The Dedalus Log

“Have you noticed that there are a lot of attractive women at a racetrack”, said Greg as he gazed across the crowded pavilion.
“Yea”, I said nodding, “They’re dressed up and they look great. Next year, I have to bring Kathy”.
“It’s not like going to a ball game. The women here look like they’re at a combined resort, cruise ship, and casino. It’s bizarre, but it’s nice”
We were in the Del Mar Racetrack grandstand, looking at the people below and around us. Sitting in the “Stretch Run” section of the stands, we could also look across the finish line to the men and women strolling through the infield section of the track. Jim, three of his six sisters, and their invited guests (old family friends from their neighborhood), were grouped and terraced in the seats below us. He had invited us to join his annual pilgrimage to one of the crown jewels of horse racing. Every summer, he, and a spontaneous collection of family and friends would drive down to Del Mar, California, for a day (and sometimes a weekend), at the races. He had been doing this for about eight years. I had joined this party on two other occasions, and Greg once. This year, when Jim offered us the tickets, we jumped at the opportunity to get together, despite our natural antipathy for gambling, and our (almost) total ignorance of the science of handicapping and betting on horses.

I hadn’t seen Jim since Christmas, when he came to my mom’s annual Christmas Eve Party. He had not joined any of our last “Amigos” reunions (Tres Mujeres, Rosarito-Ensenada Bike Ride) since our Pioneertown adventure (Sons of Pioneertown). I probably would have let the matter lay, except for a gentle reminder by my wife, Kathy. One day, as I was telling her about Greg’s response to a blog I had written (The Long and Winding Road), she casually said, “You know, if you don’t call Jim soon, you will have gone a full year without speaking to him”. This remark gave me pause to think about the fragile nature of friendships, and how easily (and naturally), friendship can be stretched, thinned, and dissolved, by time, indifference, and inattention. After spending so much of our lives together in high school, college, and as young bachelors, Jim, John, Greg, and I no longer met, hung out, or socialized on a regular basis. We have very distinct professions, separate social acquaintances, different family obligations, and we live far away from each other. If one of us did not occasionally (and intentionally), reach out, communicate, and initiate a reunion or get-together of some kind, it would never happen naturally. So, a few days after this conversation with Kathy, I called Jim to find out what he was doing and to arrange some midway place to meet.

If Greg, John, and I can be characterized as a Seer, Soldier, and Scribe (Tres Mujeres), then Jim would be the Scientist. He has a compulsively analytical mind that instinctively studies, computes, and manipulates data, numbers, events, and people. My invitation to “get together, someplace between Canoga Park and Bellflower” was simply too abstract an idea for Jim to process. He told me that he would consider my proposition, and call me back with some concrete suggestions. Two days later, he called to offer me two available tickets for his annual trip to the Del Mar races. Although she would have loved to have gone to the races for a full weekend, Kathy passed on the notion of an arduous drive to and from Del Mar, all on the same day. She suggested, instead, that I invite Greg, who lives in San Diego. She proposed that I take the train to San Diego, drive to Del Mar with Greg, spend the night in his condo, and, then, return home on Sunday. Greg was all for the idea, when I called him, and the train and racetrack adventure was set.

Railroad travel is a fascinating form of transportation for me. I rarely travel by railroad, so trains hold a special allure for me. Besides being extremely comfortable and relaxing (especially compared to airplanes), they evoke black and white, cinematic images and memories of my youth. Trains were the settings of mysteries, drama and adventurous encounters. The Union Pacific, Southern Pacific, and the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe: these were call-names of iconic railroads I heard, or read about, in books, songs, and movies. These names summoned up pictures of the “Super Chief” traveling along seacoasts, and through mountains, deserts, and rolling farmland. Although, one no longer hears the “clack-clack-clack” of iron wheels on steel rails in the sealed, double-decker, air-conditioned coaches, of the modern Amtrak Pacific Surfliner, as it speeds along the tracks; I still see children standing in awe and waving as it rumbles by them.

Kathy dropped me off at the Los Angeles Union Station at about 6:45 a.m., on the morning of July 29^th. Even at that time of the morning, a surprisingly large number of passengers were arriving and entering the vast building on Alameda. Younger passengers came quietly with backpacks and bags, while older arrivals carted their luggage on long-stemmed handles. The “click-click-click” sound of the tiny plastic wheels on tiled floors, echoed off the vaulted ceilings and mosaic walls, and appeared to awaken the fabled station from its evening slumber. My timing was impeccable, and I orchestrated a steady progression of actions in sequential order: purchasing my tickets, queuing up at the gate, walking through the tunnel under the tracks, boarding the Surfliner, and leaving the station at 7:30 a.m. The longest wait was the line for tickets; everything else went quickly and smoothly.

