Hysteria. . . Part Three: Irvine and Two Conditioners

Are you plugged in yet?

Surfer muzak puts that extra spring in your step in the 6:00 a.m lobby of a Marriott in Southern California.

Bright eyed and leary biz types with strangely alert a.m. buzz already dot the café chairs in their wrinkle free shirts; such garments are made of unnamed chemicals that keep the material fresh and ready for just about anything. Starbucks Grande Latte Extra Watery sits on several tables along with the ubiquitous laptops. These are white collar indentured servants with many years ahead of them on the rack- and that only if they’re lucky enough not be axed in the next downsizing.  Large buses outside wait to transport them to some gigantic, mind numbing gathering as they gulp their morning rations.

Across the road the huge, slightly terrifying Taco Bell sign hovers over all, though not especially comfortingly. During the day it’s not that noticeable; at night it sits large and bright, forlorn on the horizon, and if you happen to be staying at the hotel it also serves to tell you when to exit the freeway. The sign makes you glad you do not work at any of the corporate headquarters in this or any other world. It beckons not with the green light at the end of of Daisy's dock, but with rather a garish sort of pink, like the polluted air around certain urban centers.

As if all that weren’t enough, on my first morning after a jet lagged sleep, I discovered to my horror that instead of bringing my very favorite, sample size magical shampoo and conditioner- (that which would have saved me from the merciless and cruelly hard hotel water with no pressure that thus prevents effective rinsing)- I had instead managed to pack two conditioners. In other words, no shampoo, just two (now useless) goddamn conditioners. Like a bad dream I suddenly saw it all in a flash. Hard Water. No water pressure. Hair bedlam. No real inclination to get to a CVS in my PJs before showering, not that they would stock this salon grade life saving potion anyway. And even if I were willing to swallow my pride and drive over there coffee-less, clothes rumpled from the night before, so as not to waste even one of my precious, fresh outfits stashed in the burgeoning carry on, I’d still be forced to settle on some inferior product, possibly a store brand. . . . 

The sun already is blazing unusually hot as I peel open the tiny cream cheese packet in pill box size that came with my frozen bagel. A brochure on a nearby table blaring “Welcome to the Center of Orange County is all about the man & woe-man made “community” of Irvine, a thing I repeatedly want to call Irving because it sounds so much more human.  As I toy with the “bagel” on my paper plate, I go over the list of all the startling advantages the place purportedly has to offer, and then I transliterate the whole thing into reality (see parentheses):

“Irvine was master-planned. . . .”

(think Stepford village, on steroids baby, like you can't believe)

“A leading business center with more than 100 corporations”

(Actually, they own it, they are it, and it is they)

“Family oriented. . . multicultural. . . celebrates diversity”

(In three trips I’ve seen exactly one black person)

“Beautifully manicured office parks”

(office parks???)

“Recognized as America’s safest city”

(This definitely scares me)

I gaze out the window and muse that yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the dazed, I shall fear no evil, master planning or otherwise. . . .  Then I finally accept the breakfast situation, smear the tiny dollop of cream cheese allotment onto my “bagel” and take a swig of the Grande Watery.

Skoll. L'Chaim. Down the hatch. Here's looking at you, Irvine.

Hysteria. . . .Part Two: Up, Up & Away!

Three hours into our flight the skies were looking no friendlier than an hour or so after dawn when we shimmied our way through the soon to be compressed cabin air to find our seats: a couple of amazingly tiny, uncomfortable and ergonomically nightmarish stools with hard backs that pitched dangerously forward if you dared to move, even slightly. My travel companion agreed to sit in the middle and act as “therapist.”

The dry, noisy air sucked the very life out of me halfway to our destination and prompted more than a few really-have-to-pee emergencies. This rather difficult, brave journey as you may know entails standing tentatively on one foot or the other while tripping over yourself as you carefully move down a measly small, single aisle, bumping into seated, jutting elbows, hopping your way to the back of the cabin.

This new "better!" winged contraption that naively races through the clouds these days is astonishingly narrow. You realize this as you continue to wriggle your way to the bathroom, the wee plane rocking happily back and forth. Once you finally pry open the folding lavatory door, you are more or less flung into the WC rather rudely while trying hard not to fall down; in truth, if you even attempted this headlong maneuver- i.e. falling to the floor- you would wind up wedged in a rather awkward position between the bowl and the sink. There simply is no place to fall. Flinging your body randomly against walls however is totally allowed as you try not to miss by achieving just the right position.

