Being an Angeleno means accepting certain facts about LA life such as, never ending traffic, the perpetual smog, and of course earthquakes. Although I've lived through a major earthquake (6.1 magnitude) I am still woefully unprepared for any earthquake let alone the Big One. Yesterday's earthquake reminded me, as well as all of LA, about this fact.
Summer in Southern California means minimal clothing. Summer in my un-air conditioned house means practically no clothing. During my vacation I'm accustomed to lounging around the house in my underwear while doing household chores. Yet yesterday's 5.4 event made me question this practice. While washing the dishes at 11:42, the first wave of the earthquake struck. At first I thought a large truck was driving by but by the time the second wave rolled around and the house began to sway back and forth I knew it was an earthquake. I ran quickly to a doorway since I remembered once being told that it was the most structurally sound part of a house. Yet the doorway's back and forth motion didn't inspire much confidence and I decided to run for it. Since my hands were wet the knob to my front door wouldn't turn. I finally opened it with my t-shirt and leaped out onto my front porch... in my underwear. In plain sight of the construction workers building my neighbor's fence. The shaking had stopped but I was too nervous to go dress so I grabbed a towel. And there I stood on my front porch wrapped in a towel. I tried to hide behind my screen door but the damage had been done. I now wear clothing at all times of the day. In. The. Heat. I even think about what pajamas I’d like to be seen in case another earthquake strikes at night. That flimsy camisole is out. Pants have now been re-prioritized to the top of the list of the usual earthquake kit requisites. I never thought earthquakes would influence my clothing choices or lack of. Of course, it doesn't help when every single channel has been describing LA as a bowl of Jello and citing all statistics that point to the Big One occuring anytime from now to the next 30 years. Still when the next earthquake does hit LA, I'll be ready. With pants.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Combis
Just back from what is turning into my annual trip to Mexico. My two weeks went by so quickly yet so slowly. I tried so hard to keep my New Year's resolution of writing each day even if it meant listing the contents of my lunch. Didn't suceed entirely but I tried. Here are some entries from my trip.
Now I consider myself a connoisseur of public transit systems and I've endured the many quirks that come with public transportation. I've been compulsively meowed at by a transvestite in Hollywood, I've been ignored by Parisians when I tried to figure out the subway system for the first time at 1 o'clock in the morning all alone, I was once on a night tram in Amsterdam where my friend and I were the only passengers and the conductor kept saying into the microphone "So you vant to party? You vant goot time?", and the scariest moment of all: being enveloped by the crowds in the Mexico City subway and consequently being dragged out at different stops. Yet nothing can equal the experience of a taking a combi.
Combis are what would be recognizable in the US as a hippie wagon. Yet here they are used as a public transit system. They abound everywhere and are way cheaper than taxis (each ride is about 45 cents) and just as fast. There's a certain art to riding one, almost like an extreme sport. First you must step out into the street and hail one in the same manner as a taxi. This is the tricky part. You have to step out just enough so that the driver sees you and then step back quickly lest it run you over. You hop in and your mission is to find a seat before the driver steps on the gas and sends you into someone's lap. Oh, and manners dictate you say hello to your fellow passengers. After all you might just have to have a stranger's loin in close proximity, it's just good manners to say hello.
Although they're quite small I've actually been in ones where there are nineteen passengers not including the driver. Everyone squezzes in even if there's only standing room (hence the loins in very close proximity). At night, they're even better. Most are decked out with interior neon lights and bad music; it's like being in a mini traveling discotheque. Since the colonial downtown area wasn't built for modern day traffic, streets are very narrow and difficult to navigate. Thus, the combi driver has to make use of every chance to accelerate, pedestrians be damned. While this may be exciting for those lucky enough to get a seat, it can be extremely tortuous for those who have to remain standing since there isn't a lot of head room. Still they're much more fun to ride than taxis; I highly recommend them. If only they had them here, I'm sure combi drivers could teach an MTA driver about something called speed.
Now I consider myself a connoisseur of public transit systems and I've endured the many quirks that come with public transportation. I've been compulsively meowed at by a transvestite in Hollywood, I've been ignored by Parisians when I tried to figure out the subway system for the first time at 1 o'clock in the morning all alone, I was once on a night tram in Amsterdam where my friend and I were the only passengers and the conductor kept saying into the microphone "So you vant to party? You vant goot time?", and the scariest moment of all: being enveloped by the crowds in the Mexico City subway and consequently being dragged out at different stops. Yet nothing can equal the experience of a taking a combi.
