In Los Angeles

Well here we are, settling in, in Koreatown, LA. I say settling in, but I’m actually awake at 4 AM because of jet lag. Oh well…

It was an uneventful flight southwest across the United States last night. A smooth ride. But in other ways it was shocking – our first flight in three year, because of the pandemic. A decade ago, I used to fly all the time. Back and forth from Atlanta to Johannesburg, 16 hours each way. And to other places – India, Peru, Cuba. I remember few of those flights – they were a blur of bad movies and leg squats in the galley and cranapple juice and Diet Coke.

On our flight to LAX last night I did some reading, some writing, some relaxing, and some thinking. I didn’t have any major insights or epiphanies, that’s for sure. I just enjoyed being in the air, suspended in time and space, masked when I used to be maskless, following my compass as always.

And then gradually, we began to descend toward the City of Angels. That’s always a subtle moment, feeling the thrust go down. And then I remembered her. My patient, suffering. Out inequitable society the reason, the indifference to her plight, and that of her daughter. My own indifference. I tried to help, then turned away to my own affairs.

Drink another Diet Coke. Watch Erik the flight attendant as he cheerfully works the aisle. See the different types of masks on the passengers, and wonder about that young couple wearing N95s, surgical masks, and eye protection. Is one of them immunosuppressed, I think, as I take off my mask to get a sip of my drink. And none of us were tested to get ok this flight! And no vaccine mandate! What’s going on here?

Ultimately it comes down to the people. Who they are. Their life experiences. Their hopes. Their disappointments. Their biases. In Logan, before we boarded the United flight, Joe took out his violin. He spent about 10 minutes fingering a Suzuki Book 1 song, Gavotte, and played it, pizzicato, quietly.

His public musicality reminded me of the night I spent in the Atlanta Hartsfield Jackson International airport many years ago, during an odd layover, with an old acoustic guitar, just doing some Dave Van Ronk style fingerpicking. And trying to go to sleep on a bench.

Well here I am now, awake in Los Angeles. The big buildings, the cars, the palm trees, the aloe vera, the cactus. And I have memories of my three years in nearby San Diego on my sleeve. Boston seems a lifetime, a million miles away.

We’re staying near MacArthur Park, South Grand View Street and 6th Street. And I’m thinking of a short story I could write – “My Search for the Great Spirit in California.”

Because that’s what this is all about, isn’t it?