Leaving the train yards of Union Station is a unique experience, if one pays attention. The tracks run along the underbelly of downtown Los Angeles: by the County Jailhouse, with its stark, gray towers, and accordion, barbed-wire walls; through the bricked housing project called “Dogtown” by its longtime Chicano residents; and under the countless bridges that span the L.A. River, connecting East Los Angeles with downtown. Once out of the city proper, however, I lost interest in the monotonous scenery of back alleys and the rear of industrial warehouses, and turned my attention to other things. I had planned on spending my time on the train working on a story I was writing about the Venice Strand, or reading a book I brought along. Although I managed to do both at various times during the trip, both activities were interrupted by the conversations, and interactions I overheard from individuals who were seated in front and in back of me.

Normally, I am extremely annoyed by these types of verbal intrusions into my solitary traveling experience. These people can ruin entire trips (especially if they are sitting next to me), if I don’t succeed in ignoring them, or changing my seat. Kathy’s brothers and sisters consider this occurrence to be their particular family curse for some long forgotten sin; to be in a theatre, plane, or train, and find themselves sitting next to, or near, someone who speaks long, loudly and rudely, or feels obligated to engage them in conversation, for long periods of time. On this occasion I listened, off and on, to the conversations of three particular passengers, and found them surprisingly amusing. The first guy looked a little like the character Newman in the Seinfeld Show, and he sat with a group of three younger people at a card table arrangement in front of me. The second individual sat behind me. It turned out that he was a stowaway who boarded at Fullerton, and was ejected at Irvine. The third was a “Mr. Know All” type of person, who replaced the stowaway, and finished the trip to San Diego.

Newman was a tall, portly, balding, middle-aged man, with a loud and expansive voice, who appeared to be in the “entertainment business”. I never discovered exactly what he did “in the business”, but he dropped enough celebrity names in the course of his monologues to cast a billion dollar, star-studded movie, or three new T.V. series. Newman was doing all the talking, and, obviously, trying to impress all three members of the group (an attractive, 30-ish woman by his side, and a teenage couple sitting across). I assumed, at first, that they were a typical family unit, with a father who was trying to fill in the blanks of his recent absences from home. It was what I was not hearing, that intrigued me. I did not hear his “wife” chide him or try to rein in his braggadocio, and his “children” were not verbally encouraging or dismissing his pretensions. I began to wonder if they were actually listening. The one time the teenaged boy mentioned some topic about the comic book convention they were attending, Newman was all over it. He knew this writer, and that producer, who would also be at the convention. He disliked comics, himself, he said, preferring more existential literature, but he recognized their growing popularity, and wanted to be part of the trend. On and on he went with a pompous soliloquy about the Comic book Convention (Comic Con) in San Diego. I finally concluded that Newman was not the father of this group, but the date of the older woman, and was taking her, with her daughter and boyfriend, on a day trip to the Comic Con. Soon, everyone in the Newman party was silent. Eventually, he, too, stopped talking.

I never saw the stowaway who sat behind me. I first heard his voice when he boarded at Fullerton and asked the passenger behind me for permission to sit next to him. He had a clear, resonant, friendly voice, with a subtle southern accent. Over time, I imagined that he was male, 5-10 or 5-11, in good physical shape, single, and about 45 years of age. I could never tell if he was black or white, which made for interesting speculations, given the topics he spoke on. He was very jovial, animated, and quickly engaged his first seat mate in conversation. He sounded like a regular traveler, and when a young, African-American conductor came by to check tickets, the stowaway quickly recognized him and engaged him in animated conversation about his name and family. When the friendly conductor left, the stowaway resumed his conversation and began talking about train travel and promoting the benefits of commuting. He told his companion that he rarely drove to work anymore, and that he also took regular train trips on the weekends to explore the various stations and cities in Southern California. He seemed especially familiar with the San Diego run, and he even poked fun at the female conductor making exaggerated, energetic, and flamboyant P.A. announcements before and after each stop. The conductor was also warning passengers to expect a capacity train, and not to hoard seats.

His seatmate disembarked at the San Ana Station, and the stowaway was exposed soon after by a new conductor. The new official was a stern-looking, middle-aged, African-American woman, and she was not distracted by the stowaway’s engaging charm. She politely asked for his ticket, and then harshly told him that his weekday commuter pass was not valid on this train. The gig was up, and the only retreat for the stowaway was to apologize for believing that his weekday pass was good on weekends. The conductor ignored his excuses and bluntly told him that he would have to get off at the next station. The stowaway sounded so embarrassed and repentant after speaking with the conductor, that I was sure I would not hear another word from him. But as soon as another passenger filled the empty seat by his side, he was at it again. His new companion was a college freshman taking his first train trip to San Diego to see the Comic Con. He was very interested in what the stowaway had to say about Amtrak, train schedules, prices, and the cities on the way to San Diego. This naïve freshman seemed to energize the stowaway to disclose more personal information. I learned that the stowaway left the United States to work in Saudi Arabia after graduating from college in the 1980’s. In those days after the oil crisis, salaries were high and bonuses even better for expatriates who went to work in the Middle East. They lived on a converted military base, and were discouraged from visiting the local towns or mixing with the Arab citizens. Foreigners had to wait 6 months to apply for driver’s licenses, but that did not stop the stowaway from buying a car and driving illegally. He described traveling to the Red Sea, drinking, picnicking, and swimming in that inland ocean which was always warm. I was captivated by these stories of the Middle East, and Asia, and was sorry to hear the stowaway say that he had to leave when we arrived at the Irvine station. I never saw his face, but I’d remember his voice anywhere.

