Lalibella , Ethiopia
What do you do if you want to have a fancy wedding in Los Angeles on a teacher’s salary?
You book an outdoor venue in Temecula on a Sunday in August and ask your friends to drive out and sit under umbrellas in triple-digit heat, which we were only too happy to do! All of us! No bother at all!
Ironically, Mr. and Mrs. UpintheValley had their first tiff at a gas station in Rancho Cucamonga on the way home from Vegas. Since then the world East of Pasadena has remained terra incognita for us, even after two decades as Angelenos. We’re not snobs. Except for bickering, we just never had reason to get out of the car.
There is a saying in L.A.: the car is king. This is not correct. In L.A. the car is the preferred mode of transportation. The street grid overlays a network of former trolley lines which in turn mimic earlier horse trails which, by necessity, hewed to canyons and watersheds. The underlying topography and the transportation backbone correspond to the historical evolution of the city. The freeways were only cut in later.
Here in the outer, outer ring of suburbs, the freeway is its own world entire.
Massive three-level interchanges, which make the 405/101 cloverleaf in Sherman Oaks look like a piker, sprout from a tree-less scrubland, mocking the topography. One is lifted a hundred feet in the air then sluiced into a fresh arterial without any understanding of where one is, or why this great sorting of vehicles is taking place at this particular location since wherever you are there is no here. You’re flying over a waterless arroyo and the bleached bones of luckless prospectors.
The towns, off-ramps to subdivisions really, adhere to the freeway for life support. They all contain the following: a business park/distribution hub called The Pointe (with an E), an auto mall, an entertainment complex called The Crossroads, or The Shops At….
…and above all, gated communities with fanciful names like…Terramor.
Terramor evokes something reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, a place very green, very watery, clannish, historical, and very far from Corona.
Should the three-hour commute from the city fail to dissuade the rampaging, machete-wielding hordes, there will be gates to repel them. Gates! You can lay on your cool, air-conditioned pillow and bank on it.
Somehow one gets the feeling the hordes, when they emerge, will form ranks right here. Take away the A/C, and I can visualize the Inland Empire going full Rod Serling in about a week. The survivors will be headed in our direction, back to the city and its Mediterranean climate, looking for the Olive Garden.
Define fragility: two million people living off one pipe and one wire. Disrupt either for any amount of time and the outer suburbs are not merely unpleasant, they are uninhabitable. Maslow’s Hierarchy will prevail. Forget lost cell service. Imagine a population of luckless prospectors the size of Houston poking through dry creek beds looking for a brackish puddle in which to insert a straw. There is a reason no civilization prospered here for centuries.
Then it’s back to the city, all two million of them. Not unlike the Monday commute we experienced on the way home. Not unlike the commute people already make twice a day, five days a week, until the mortgage is burned.
Will five-bedroom outer commute California survive a Black Swan event? I don’t know. It may have no choice but to make the fragility work, but at a price point reflecting risk.
You don’t know who you really are until you get there.
Paul and Stephanie, joined in consecrated union.
Imagine biking from Pasadena to downtown LA on a dedicated boardwalk, at rooftop level, then pedaling home in the evening under magic lights while serenaded by bullfrogs and crickets. Like the NYC High Line, but without pedestrians.
In 1900 you could do this. For about two miles. The remainder of the California Causeway foundered for lack of paying customers, and the ungracious and untimely arrival of the automobile. Like so many magnificent wooden structures of yore, inevitably it would have burned to the ground at some point. Instead the lumber was sold off, repurposed in local houses.
Oh, to have ridden upon it, even once!
A century later one is taken by the separation from streetcars and horse-drawn carriages. Here, in first conception, the bike fulfills transportation needs and communes with nature in equal measure.
Steve Jobs was fond of saying the condor was the most efficient creation in nature. It moved the greatest distance with the least amount of energy. Man, by contrast, was way down the evolutionary list. Until he got on a bike. A man on a bicycle was the most energy efficient creation ever. He moved at four times the speed of the pedestrian and used five times less energy. A computer, he added, was a bicycle for the mind.
Bicycles take less space, require less public infrastructure, impose less on the physical space of our fellow citizens. If unimpeded, a woman on a bike can cross the city like a wind deity. A boy on a bike arrives at school like a knight in training. Imagine if we had a whole network of cycleways like this connecting the neighborhoods of the Valley. Oh, wait.
So we are obliged in the absence of civic leadership to play Russian roulette on public streets, our laptops tucked neatly in our backpacks, spinning the pedals with Jobsian hyper-efficacy, masters of our own movement until a hit and run driver says otherwise.
Juan, a nice young man who works for a neighborhood advocacy organization approached me last week with a petition. ‘Sign here, and Nury’s office will ask for streetlights for the neighborhood.”
How wonderful. Who could say no? Sure I’ll sign…
Not so fast. The streetlights are going to cost ‘only’ $6/month, per house. $72 a year, for life.
Juan was having difficulty collecting signatures.
Streetlights fall under the category of Things We Already Pay For. That is, in the normal run of things in the wealthiest state in the country, from the vast pools of property tax revenue, income tax, sales taxes, utility taxes there are ample funds to light the streets. Not so in the banana republic of Los Angeles, where we are now being asked to kiss the ring of jefa Nury, and pay a special assessment, to obtain what Glendale, Burbank, Pasadena, even downmarket working class San Fernando already have by right of citizenship. How soon before we are issued shovels and asked to fill in our own potholes?
Hector Tobar, formerly of the Times, wrote recently the presence of a permanent caste of squatter communities is the signature characteristic of Third World cities. A life-long Angeleno, liberal, and son of Guatemalan immigrants, Tobar sees Los Angeles heading in this direction. This is true, but only half the story. L.A. has its own twist on the formula: Swedish levels of taxation and Brazilian levels of service. A two-tiered society with a narrow band of Beautiful People on the other side of the hill living in an urban playground of artisanal pleasures, and a vast workforce paying top dollar to live within commuting distance to serve them, then returning home to unlit streets.
All one has do is leave the city limits to see how different it can be.
And then….you get off the 405, in North Hills….
There are a few reasons why this bothers me, besides the obvious. For one, this has been developing for at least half a year. The Parthenia St. undercrossing happens to be one of three in the Valley featuring a 144 foot long mural: Los Pajaros -Birds- of California. On Roscoe, there’s the Bear Mural. On Nordhoff, there’s the Fish. All delightful, if not quite Pasadena-like, and all painted by local students. On the North side of Parthenia, unremoved tagging has obscured much of the work. Here on the south side, what started as a small encampment of a single shopping cart and a plastic tarp has expanded like Ewing’s sarcoma over the entire sidewalk.
The City of Los Angeles in its majesty has decreed any blight along the 405 or Metrolink right of way no longer to be its responsibility. The underside of these structures are in effect consigned to a civic state of nature, even if they face a heavily-used public street in a densely populated neighborhood and kids have to step off the sidewalk onto a busy thoroughfare to avoid the debris field.