Combis are what would be recognizable in the US as a hippie wagon. Yet here they are used as a public transit system. They abound everywhere and are way cheaper than taxis (each ride is about 45 cents) and just as fast. There's a certain art to riding one, almost like an extreme sport. First you must step out into the street and hail one in the same manner as a taxi. This is the tricky part. You have to step out just enough so that the driver sees you and then step back quickly lest it run you over. You hop in and your mission is to find a seat before the driver steps on the gas and sends you into someone's lap. Oh, and manners dictate you say hello to your fellow passengers. After all you might just have to have a stranger's loin in close proximity, it's just good manners to say hello.
Although they're quite small I've actually been in ones where there are nineteen passengers not including the driver. Everyone squezzes in even if there's only standing room (hence the loins in very close proximity). At night, they're even better. Most are decked out with interior neon lights and bad music; it's like being in a mini traveling discotheque. Since the colonial downtown area wasn't built for modern day traffic, streets are very narrow and difficult to navigate. Thus, the combi driver has to make use of every chance to accelerate, pedestrians be damned. While this may be exciting for those lucky enough to get a seat, it can be extremely tortuous for those who have to remain standing since there isn't a lot of head room. Still they're much more fun to ride than taxis; I highly recommend them. If only they had them here, I'm sure combi drivers could teach an MTA driver about something called speed.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
embarassing part 2
My hip hurts. At first, I wondered if I'd bumped into something and perhaps it was bruised. Check for bruises. Nope, none visible. But my hip keeps hurting and I begin to feel an affinity with all those old people I see tottering on the bus shoving their walkers in front of them. I begin fearing that my debauchery of French fries, trans fat, and genomed food along with my non-existent calcium intake are finally catching up with me and somehow rapidly aging my bones. Before my hypochondriac panic sets in, I realize that this past week I went to all my yoga classes after a week of not attending. Yes, a few classes have put me into geriatric mode.
I chose yoga because it seemed pretty simple; stretching and breathing can't be all that hard. My body, however, doesn't seem to think so. As my hands begin to slip in my downward dog, I sneak a peek at the others, which I know I shouldn't do. It's self-esteem suicide. No one seems to be wobbling as much as I do and I know some of them are first timers like me. My instructor is always mentioning how yoga is about taking care of yourself and encourages us to take breaks and some other nonsense. If the girl next to me can reach back and grab her foot, then so can I. Well, no not really but I try hence my hip injury. Thus, last week I vowed that I would treat my body with respect even though it doesn't extend the same courtesy. So this week when I couldn't do a shoulder stand I reasoned with myself,
"Ok, I've never done a shoulder stand before. Maybe it takes awhile before someone can master that. It's cool, I'll just breathe here on my mat and think happy thoughts".
And at that moment I turned me head. The sixty-year-old woman who had just joined our class was shoulder standing with ease.
"Ok, breathe. Don't turn any more".
I turned once more and that was the clincher. The nine-month pregnant woman due at ANY moment, who had also just joined the class, remained in that position for all of relaxation time. As I desperately tried to heave my weight onto my elbows, I thought about how maybe I can get neon tennis balls to put on the feet of my walker. Along with some decals. Gotta differentiate myself from the gerrys right?
I chose yoga because it seemed pretty simple; stretching and breathing can't be all that hard. My body, however, doesn't seem to think so. As my hands begin to slip in my downward dog, I sneak a peek at the others, which I know I shouldn't do. It's self-esteem suicide. No one seems to be wobbling as much as I do and I know some of them are first timers like me. My instructor is always mentioning how yoga is about taking care of yourself and encourages us to take breaks and some other nonsense. If the girl next to me can reach back and grab her foot, then so can I. Well, no not really but I try hence my hip injury. Thus, last week I vowed that I would treat my body with respect even though it doesn't extend the same courtesy. So this week when I couldn't do a shoulder stand I reasoned with myself,
"Ok, I've never done a shoulder stand before. Maybe it takes awhile before someone can master that. It's cool, I'll just breathe here on my mat and think happy thoughts".
And at that moment I turned me head. The sixty-year-old woman who had just joined our class was shoulder standing with ease.
"Ok, breathe. Don't turn any more".
I turned once more and that was the clincher. The nine-month pregnant woman due at ANY moment, who had also just joined the class, remained in that position for all of relaxation time. As I desperately tried to heave my weight onto my elbows, I thought about how maybe I can get neon tennis balls to put on the feet of my walker. Along with some decals. Gotta differentiate myself from the gerrys right?
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