The third passenger replaced the stowaway right away, and what he lacked in charm and storytelling ability, he made up in endless talk and overwhelming information. Mr. Know All was an older college student from the state of Washington who was attending school in Irvine, California. He had a high pitched, whiny voice that never paused, even though he stuttered constantly. He had an opinion about EVERYTHING, and he insisted that his information was absolutely reliable. By the lack of response or commentary from his freshman traveling companion, I eventually imagined that Mr. Know All had gagged and strapped him to his seat while he lectured, and stuttered, adnauseam, on a variety of subjects from Irvine to San Diego. Mr. Know All, claimed that by going on-line and finding deals, he managed to buy a one-way train ticket from Seattle to San Francisco for $18.00, and for two dollars more, he could have gone all the way to Los Angeles. According to Mr. Know All, anyone who paid full price for train tickets was a fool. He admitted being a State of Washington booster, who annoyed his California friends by constantly pointing out the benefits and advantages of living in the Pacific Northwest (which begged the question, “What are you doing here?”). He was shocked to learn that the Junior College system in California demanded $40.00 a unit, when Washington only charged $20.00. However, despite his formal protests about the price gouging, he paid the tuition and enrolled. As the train passed the Del Mar racetrack, he noted that it had been built by Bing Crosby, and that horseracing was a virtual monopoly controlled by a cartel of track owners who never competed with each other (not that all monopolies were bad, he pointed out; Microsoft, a Washington-based company, for example, benefited all consumers). The one time his freshman seatmate interrupted the monologue was to ask about his portable Global Positioning System (GPS) device. This opened up a whole new area to explain. Mr. Know All was never without his personal GPS, because he wanted to know where he was at all times, especially when hiking and exploring. Before purchasing his model, he had researched the technology and concluded that Magellan was the best product available. He could drop it, drown it, and dirty it up, but his Magellan GPS would always tell him where in the world he was. He also explained how GPS worked; how it was originally developed and maintained as a top military secret for years, how locations are triangulated by circling satellites, and how Ronald Reagan commercialized the technology when the Russians threatened to expose it. Oddly enough, about the only thing Mr. Know All did not talk about was the Comic Con (probably because his companion might have had something to say about it). At the Old Town station I called Greg by cell phone and alerted him to my arrival. In my hurried actions to collect my reading and writing materials, I lost contact with Mr. Know All and his listening companion. I never saw what they looked like, or where they went.

The San Diego train station is at the southwestern tip of the downtown area, near the airport and the U.S. Naval Reservation, and it resembles most of the other stations I passed on my southern journey. It is a picturesque, solitary building, with two stately towers, alongside a single train track. None of the stations south of Los Angeles exceeded this one building, one track limit. In fact, Union Station in Los Angeles was the only terminus that had multiple tracks, off-loaded passengers in a massive train yard, and required a long walk to the station complex. Not knowing where Greg would be, I followed the exiting crowd and walked toward the front of the train. There I caught sight of my San Diegan friend. We met at the intersection of the tracks with Kettner Blvd, and walked the short distance to his condo.

Greg has lived in and around the San Diego area for the last 30 years. He originally worked as a teacher and administrator in Encinitas, while living in Escondido. Paradoxically, he purchased this small bachelor condo, in the middle of a developing downtown area, after accepting his first job as Superintendent of a small elementary school district outside of Sacramento. The Spartan condo provided him with a good investment, and the ability to stay in touch with family and friends in the San Diego area, while working up north. He never expected it to be ground zero for the building explosion that occurred in this section of San Diego, at the turn of the century. He is now surrounded by countless high-rise hotels, condominiums, and apartments, and within walking distance of a marina, downtown, the airport, train station, convention center, and ballpark. He lives in a bachelor’s paradise.