Back in my seat I feel as if I am devoid of every drop of moisture that keeps the engine of my parched organs running smoothly. Can one continue to exist in this state for a period of time and actually still be classified as "alive?"

Halfway through I have my first panic attack. It’s relatively low level (real terror of course does not take hold until landing), and I successfully manage to desist running up and down the aisle naked and screaming, flailing my arms erratically and demanding to be let off the plane immediately. In fact, I am quite proud of having avoided the temptation to be escorted to the rear and tranquilized by the men in the little white jackets by acting like a lunatic.

Be all that as it may, I soon am convinced there is something very, very wrong with the ventilation system and the cabin pressure, which explains why suddenly I am gasping for air. The twenty-something in her hoodie who is tucked near the window thinking she will live forever without warning put up the window shade, sending a blast of sharp, unforgiving beams of blinding illumination right into the center of my pupils. For the most part, everyone plays dead, eyes closed either in sleep or shock.

O thank you so much. . . orange juice, yes. No, no ice. Thanks!

How the hell will this ridiculous, plastic cup with the sticky liquid swishing around like the seas during a tsunami not go flying all over my new shoes? The teenie, tiny cocktail napkin won't be of much help either with the cleanup. . . . 

And people actually do this for fun.

Only three more hours. . . .


(Next week part three: I arrive!!!)

Hysteria, Fear and Boredom: A Three Part Series on Travel

Part One: Getting out of the House

He-e-e-ey, Guh Mawnin!

The driver, a pleasant fellow, obviously feels pretty good about uttering these words- clearly he has done this before at odd hours.

Whassup the toll taker automatically mumbles back. His face is slack, his eyes semi-dead.

The whassup is not a question as the toll collector does not give a damn about what actually is “up” at 6:00 a.m. on a dark, chilly autumn morning while a stream of zombie driven vehicles jockey thru the moat leading to JFK; at this hour there is not even the threat of real light and the world sleeps.

In a weird way I totally understand the driver’s cheery if misplaced attempt to keep himself awake at dawn. But will he succeed. . . . I decide not to think on this further.

As usual we’ve booked one of the earlier flights to avoid getting stuck in the LA rush hour, a snaking thing of despair that goes on pretty much 24/7 but oddly offers a brief break between noon and 1:00 p.m. With the three hour time difference, by landing at 11:00 you have a small chance of making it to your destination without experiencing the lingering and deleterious effects of traffic nervous breakdown. . . .  It’s a tiny though strangely merciful window of time.

 

An 8:00 a.m. flight sounds so civilized when you first book! It does! At least it’s not the 7:00 a.m. you say to yourself smugly. The truth of course points to a 4:45 a.m. wake up call consisting of horrific high pitched bleeps coming from your beastly little phone. By the time you’re lugging your carry on and wheelie to security you’re ready to kill in a sleepy, dopey, somnambulist sort of way, while at the same time forced to prove you’re a normal citizen and not a terrorist by exuding extreme pleasantness and calm as you’re full-body x-rayed and patted down.

But all that is the easy part. The real horror of course has already occurred- that of getting out of the house (and no, it does not depend on how early or late you’ve packed, because between then and now there will have been at least several “emergencies”- think ingrown toenail for example, requiring painful encounter with the spurious science of podiatry the day before the trip- yes, the toenail that suddenly rules your every thought!). Then there’s the obligatory ritual of repacking, a ceremony that can take place the night before and stretch into the very morning you alight, if only as a symbolic gesture in which you banish then repatriate some stuff.

Finally, there’s the securing of a taxi, either by attempting to hail one and hoping the guy is fully conscious at dawn, or calling for one- an experience with its own set of abuses and a process that frequently can be more daunting than being 38,000 feet aloft during turbulence while thinking about the last plane that went down.

The car service dispatcher- if you go that route- often sounds like an especially irritated member of a teenage street gang combined with a vague intimation of Mafioso retribution. I usually find this somewhat comforting however as the terrible, angry sounds the dispatcher emits in between telling you to hold on somehow assure me that the lucky, chosen driver actually will be there as grudgingly promised. And in truth this beats grappling with some call center in northern Wyoming where all they really want is to get their sticky fingers on your credit card; local service is cash and carry all the way!

Lastly, need I remind that “Uber” with that intimidating umlat over the u that nobody can pronounce quite correctly, and its demand- nay, command!-  that you text really does have a whiff of mind control. . . .

(Next week part two: Up, Up and Away!)