I arrived to the John Wayne Airport (Such an outrageous name to give an airport. Like... really?) and was greeted by my Aunt and Cousin at the baggage claim. They are much the same as I had remembered them. My aunt is unfortunately rather small and her daughter not too much taller, and I bent down to greet them. Conversation didn't really come easily at first, awkwardly poking around topics like what we were going to do for dinner, how the flight was (a formality of a question, really) etc. It wouldn't be for a day or two that we could actually start picking up some good conversation but this is a side of the family I haven't seen for five years and it was never exactly the easiest before that.
We picked up my grandfather who looked relatively the same, if not a bit more aged, and drove off to a dinner at the Gourmet Cafe and Pie Company. It is, essentially, like most of the restaurants in the immediate vicinity a Marie Callender's clone full of high-calorie meals, desserts, and the elderly. My cousin and I were the youngest in the establishment by about 20+ years, and we got a lot of... looks. I picked a burrito, thinking it'd be pretty standard, but it came as double if not triple the size of stuff we have in Eugene. I ate about a 3rd and felt like I was about to throw up. Best dinner. Finishing dinner, we sat down for some awkward card games and I spent the rest of the night on an inflatable mattress on the floor in the living room. People went to bed at 9. I used my phone until 12 when it died and I decided it was sleep time.
Universal Studios the next day was the plan and, despite the weather reports, we braved the drive to Hollywood and parked. The rain was fairly light at first, and we walked down the "Universal City" area (built like a downtown with restaurants and name brand clothing stores) with half-interest. When we got to the ticket booth, it started hailing. Seeking cover, we ran inside to a Universal Studios souvenir shop just by the entrance gate along with a bunch of people who didn't seem to grasp the concept that they were not the last person trying to get inside. After politely tapping about 4 people on the shoulder and dripping all over a bunch of the merchandise, our group made it all the way inside and settled on some coffee until the weather settled. What followed was basically a rise and fall of torrential downpours and light rain, so we would approach each new attraction at the park as fast as we could, and hopped from adjacent things regardless of what they were.
The first was House of Horrors, a haunted house with real-live "actors" dressed up like scary stuff that would jump out at you or try and grab etc. They never touched, but they got close. I made my cousin go first. Yes, I am partly ashamed. My favorite part was probably the room filled with fake corpses hanging in bags from the ceiling. They came complete with a rancid kind of rotting flesh and feces smell and, coupled with the heavy weight (think punching bag almost), made for a truly eerie experience. The rest was jumpy horror stuff and I certainly got my yell on a few times. I've always been scared of that fucking Chuckie doll.
We checked out the Terminator 2 3D show that mixes a stage performance with big-screen 3D footage filmed with the Governator himself. It was awesome in a kind of archaic way, the technology out of date and the film they were using almost irrelevant. I love the flick but the show was only mediocre. We stayed after for a special animal show they were putting on because of the rain, which lasted about 10 minutes but showcased a lot of trained animals used in films. Nice.
The Simpson's Ride was probably the highlight, one of the virtual rollercoasters but supersized with a huge screen and lots of cars of people all moving and shaking according to the on-screen action. I was skeptical at first thanks to the plethora of tiny and young children giggling at all the corny jokes made from the tv screens mounted for line-waiters to watch, but it actually turned out to be pretty exciting. We had to skip the studio tour thanks to the weather, and we headed home.
The rest of the trip was kind of low-key, and I spent a lot of it listening to my grandfather share the symptoms and ailments of late. His heart is working at about 35% capacity now, and he lamented how he'd get out of breath after doing just about anything. It was hard to know how to react to this man who I've always looked up to in a strange, distant way sharing these really sad things with me. I mostly nodded politely, and said meaningless and often single-word answers to his statements. I'd inquire further, but that might've got him down a path of extreme sadness and I'd rather not. I made sure not to mention or prod further whenever my grandmother was brought up, knowing how sensitive he is on that subject. Still, it was nice to get to know him and I could tell he appreciated the one-on-one time we got together.
When my family arrived, things picked up some. I know my grandpa was super excited to have them there, and he perked up even more than when just I'd arrived. The conversation became much smoother when I wasn't the only one driving it, and we had some good times. Cards, walks, swimming laps in the pool... it was a good time and relaxing despite hearing about my girlfriends awesome time in Mexico. I tried hard not to be jealous.