After dropping my overnight bag at his place, we walked to a nearby outdoor café for coffee and muffins, to breathe in the crisp morning air, and to catch up on the latest news of family and friends. As we talked, a continuous procession of people trooped past us. What had been a fleeting topic of conversations on the train was now a visible, mass migration of humanity. Hundreds of young people were walking and chattering along Kettner Blvd. They came from the train and trolley stations, parking lots, and from the nearby hotels. They came casually and comfortably dressed in jeans and shorts, except for the occasional, formally dressed superhero, Klingon warrior, and barbarian princess. They were all enroute to the San Diego Convention Center on W. Harbor Drive and the Comic Con International. Neither Greg nor I were enthusiasts of this annual convention, but each of us was able to contribute information that the other did not know. Greg told me that the Comic Con was the largest convention that the city hosted (which was quite a feat in this convention town), and that its fans pretty much dominated the town from Thursday through Sunday. I had been hearing about this convention for years. My two brothers, Eddie and Alex, had come to a few, and I knew Prisa’s boyfriend, Joe, was in attendance this year. They, along with my son, Tony, had also described it to me on a few occasions. It was the “hajj”, the pilgrimage, which true comic book aficionados must make at least once in their lifetime. The Comic Con had grown from its origins as a regional convention of comic book publishers, writers, illustrators, and fans, into a billion dollar, show business phenomenon. The Comic Con was now a mixture of Cannes, the Sundance Movie Festival, Hollywood, New York, and Wall Street, all rolled into one convention. It had evolved from a pulp media gathering into an international business convocation that included executives, investors, and producers of movies, television, advertising, art, and culture. The Comic Con was HUGE, but it could not escape its original, comic-fantasy roots: adolescents (and former adolescents) still dressed up as Spiderman and Starfleet officers, and brought their comics to be autographed.

“Do you want to go see it?” Greg asked as I finished my coffee.
“Absolutely”, I replied. “How can we be in San Diego at this moment and not see the Comic Con phenomenon?” 
We melded into a crush of people and joined the movement down the street. The excitement was electric among the pedestrians, and the anticipation crackled between them as we came closer and closer to the convention center entrance. I crossed to the other side of Harbor Drive to take photographs, but quickly returned to the friendly and positive aura of the crowd. The entrance to the Convention Center looked like the Los Angeles International Airport on the eve of Thanksgiving. It was impossible to move in any direction except with the momentum of the crowd. One stream of people flowed north, while the other flowed south, along the extended entry way of the mile-long center. We walked along, laughing, snapping pictures, and saying good morning to the faces walking with us and by us. At the southern tip of the building, we crossed to the opposite side of the street to get a different perspective of this event. I’d been to the San Diego Convention Center on other occasions, but I had never seen it totally filled, and sold out, the way it was on that day.

On our walk back to the condo, Greg pointed out other points of interest: the “tenderloin” section of downtown, Petco Stadium, a rickshaw girl who looked like Paris Hilton, and the Martin Luther King sidewalk park containing many of his memorable quotations. We stopped at Greg’s local pub for a quick beer and to organize ourselves for our trip to Del Mar, and the 2:00 p.m. post time. Neither of us are gamblers, and we know nothing about horseracing. It kills me to lose money. I feel like I’m pouring money down a drain when I put quarters in a slot machine, or place bets on a table. I’ve only enjoyed gambling on two occasions: once in Lake Tahoe, during a state education convention, when I was guided through the intricacies of craps by another principal and friend; and the first time Jim invited Greg and me to Del Mar. On both occasions I knew nothing about the game I was playing, but I was having a great time and money was not important. Greg actually won money on that first visit to Del Mar. Jim’s younger brother Jerry talked him into putting $10.00 on a racehorse combination that “couldn’t miss” and he was right. That bet turned a $200 profit for Greg, and it was evidence of the hot streak that Jerry rode into a winning day at the races. By the time we left the pub, we had a mild buzz and a four point plan for the day: enjoy ourselves at the races, have a few beers, learn a little more about betting, and hope that Jim or Jerry was lucky.

Everything and everyone in and around the Del Mar racetrack vibrated with optimism and excitement. Traffic and parking guides gave big welcoming smiles as they pointed us in the correct direction, racing sheet vendors promised big winnings for only $2.00, and long-legged college girls pleaded with their fresh-faced dates to stop at the fraternity parties situated in exclusive areas along the walkway. We postponed our questions and comments about these strange sights and sounds, and trusted that the wave of humanity we rode would deposit us at the right place. It was invigorating moving in this lemming-like migration, going from booth, to pavilion, to ticket entrance along the exterior promenade, and finally the Del Mar grandstand. We arrived at our “Stretch Run” seats about an hour before post time, and met Jim’s contingent of family and friends as they were walking in. Their tale of roadway blues confirmed the good advice I received about making this a two day trip and traveling by train. Before we settled in to plan our betting strategy with Jim and his sisters, however, Greg and I decided to take advantage of the Microbrew Festival and Concert promotion in the Infield section of the track. Neither of us had ever been to a racetrack “infield”, and the promise of free beer was a fine way to begin a day at the races.

When we returned with beers in hand (and one for Jim), we were ready to analyze our handicapping choices for the first races of the day. Greg had already purchased “Duke’s Racing Form”. We intended to use Duke’s picks, along with Jim’s reasoned preferences (Jerry did not come on this trip), and our “lucky intuitions”, to triangulate some winning combinations for each race. From our previous encounters with racing, we had graduated from placing $2 bets on individual horses to win, place, or show, to selecting exacta or trifecta combinations for each race. After choosing our favorite horses for the first 4 races, we interrogated Jim to learn the correct terminology needed to place our particular bets. In racing, one does not go up to the betting window to chat or question the cashier. Speed and accuracy are essential in Para mutual gaming because there are time limits. If you don’t know what to say, or how to say it, you should not be in line. Track betting is serious business and regular handicappers despise tenderfoot questions or mistakes. The standard ritual for placing a bet to a cashier is a five step verbal process: 1) Name the track (people may be placing bets on races at other tracks, that day, i.e., Santa Rosa, Arlington Park, Saratoga, etc); 2) Name the race number; 3) State the wager amount; 4) State the bet; and 5) Choose the horses by number.

