitting in groups on the dock looking at their boats. During one lull in the action, I walked the docks admiring the modest sailboats, basking in the petty satisfaction derived from the knowledge that most of the yachts I saw had never ventured beyond the confines of Lake Erie.
In a sensible arrangement that segregated the younger generation from the more responsible adults, my cousins and I were exiled to a place referred to simply as “the barn.” This aptly named structure was, in fact, a barn with the lower level cluttered with lawn mowers, bicycles, and broken furniture. A set of rickety wooden stairs led to the second floor where 10 beds were scattered about the spacious open room. The strip of bars for which Put-in-Bay is regionally famous were located about a mile to the northwest, though neither distance nor darkness deterred our determined group from hiking towards the hustle and bustle of Put-in-Bay on Friday night. The bars were nothing special, although it did provide the useful opportunity to make fun of other people instead of each other, always a nice exercise in family unity. Sadly, I was reminded once again that my sailing experience does little to impress the young women who frequent Ohio drinking holes.
On Saturday morning, my brother Brian and I conceded failure in our futile attempt to find somewhere that would show the English F.A. Cup soccer final, which pitted the soulless Manchester United against the valiant Chelsea. During our doomed search, we interrogated many baffled bartenders, none of whom seemed to have a clue that the sport of soccer even exists. One boisterous barkeep responded to my query by informing me that “there is only one sport in Put-in-Bay and that is fucking.” When I tactfully questioned whether perhaps a second sport existed that might be televised on Saturday morning, he couldn’t bring himself to stop laughing from his previous comment and I dejectedly headed for the door, secure in the knowledge that I would not be involved in any sport – soccer or otherwise – on that particular weekend.
Despite our inability to watch the epic match between the two current titans of English soccer, Saturday was not an entire waste. The day was salvaged by the lovely wedding early in the evening. Taking place at the Put-in-Bay Yacht Club, the ceremony and reception were both unmitigated successes and a good time was had by all. Excessive drinking and disgraceful dancing were alleged to have taken place although no evidence that would be allowed to stand up in court survives (it should be noted that photoshop can do amazing things these days and any incriminating pictures could be easily doctored, rendering them inadmissible in the court of public opinion). The good time on Saturday night was justly punished on Sunday morning, as the barn looked and smelt much like a real barn. Weary from an eventful weekend, we took the ferry back across to the mainland and my family dispersed to all corners of the country (with the disappointing exception of the northwest). On the flight back to L.A., I reflected on the enjoyable weekend and wished that such gatherings occurred more frequently.
Fortunately, after only a couple of days back in L.A., my friend Joe flew out to Southern California on business. On Wednesday evening, we rendezvoused at Rick’s Tavern, a Yankees stronghold only steps from my apartment. Joe was propping up the bar and was deep in discussion with someone I recognized as a fellow Chelsea fan. After the normal back-and-forth establishing our rooting credentials, our new friend proudly divulged that he is a pornographer whose gimmick is to take pictures of naked women with cats. When Joe made the obvious offensive joke about this concept, the man appeared insulted and mentioned that such jokes are banned on his site. Apparently, a site exhibiting questionable moral integrity will not stoop to sacrificing its comedic integrity.
After visiting a couple of customers in the area, Joe returned on Thursday evening to kick off the long weekend. Considering that his last visit to Los Angeles included staying in a dingy Hollywood hotel where he found syringes beneath the mattress, I had a pretty high bar to surpass in order to assure that this visit was more pleasant. Naturally, as a first step, I got rid of all of the syringes beneath my futon. After that, we enjoyed a couple of good meals courtesy of his corporate card. Throughout the weekend, we dined liked gourmands. On Friday night, we ate at the regal Chinois on Main, one of the pillars of Wolfgang Puck’s empire. Surrounded by the rich and famous, none of whom we were savvy enough to recognize, we feasted on course after course of sumptuous dishes. The meal was capped off by a personal visit to our table by Wolfgang Puck himself. While the women around us gushed, we were too busy savoring our food to be star-struck. Inspired by the culinary experience, we grilled steak and vegetables on Saturday evening and made sushi on Sunday night. During the day, we partook in the Memorial Day weekend festivals sprinkled throughout the different neighborhoods of Los Angeles. On Saturday, we drove up through the Santa Monica Mountains to the hippie enclave of Topanga. Nestled in the arid mountains, the festival featured a stage with indie rock bands, lots of tattoos, and plenty of hacky sacks. As usual, the weather was perfect and we lounged among the swaying masses listening to such bands as Veruca Salt attempt to recreate the magic of Woodstock. The crowd had the hippie look down, although I doubt that at the conclusion of Woodstock that the majority of attendees hopped in their Mazurati’s and went home to their multi-million dollar houses.