This morning, turning 21, we hit up the Gourmet Cafe (again) for a special b-day breakfast and I ordered a Bloody Mary. The Waitress didn't card me. Hiding my devastation, I drank my first legal alcoholic beverage and wolfed down some Spinach and Eggs. My grandfather fought tears as we said goodbye, but didnt seem interested in anything other than a handshake. Perhaps he felt it was the manly thing. I gave his shoulder a squeeze and left feeling more guilty than happy about my evening plans in Eugene for my birthday. Still, I wonder if I've made the right decision in going home to be with my friends and doing the stereotypical omgletsgetdrunk bday. Too late.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Trip to L.A. Part 1 - Remembering
As I climbed into the small airplane with the big propellers on the side, I pondered what I'd do during my layover in the Portland Airport. Thanks to a last-minute booking, my flight down to Orange County was going to run from Eugene up (away from LA) to Portland before heading back down after a two-hour stopover. Because $400 doesn't earn me a direct flight. I settled on passing the time doing this; Remembering and writing about my experience on this super-fast trip down to visit the family in Los Angeles. It's something I haven't done in nearly 4 years, school and a job having picked up immensely and preventing any kind of solid trip plans to be made. In retrospect, I'm sure I could've got more time off had I asked really nicely at work or buttered up my professors with false praises of their 2-hour-snooze-fest lectures... or something. Hindsight's 20/20.
My 6'2 body plops down into a seat tailored for the tiny people in the row in front of me. They look like 5'2 tops, and I muse that this is probably the only time their height is considered an advantage. I make a mental note of not helping a short person reach something tall to balance things out because how else do I justify smushing my feets into my backpack? Get the can on the top shelf yourself, tiny, be resourceful. The guy next to me is at least 6'4 with a golf shirt and khakis on, you know, that old world style.
I'm not really sure what it is about me and my seatpartners on airplanes, but I invariably have sat next to someone who recently lost a loved one on the last few flights. We discuss our trips, and it emerges that this'n's visiting L.A. for a memorial service for his father who must have been outrageously old considering this man's 50's/60's age. I tell him I'm sorry, and he replies with a, "me too" that leads into an awkward silence until I offer him my Rolling Stone magazine I'd recently read through thanks to a 2 hour wait in the Eugene airport. Planning is apparently not one of my strong suits.
The plane takes off and I'm going through my mind, looking for memories about L.A. before I eventually arrive there tonight. The first thing that pops into mind is my grandfather's love for constructing models of all sorts. His garage is home to numerous movie theaters (old style, of course, with the marquees and fancy signs. I wish they were still like this), a small town by the train tracks complete with its own train and little tiny people randomly placed around the streets. I remember how the garage always felt so hot compared to the house, heading out from the air conditioned comfort of the living room to go see Poppa's latest model was like walking from the fridge into the oven. It had a very distinct smell, something like car exhaust, glue, and old things stacked in boxes up to the ceiling. Ever since I was little, I'd always try and get into model making while down in Orange County, but I never got around to actually finishing anything because I don't believe there was any real interest in it. Maybe it just made Poppa happy, so I did it no questions asked. Plus, there was always an open box of Orange Soda in the garage too. Warm? Maybe, but still.
I remember that Poppa has massive calves thanks to a lifetime's work in the postal service, back before (or maybe not before) those workers got the neat little boxy cars to roll around in and deliver mail, my grandfather would walk rain or shine his route and drop off people's mail. This is not a job little kids usually decide they'll be when they grow up, and it's certainly not a major at college. It's a kind of work that's hard, probably sucks a lot, but needs to get done. This vigorous exercise is probably what's carried him to old age better than some, always having a strong speedy walk despite his aging body. My grandfather and father walk almost the same. I must make a note not to become another in this cycle.
I realize that I have no idea what my grandmother did. I remember her gnarled hands and stooped manner of walking, maybe a result of whatever it is she did. Hell, I didn't know much about my grandmother beyond her love for those murder mysteries that involved animals of some kind. Little old ladies love that shit. She also liked to wear curlers in her hair to bed, emerging from their bedroom every morning, hunched over and hitting the bathroom up before breakfast. I'd probably woken her up with noise from the tv room, or my sister and I playing pretend while we wait for the adults to get up. The last time I was in LA was for her funeral. I remember that pretty well.