When I finally went up to the cashier to place my first bet, I looked at my notes and said: “Del Mar, first race, one dollar, trifecta box, on numbers 2, 3, and 5”. The cashier entered the bet and said, “Six dollars, please”, as she laid the ticket on the counter. It had taken me 30 minutes to research, discuss, script, and place that bet. All of my experts were in agreement on the horses (Duke, Jim, and Greg), and Jim had taught me the all-important betting phrase “box”. This addition to the bet meant that I would win when any of my chosen horses, in any sequence, placed first, second, or third in the race. I thought it was a sure thing as I watched my three horses’ alternate positions for the first 4 furlongs of the 6 furlong race. It was a sweet ride until Ces’t Mark, the number 5 horse, and one of the favorites, came up lame at the last furlong and failed to finish the race. That race foretold the results of all the subsequent wagers we made that day. Greg and I went 0 for 9 on the races, and 0 for 2 on the two side wagers on a Pick 3 and Pick 4. By the end of the 9^th Race, we had lost all confidence in our ability to choose a winning horse, or combination. At that point we were desperately looking for a way to cut our losses and salvage our egos. We figured we still had sufficient funds for a fine Mexican dinner and pitchers of margaritas at Fidel’s in Solano Beach. So, Greg and I left early to reserve a table for the group who would follow.

“I can’t believe we didn’t pick a single winner all day”, I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Yea, me neither”, said Greg. “Maybe if Jerry had been here, we would have been luckier”.
As we drove through Solano Beach, with the windows down and the ocean air clearing the car and our minds of the afternoon’s losses, I couldn’t help reflect on the gamut of activities and emotions I’d experienced that day. It had really been an incredibly eventful and busy day, and it was not over, there was a dinner to enjoy with old friends, and a casual drive back to San Diego for the evening. The purpose of the day had been to reunite with friends, and enjoy ourselves in the process. The only bump in the road was not cashing in a winning ticket. That experience would have to happen on another day. Bing Crosby had predicted it in his song: I’d taken a train and a car to old Del Mar, where someone (not me) had a winner in each race, and I was leaving with a smile on my face. All in all, it had been a fine day, with marvelous friends.

“The long and winding road that leads to your door
Will never disappear
I've seen that road before
It always leads me here
Leads me to your door”
The Beatles

“Shoup, south, to 101;
101, east, to 405;
405, south, to Rosecrans;
Right on Rosecrans, to Aviation;
Left on Aviation (past Artesia), to Pacific Coast Hwy;
Left on PCH (past Herondo/Anita), to N. Catalina Ave;
Right on Catalina (past Torrance), to Hennessey’s, 1712 S. Catalina Ave.”

Now, while these handwritten notes may describe the route to Hennessey’s Pub, they can never convey the “long and winding road” my mind will take on this meandering journey to Redondo.

Shoup Street begins on a hill overlooking West Hills and Canoga Park. Looking down into such a densely populated suburban community, I’m always struck by the abundance of trees and green foliage I see. Gazing south toward Ventura Boulevard (Blvd) and Woodland Hills, all one can see is a verdant, forest-like area, with an occasional arid spot of roofing, stucco and cement peeking through. The drive along Shoup confirms that there are actually a multitude of homes, apartments, businesses and shops along the way, but scores of trees, pines, and palms surround them, and hide them. Canoga Park, and much of the west San Fernando Valley is remarkably green and lush, the visible vestiges of its agricultural past.

At the intersection of Shoup and Ventura Blvd, I merge onto Interstate Highway (Hwy) 101, formerly called the Ventura Freeway (Fwy), heading east. In my youth, when freeways were still novel constructions, and few in number, they were still called by their christened names: the Pasadena Fwy, the Hollywood Fwy, the Golden State Fwy, the Santa Ana Fwy, and the Harbor Fwy. Over time and the arrival of more and more emigrants from other parts of the country who were more comfortable with numbered designations for state and interstate highways, this practice ceased. I also think that “out-of-towners” found the name changes and variations confusing. For example, the Ventura Fwy going east, changes its name when it divides into the Glendale Fwy (Hwy 134) and the Hollywood Fwy (Hwy 101) into the city. On the other hand, if you are on the Hollywood Fwy (Hwy 101) traveling north from downtown, Hwy 170 takes over the Hollywood name, and Hwy 101 becomes the Ventura Fwy (all the way to Ventura). Clearly, it is simpler to refer to the interstate highways by number, but I found that freeways lost much of their local charm and character when the practice of calling them by name stopped. They were no longer personal avenues of travel that had actual destinations, now they were merely numbered highways.

Passing Topanga Canyon (Cyn) Blvd, the woodsy feel of the West San Fernando Valley continued to amaze me. Except for the mini-skyline of Warner Center, hills, rocks, trees, and clusters of wood stands dominated both sides of the horizon, and effectively hid, or camouflaged homes, the apartments, and buildings that abound. At one time, Topanga represented the frontier limits of the Valley, and the northwest reaches of Los Angeles County, now it is just another major transportation artery. The first time I remember traveling to Topanga was in 1976, when, as newly weds living in Santa Monica, Kathy drove me there for a Mount St. Mary College alumnae party of some kind in Chatsworth. I’d driven past Topanga many times, in route to Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo, but I’d never explored the area. That was my first orientation to this western border town. Canoga Park had three malls (Topanga Mall, The Promenade, and the Fallbrook Mall), a small town center, and a slowly withering aerospace industry. Its western boundary, which would secede in 1987 to become the community of West Hills, is also the headwaters of the Los Angeles River, which flows through the valley, into the city, and out towards San Pedro Harbor. Even in 1976, Canoga Park (originally called the town of Owensmouth) seemed like a residential frontier outpost that served the needs of the provincial communities surrounding it. Chatsworth was one of these satellite areas, populated by horse ranches and rambling western-style residences.

Driving past Woodland Hills and Pierce College, I saw the freeway off ramp sign indicating that I was passing through the community of Tarzana. That sign, or one like it, was my first memory of this freeway on a family outing to some recreational park in 1963, when I was a sophomore in high school. I had just discovered the fictional world of Edgar Rice Burroughs, and was devouring all the Tarzan and John Carter paperback novels I could find in used bookstores. While reading these sci-fi and romantic adventure tales, I’d also stumbled on the fact that Burroughs actually lived in a California community named after his fictional hero. I found this fact intriguing, but not compelling enough for me to search out the actual location of Tarzana. Now this sign had serendipitously solved that mystery. Tarzana was right in the middle of the San Fernando Valley, and, although it was no equatorial jungle, at the time of my discovery, it still contained miles and miles of trees, and row after row of orange groves and orchards.

The White Oak Blvd off ramp in Reseda was, and is my most nostalgic freeway marker. This was the sign that communicated “home” for the most crucial years of our marriage. Reseda was the site of our first house in 1977. The home where Tonito and Prisa were born and raised, attended school, and made their first holy communion. This was the neighborhood we explored by baby carriage, on foot, and by car. It was where Kathy and I learned the frailties of parenting, and the joys of raising children. Reseda was the place we could invite and host Kathy’s younger brothers and sisters whenever they wanted to drop by, visit, or swim, and to celebrate birthdays and parties.

The arboreal ambience of the west Valley builds to a mighty crescendo as I drive into the Sepulveda Dam Recreational Area and the Balboa and Woodley Parks, which border the freeway as I approach the 101 and 405 interchange. However, if I were to continue driving east into the mid-valley region, there would be a sudden and shocking city tone and feel to the surrounding communities. These areas lay “north of the Boulevard” (Ventura Blvd). The wooded hills, “south of the Boulevard” harbor the affluent homes and residences that guard the passes into the cities of Westwood, West Hollywood, and Beverly Hills. They look down on the more plebian homes and businesses of Van Nuys, Northridge, North Hollywood, Pacoima, and Sun Valley.

The freeway interchange of the Ventura and San Diego Fwy is the busiest in America. This interstate crossroad ranks first as the worst highway bottleneck in the United States, with 318,000 vehicles using it every day. It marks the transition point where vehicles, their drivers, and even some passengers, enter or exit the three worlds of Los Angeles on a daily basis: the San Fernando Valley, the Westside and South Bay areas, and Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles. Each of these worlds has its own unique urban culture, attitude, and prejudices. This fact is further complicated by the existence of a plethora of sub-cultures within each of these three geographical areas. Although they all live “on the Westside”, a Venice resident is different from a Marina del Rey resident, who is different from a Santa Monica resident, who is different from an Ocean Park resident. They may all live within a 10-mile radius, but their identities and loyalties lie with their immediate neighborhoods.  However, while geographical location defines us and separates us, the one thing that transcends regionalism and ties us all together is the automobile. The ability to drive, visit, move, work, and live in different parts of the city is what unites us all. “Angelinos” are not serfs, trapped on one parcel of land for their entire lives. A Los Angeles native could easily have lived in, and traveled through, the following locations: Born in East Los Angeles, and moved to Silver Lake for kindergarten through grade 5. Moved to Venice to finish elementary school, attended high school in Playa del Rey, and then graduated from UCLA in Westwood. Dated and married a girl who lived in Van Nuys, lived, first, in Santa Monica, moved to Reseda, worked in Los Angeles, West Hollywood, and El Sereno, and finally settled in Canoga Park. The Ventura and San Diego Interchange symbolizes the freedom and fluidity that cars provide us. On one day, I can drive from Canoga Park to work in Los Angeles, visit family in Alhambra, and meet Kathy and Prisa for dinner in Santa Monica. That is the culture and lifestyle of Southern California.