The party continued on Sunday when we ventured south to Hermosa Beach. Again, a festival drew large crowds, though this time the event took place near the expansive beach and the crowd was composed of the young, affluent beach bums for which L.A. is known. We settled on a patio bar where we could watch the flow of Californians and listen to the bands. As the afternoon progressed, the bar slowly filled up and our table became a valuable commodity. Next to us, several men drank with a few stunning women, apparently actresses or models. We later learned that the men were members of the band Korn. Gradually, the lovely women multiplied and overflowed to our table. Soon, we were mistaken for a part of the group by arriving members and we found ourselves mingling with the beautiful people. After a couple of hours of chatting up the women, one of the girls mentioned that she and another of the women present were flying to Australia the following week to visit their parents, whose band was touring there. When I inquired which band their parents were associated with, they nonchalantly replied that their dad’s were back-up members of The Rolling Stones. Later, recalling our hours of conversation and picking up on some of the clues to which we were oblivious at the time, such as the way that other people in the bar looked at the group, it became obvious that we had stumbled into a party featuring the “in crowd” of LA that included successful actresses and the children of stars. At one point in the evening, surrounded by a bevy of unbelievable women, I glanced over at one of the members of Korn. Calmly purveying the group, he smiled at me and nodded knowingly as if to say “welcome to the life.” Ours was only a small taste of what it is like to be young and rich and famous, but for a few hours we enjoyed the L.A. experience to which so many people here aspire.
Following Joe’s departure, I didn’t have time to get lonely before my cousin Eric arrived for a brief visit. Having just completed his second-to-last semester at Ohio State, he flew in for the weekend exactly one year after he visited me in French Polynesia. In honor of the anniversary, during his stay in L.A. we drank Hinano beer (it is cheaper in L.A. than in Tahiti), we prepared the steak Roquefort that we discovered in Papeete, and we went for a hike that overlooked the coast of Malibu instead of a scenic South Pacific waterfall. Later, we toured Beverly Hills, gawking at the ostentatious display of wealth. Despite the short duration of his visit, we packed a lot of activities in and he got a small taste of the L.A. lifestyle.
Four months into my stay in Los Angeles, things seem to be going too well. I have a good job, a great apartment, and easy access to all of the exciting opportunities that Southern California has to offer. I am gradually establishing a healthy routine that includes eating well and running. Santa Monica is full of young, attractive, affluent people. The challenge is to make the most of each day and it never seems possible to take full advantage of my fortunate situation. The steady flow of visitors has allowed me to see new parts of LA and to meet people that I otherwise would have missed. The size and diversity of the city offers exposure to foreign cultures and the chance to cultivate specialized tastes. Within Santa Monica, just about anything that I could wish for is available, although everything from yoga to ethnic food seems to have had the rough edges smoothed over to limit the amount of work or frustration encountered and to maximize the enjoyment. It is tempting to become complacent and to take satisfaction in such a consumer-driven lifestyle. After only a few months, my concept of what is reasonable to spend on clothes, cars, and food has been drastically altered. Befitting the stereotype, in LA appearances do matter. Yet, such an obvious realization should not be misconstrued as a condemnation. Perhaps the greater discovery is not that appearances matter in LA, but that appearances matter everywhere. We are raised to believe that you cannot judge a book by its cover. It is true that first impressions are not 100% accurate. However, the way someone appears and talks and acts are ultimately all we have to go on. It is valuable to attempt to get to know someone better, but more often than not the way that someone dresses and carries themselves usually is indicative of the kind of person that they are (or at least that they want to be). In LA, people reveal their personalities through their purchases. What does this car say about me? (On the way to work, I often make split-second decisions about someone based on the way they look and the car they drive. My instant judgments are almost always accurate. If they look like a jerk, chances are that they will cut someone off or run a light within my view.) Angelinos are aware that they are judged on appearances and, thus, great care is put into conveying the correct message. Compared to poorer countries where style takes a backseat to functionality, this can seem shallow and frivolous. It is, but in this post-modern world in which we enjoy an affluence far beyond our needs, it seems to be the next step in our national evolution. LA is not Paris in the 20’s or San Francisco in the 60’s, but, at this moment, it does seem to capture the personality of America better than anywhere else that I have visited.