The most recent memory of Poppa is his breaking down at Thanksgiving dinner having lost Grandma, thanking everyone for being together on the holiday and expresses his yearning to have his lifepartner back. There's this awkward moment where I don't know if I should say anything, and if so... what? How does one comfort someone who has suddenly found themselves alone after 50+ years of marriage? You can pat them on the back, sure, and say meaningless phrases from movies or what adults generally say. In the end, everyone just silently let him have his moment before moving on. I find myself hoping this is not going to be the grandfather I arrive to once I land in Orange County later in the day but I should be prepared regardless.
The plane lands and my layover begins. Flashes of memory, a grandfather clock in the living room, couches that find that limbo between comfort and discomfort, swimming pools, Disney Land.
Is my sitting next to someone on a plane dooming them to lose a close relative or loved one? Oh shi-
My 6'2 body plops down into a seat tailored for the tiny people in the row in front of me. They look like 5'2 tops, and I muse that this is probably the only time their height is considered an advantage. I make a mental note of not helping a short person reach something tall to balance things out because how else do I justify smushing my feets into my backpack? Get the can on the top shelf yourself, tiny, be resourceful. The guy next to me is at least 6'4 with a golf shirt and khakis on, you know, that old world style.
I'm not really sure what it is about me and my seatpartners on airplanes, but I invariably have sat next to someone who recently lost a loved one on the last few flights. We discuss our trips, and it emerges that this'n's visiting L.A. for a memorial service for his father who must have been outrageously old considering this man's 50's/60's age. I tell him I'm sorry, and he replies with a, "me too" that leads into an awkward silence until I offer him my Rolling Stone magazine I'd recently read through thanks to a 2 hour wait in the Eugene airport. Planning is apparently not one of my strong suits.
The plane takes off and I'm going through my mind, looking for memories about L.A. before I eventually arrive there tonight. The first thing that pops into mind is my grandfather's love for constructing models of all sorts. His garage is home to numerous movie theaters (old style, of course, with the marquees and fancy signs. I wish they were still like this), a small town by the train tracks complete with its own train and little tiny people randomly placed around the streets. I remember how the garage always felt so hot compared to the house, heading out from the air conditioned comfort of the living room to go see Poppa's latest model was like walking from the fridge into the oven. It had a very distinct smell, something like car exhaust, glue, and old things stacked in boxes up to the ceiling. Ever since I was little, I'd always try and get into model making while down in Orange County, but I never got around to actually finishing anything because I don't believe there was any real interest in it. Maybe it just made Poppa happy, so I did it no questions asked. Plus, there was always an open box of Orange Soda in the garage too. Warm? Maybe, but still.
I remember that Poppa has massive calves thanks to a lifetime's work in the postal service, back before (or maybe not before) those workers got the neat little boxy cars to roll around in and deliver mail, my grandfather would walk rain or shine his route and drop off people's mail. This is not a job little kids usually decide they'll be when they grow up, and it's certainly not a major at college. It's a kind of work that's hard, probably sucks a lot, but needs to get done. This vigorous exercise is probably what's carried him to old age better than some, always having a strong speedy walk despite his aging body. My grandfather and father walk almost the same. I must make a note not to become another in this cycle.
I realize that I have no idea what my grandmother did. I remember her gnarled hands and stooped manner of walking, maybe a result of whatever it is she did. Hell, I didn't know much about my grandmother beyond her love for those murder mysteries that involved animals of some kind. Little old ladies love that shit. She also liked to wear curlers in her hair to bed, emerging from their bedroom every morning, hunched over and hitting the bathroom up before breakfast. I'd probably woken her up with noise from the tv room, or my sister and I playing pretend while we wait for the adults to get up. The last time I was in LA was for her funeral. I remember that pretty well.
The most recent memory of Poppa is his breaking down at Thanksgiving dinner having lost Grandma, thanking everyone for being together on the holiday and expresses his yearning to have his lifepartner back. There's this awkward moment where I don't know if I should say anything, and if so... what? How does one comfort someone who has suddenly found themselves alone after 50+ years of marriage? You can pat them on the back, sure, and say meaningless phrases from movies or what adults generally say. In the end, everyone just silently let him have his moment before moving on. I find myself hoping this is not going to be the grandfather I arrive to once I land in Orange County later in the day but I should be prepared regardless.
The plane lands and my layover begins. Flashes of memory, a grandfather clock in the living room, couches that find that limbo between comfort and discomfort, swimming pools, Disney Land.
Is my sitting next to someone on a plane dooming them to lose a close relative or loved one? Oh shi-
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