The first off ramp at this interchange (Ventura Blvd) is adjacent to the northern sentinel of the Sepulveda Pass, the old Hilton Hotel (now a Radisson Hotel). For the longest time I can remember, this hotel was the tallest structure in the San Fernando Valley, and it could be seen for miles and miles. Today, it also marks the turnoff to Tony’s “carriage house” in Sherman Oaks. Despite living away at college in Washington D.C. and Santa Barbara, he moved back into the Valley after graduation. Over the last few years, he has even become a strong proponent of the area’s culturally diverse and interesting lifestyle.

Climbing south on the San Diego Fwy, I consciously marked the point I reached Mulholland Drive. This is the highest point of the Sepulveda Pass, and it is the climatic divide between the Valley and the Westside. The outside temperature immediately drops by 5 degrees, and it will continue to descend as I drive through the pass, and make my way to the ocean. I always marveled at this change during the 3 years I made this passage from Venice to Van Nuys when dating and courting Kathy. “Why would people put up with this heat?” I wondered, as I crested these hills on a weekly and daily basis to see Kathy. “How can people live here?” I would say, as I shook my head in wonderment. Five years later, I discovered the answer for myself, when we purchased a home in Reseda - fiscal practicality. Homes in the San Fernando Valley were simply larger, and more affordable than homes on the Westside, despite the warmer temperatures.

As I drove on, paralleling Sepulveda Blvd, I was astonished at the changes I’ve seen along this stretch of highway, carved from the Santa Monica Mountains, 45 years ago. Mountaingate Country Club sits atop land that was created from a landfill, when this freeway opened in the 1960’s, and only chaparral dominated the eastern slope. The last remnants of this landfill are two white, circular storage tanks, and a rectangular shaped building, with a checkerboard façade, located on the western side of Sepulveda Blvd, just before it crosses under the freeway to continue on the eastern side. Near this storage complex is a large venting pipe that can still be seen burning off the escaping methane gas. However, the most dramatic change to these Brentwood hills was the construction of the J. Paul Getty Center, which now dominates the hills overlooking the Los Angeles basin, from ocean to skyline. The passage through the Sepulveda Pass ends at Sunset Blvd, with its iconic circular hotel (originally a Holiday Inn), acting as a mute sentinel to the southern boundary.

Continuing south, my attention was drawn to the Los Angeles National Cemetery on the east side of the freeway. For as long as I can remember this area was completely enclosed and hidden from view by trees and hedges along Sepulveda Blvd.  I never suspected it was a cemetery until, while I attending UCLA, I read the inscription on the Spanish American War Monument on Wilshire Blvd, dedicating the federal cemetery to those killed in that conflict. With that information, all the federal development and construction in that area made sense: the imposing Federal Building, across the street from the cemetery, and the huge Veterans Administration Hospital complex, that ran along on the westside of the freeway, and on both sides of Wilshire. The whole area was a federal reserve that managed to prevent some of the commercial exploitation that was just beginning in the late 1960’s.

Wilshire Blvd is the gateway to Westwood, and the campus of the University of California at Los Angeles (UCLA). Today, that area is very different from the tiny Village that I explored on foot, between Wilshire and Le Conte Ave, as a student from 1966 to 1970. In those days, one could actually drive along Westwood Blvd, past Kinross, Broxton, and Le Conte, right through the middle of campus, and connect with W. Sunset Blvd at the northern end. That is impossible now. Commercial monoliths now tower over Wilshire and Westwood Boulevards, dominating this once quiet college community, and casting perpetual shadows over its streets. A massive skyline now fills the northern horizon as I drive past, blocking any hint of the beautiful campus, with its hills, original brick buildings, and expansive lawns and athletic fields.

Wilshire also marked a perennial gridlock zone on the San Diego Fwy. From this point, southbound traffic would crawl all the way to the Los Angeles International Airport. This was true in 1966, and it is worse today. As an undergrad, and graduate student, I rarely took the freeway home to nearby Venice. Whether by car, on motor scooter, or bicycle, I would prefer to take Gayley Ave out of Westwood, cross over to Veteran Ave (which it paralleled) until Ohio, and take Ohio to Sawtelle Blvd. Sawtelle would get me to Palms Blvd, where I would make a right onto McLaughlin Ave., and then take it to Washington Place. Washington Place would take me all the way home to my door on Yale Ave, a mile and a half from the beach. If I was stuck on this stretch between Wilshire and Century (like today), the elevated freeway provided some scenic opportunities as I traveled through this expansive basin area. On very clear days, you can see far to the east, and spot the Miracle Mile skyline on Wilshire, and even downtown Los Angeles. However, you can always count on seeing the familiar landmarks of Culver City, with Baldwin Hills as background: the MGM studios with its prominent sign, water tower, and billboard, the wide, white tower overlooking Veterans Memorial Park on Culver Blvd, and the spiked, grey steeple of St. Augustine’s Catholic Church.

