I’m in L.A. for my Thanksgiving holiday. I flew in this morning, and it’s around 2:14 am Chicago-time for me. I just got back from my friend’s birthday party in Santa Monica. I made a brief appearance due to the jet lag, but after a double espresso, I’m still awake. I missed my hometown. I realized this as I was driving in my car tonight especially when I saw the first twinkle of lights from over the hill. Sure, the Valley is the porn capital of the world, but there’s something about the way it glows at night from atop the mountainside that makes you forget all that. Damn, I miss mountains (nature’s skyscraper). I miss the moderate weather, too… and the fact that I feel accepted in whatever I wear pretty much everywhere (excluding the Edison).
I had a layover in Denver after last night’s Broncos upset against New York. The closest I get to being an Occupy activist is getting a sadistic satisfaction in seeing the Jets’ white-collar fan-base upset. Tim Tebow gave them all a piece of humble pie. I love him and his touch-down prayers! So, surrounded by football pride in Denver, I immediately felt a kinship with the folks there. As I was getting to my gate, I saw a sign for a “Tornado Shelter.” At UCLA, we had an underground food court in South Campus called the Bombshelter. Clueless, I got excited to check the place out. Cute marketing! When I walked closer to the “Tornado Shelter,” I realized that it wasn’t a restaurant or store, but an actual sanctuary against twisters. I shuddered. I am not in Sherman Oaks anymore. And, that is the precise moment when my spiritual connection to the denizens of Denver ended. There’s no place like home.
This is near my summer volleyball spot: