Day 19- June 7, 2006 - En route (Santa Barbara-San Clemente)

In the morning, I rushed Doug to get ready so we could fully enjoy the free continental breakfast the hotel provided. Still bitter about the price of the room, I was tempted to load up my pockets with bagels and bananas but after coffee and juice and chocolate chip muffins, I was sedated enough- my anger calmed- it seemed worth it now, I rationalized, adding up the cost of an average breakfast for two in my head.

We left, heading South for L.A., with only the map of California in its entirety to guide us. We barely used it, opting instead to follow freeway signs that listed miles, how far we were, where we were going, options.

We pull off at Sunset Blvd because it is familiar sounding and we weave through streets until the signs announce Beverly Hills and I start singing and humming theme songs and Doug curses excessively to emphasize just how much he hates driving in the city. We keep driving, doubling back over ourselves and normally this would be enough to become familiar with the area, for us to learn our geography, but the street names never stick. And I wonder if this is because I'm worried about ending up here, because I am worried about so many things involving the future.

Despite my urging to pull into a gas station for a road map, Doug finds the freeway again and insists on moving on. Later I will tell my parents that we spent more time there than we did, spent it better, exploring the city enough to get a clear sense that this is not where I want to be. This is true enough really, and I have told worse lies before.

We keep driving, the coffee from breakfast wearing off and earlier that day, before L.A., we stopped to buy the new Less Than Jake album, which we suspected would be perfect Souther California driving music. We were right, mostly, and by the time we leave L.A., we have half the songs memorized, or the choruses anyway.

Spotting a Starbucks on the side of the road hours later, sometime around dinner, we pull off. I listen to a guy on a date talk about how most people want to be off just living life but he's at the point where he wants to settle down and start a family. He talks loud, overpowering, trying to give his words more weight than they deserve and I think I see his date flinching from the force of his voice. He's emphasizing every other word like some warped version of iambic pentameter and I wonder if he is speaking this way to command attention. I hate him. The girl is Asian, with too much eye makeup and straight hair draped halfway down her chest. She nods along to his words but never offers any of her own and I'm not sure if she is convinced by what he says or knows better than to get in the way of this self-important train.

When the drinks are ready, I sit in a big armchair to wait for Doug. From across the room, I can feel a man staring at me. He is drinking icewater and thinking that this dark haired, dark-rimmed glasses girl does not belong in this bleach blonde beach town. He communicates this to me telepathically and I, also telepathically, tell him he is right.

Doug comes out, suggesting the nearby Oceanside as a place to stop for the night, but looking around, I say maybe we should get a room here. It is a quiet sort of beach town and though he'd had his mind set, I am paying and he agrees. We drive the main road lined with hotels, stopping at the first, which misadvertises, overcharges and Doug picks the next place to stop, a motel across the street.

The woman behind the desk says $60, even with Doug half heartedly trying to talk her down. I sign for the room and she looks at my license. "Oh, you're from New York! What are you doing all the way out here?" I'm surprised not to have gotten more of this. I tell her we've been working our way down the coast for the past three weeks and I don't know what makes me as friendly as this except that I am glad we are not in L.A. "How did you get the time off?" She sounds amazed and I tell her that I just graduated college and that this is my last hurrah before the real world. Saying it out loud makes me feel sad, as though I only have a few days left to live before stepping in front of a firing squad.

She gives us the keys, real keys, not cards, and we go up three floors to an adorable room. As if proof of the beachiness of the area, the walls are lined with blue backgrounds of palm trees and oceans with a shower curtain to match. There's bamboo hanging to designate the closet, and it is doesn't smell like the bamboo we hung back home. There's an armoir with enough space for Doug and I to fit inside comfortably (we don't, but we think about it, take the measurements). We can see the water if we open the curtains and we're the last room over so there's no neighbor noise. In short, it is perfect.

We watch TV- back to back episodes of So You Think You Can Dance?, while thumbing through the brochures Doug snagged in the lobby. I am trying to sell him on Disneyland, but he resists, and I'm sure it is based on cost alone. We go out to eat, grabbing fast food at Jack in the Box because it is late and that it the only thing open- we can tell by the crowd inside. Doug is officially broke and we still have a city left, which makes him worry and makes me worry for him.

Back in the room, quiet, worrying, we fall asleep.


Doug's impression of L.A.