I always feel a bit spaced out before I travel...especially on the cusp of a really epic trek. A bag of nerves. I'm really neither here, nor there. It's hard to focus. I'm afraid I'll slice off my finger chopping carrots, or wander into traffic with my head in the clouds, and get flattened by a 14 wheeler. To those of you that are seasoned jet-setters, this will seem ridiculous. Apparently, I don't get out much. Unfortunately, I have neither the time, or loose cash to afford to flit like a butterfly from branch to branch of this grande, yet troubled planet of ours...and my routine tends to keep me pretty stationary, and focussed on the mundanities of life, like paying rent, and tending to what business I have. While I've taken several shorter, more regional trips, I haven't been across the dateline - or out of Japan - in six years. Time passes more quickly the older we get, and there seem to be more things getting in the way of taking these kinds of jaunts than there used to be years ago....not to mention that the older I get, the less excited I am to get into that horrible jet-lag cycle, and spend a couple of days walking around like a discombobulated zombie on either end of the journey. Funny. It IS actually time travel. Spending almost a full day, door to door, to arrive (calendar-wise) about 6 hours before I left. The dinner hour flight from Tokyo Narita airport to LAX. Hopefully the cheap, in-flight red wine does it's job, and knocks me out for at least a few hours. Gone are the days of the trans Pacific party...the 10 hour power-drink across the dateline, and incoherent fumble through customs on the other end. I think that went out with the twentieth century. The last time I attempted it, around 15 years ago, I got hauled off, searched and interrogated at Vancouver International, and ended up missing my connecting flight to L.A., being four hours late, and pissing everyone off. I guess it's lucky that they didn't tase me. An over-zealous, taser-happy Canadian Immigration officer apparently put a poor Polish guy in his grave a few years back for being confused and 'unmanageable' upon arrival.
One thing is certain...the Immigration and security folks at the airports are a hell of a lot less welcoming than they used to be. Going through the hoops at Immigration has to be one of my very least favourite activities. I actually prefer root canals.
Which brings us to Los Angeles. Where my story began 50 years ago, this Christmas Eve. Generations of my Mum's family have connections to this town. Everyone seems to have had their own odyssey over there. My Gramma , in the early 1930's. My Mum, in the 1960's. My younger sister, in the early 1990's. Mum and I left in 1970...and I didn't return to Los Angeles again until I was 14 years old. At that age, 10 years seems like a lifetime. I guess, in many ways, it really is. Now it passes in the blink of an eye. I was reading somewhere about why that is. When you're an 8 year old kid, one school year seems like forever. Shit...it seems like forever between weekends. It kind of is. One year is an eighth of your life. It's equal to about 6 and a half years, in relative terms, for a 49 year old. In other words, one year for an 8 year old passes like six years for a person in their late 40's. Age does funny things to those of us that make it up to and past the half century mark. I don't know what it is, but this year, in particular...the crawl up to 50...seems transitional. Like I'm kind of between chapters, or something. Exactly, like I'm really neither here, nor there. I'm hoping that this trip does something to remedy the situation. Ushers in a new era, or something. Trips have a knack of forming dividers, like that. Every journey gives us something new, as well. A new idea, point of view, inspiration. Just what that is never becomes apparent until after we get back, and the dust settles, though. In a way, I'm already anxious to get back and see just what that is.