Crossing the La Ballona (Whale) Creek wash and Jefferson Blvd, I was reminded that this was the quickest way to Loyola Marymount University (LMU) and St. Bernard High School. As a senior at St. Bernard, I crisscrossed this part of town on a weekly basis. I was one of the few students who were old enough to drive at that time, so I acted as chauffeur and carpool driver for my family and school friends. I would drive to and from soccer practices at LMU (which at that time was still called Loyola University), movies in Westchester, Westwood, and Hollywood, to the beach, and to visit friends. Later, LMU had a more personal significance as Prisa’s college and residence. This was the school where she would live and learn for four years. Her residence there would create a new generational tie to a part of the city I had long abandoned. Over time, Prisa became a real “Westside person”, until her move into Redondo Beach converted her to a South bay resident. With her ease and familiarity with the lifestyle and geography of the area, one would never believe that she was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley.

A new Howard Hughes Business and Entertainment Center now stands in the place of the former Sepulveda Blvd off ramp. Only locals knew of this old airport short cut into Westchester and the side entrance into LAX. City people would follow the freeway signs and continue on to Century Blvd, adding extra miles to their trip. Driving through Inglewood, the freeway now enters the airport glide path for all arriving aircraft. When luck is with me, I get to see one of the mammoth jet planes float through the air and pass right over my car. This fabulous experience never becomes boring, because it is so illogical. How can tons and tons of metal float in the air? These vehicles are just huge passenger trains with wings, and they really should just drop to the ground – but they don’t. The miracle of flight is truly amazing!

Passing the Hwy 105 Interchange (Century, or Glenn Anderson Fwy) and El Segundo Blvd, I finally arrive at Rosecrans Ave, the end of the freeway segment of my road trip to Redondo. Heading west, I spy the distinctive landmark that identifies Aviation Blvd, the anachronistic, gridiron bridge of the Atchison, Topeka, & Santa Fe Railroad. This iconic symbol of the past is at odds with the high tech and communication businesses that now dominate the industrial parks on both sides of Aviation, as it makes its way through Manhattan and Redondo Beach. Arriving at the intersection of Artesia Blvd, I would normally turn right to visit Prisa. She lives in a house with two roommates on the border of Redondo, right next to Hermosa Beach. As she has usurped Westside provenance, she has also rediscovered the seaside haunts of my college days, when I frequented, and practically live in, the Hermosa Beach apartment of John, Greg, and Jim (see tag, Amigos) on Monterey Street. Those were our crazy, college days, when adventurous forays and explorations into beach city bars, pubs, restaurants, and clubs were hatched, planned, and executed. When nothing exciting was going on (which was more usual, than not), we would simply walk down to the Hermosa pier and hang out, being alert for the unexpected opportunity or encounter.

After Artesia, everything condenses and constricts. Streets become shorter and narrower, houses are smaller, and stores get closer and closer together.  I have entered the seaside environment of Hermosa Beach, with its “old beach” feel, and buildings and structures in their original “munchkin” sizes and dimensions.  In this town, alertness and caution are still vital, because of the immediate abundance of pedestrians, skateboarders, and cyclists. Defensive driving is also a requisite for these streets, because of the propensity of city side tourists and visitors, who are unaccustomed to foot and wheel traffic, and stop signs. I quickly merge into the hallowed ground of Hwy 1, or Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). This same highway hugs the beautiful and scenic Carmel and Monterey coast, and beyond, in northern California. Here in southern California, it meanders through countless beach cities and communities in Orange, Los Angeles, and Ventura counties. This section would be far more enjoyable as a passenger. I’m not as familiar with these streets as I once was, and they pass by quicker than I’d like.

“There’s Herondo and Anita Streets (at the border of Hermosa and Redondo), watch for the Catalina turnoff”, I say to myself. It arrives faster than I expected, but I maneuver the turn, and enter a new zone of Redondo Beach. I’m not familiar with this new section of town, leading into a revitalized King Harbor. It is fresh with new housing and commercial development. I begin to spot some of the monstrous “McMansions”, gaudy palaces of the nouveau riche, and oversized apartment complexes, which are beginning to overwhelm old beach cities. Torrance Blvd marks the north-south division of Catalina, and the numbers begin climbing. At this point, I’m just counting addresses, looking for the 1700 block of S. Catalina. Even addresses are on the left, so I concentrate my attention there. One vestige of the past that Redondo retains is stop signs; every corner on Catalina forces cars to come to a complete stop, before advancing. Passing Avenue I, I finally drive into the downtown part of the city, and the 1600 block. Crossing Avenida Del Norte, I finally see my destination on the left, Hennessey’s. Now the only challenge is to park, since I quickly notice that there is nothing free in Redondo. I circle the block once, and then decide to park in a metered section, one block above Catalina.

As I turned off the motor, my destination was gained and my journey complete. Now the family adventure will begin.