Good morning. Happy Thursday.
I write this as my humble car that I finally paid off late last year is in the shop for a major repair. I found out that my engine, which is under a 100,000 mile warranty, was dying a slow, painful death. The good news is that the engine will be replaced for free! I even get a loaner car (a brand new hybrid Sonata!) while the work is being done. Lucky me, car karma worked in my favor and I am more than grateful that I avoided a breakdown in the middle of the night on a dark desert highway…cool wind in my hair.
Seriously, Hotel California song lyrics aside, my most common nightmare is about my car being either stolen or broken. Apparently I have a deep seated fear of being stranded. Since the above mentioned engine crisis has been diverted, I have been doing some thinking about my personal transportation history and trauma. This is the stuff of cliff hanging excitement and a thousand thrills. You will probably think I need a psychological evaluation. Fasten your seat belts.
I also dream a lot about catching buses late at night, worrying about getting to my destination and fearful there are no buses running at that hour. Which leads me to my first personal transportation historical fact: I was born in Detroit (otherwise known as Motor City and where Ford created cars using the assembly line) but grew up in West Los Angeles.
Los Angeles is connected by gargantuan boulevards and freeways that stretch out like veins in every direction. A car here is as essential as food and water. We were a one car family, however, and my dad had the honors of driving that one car for his work. I took the bus everywhere with my mother…and as I got older, on my own. On the East Coast, or other big cities, it is not uncommon to take public transportation. It is a rarity in the City of the Angels.
Waiting at bus stops, at the mercy of the bus schedule, was standard operating procedure. This was before apps and cell phones so bus stop time was spent watching cars go by. Patience was at a premium. When you saw a bus heading towards you, you hoped and prayed it was yours. When it was not, the disappointment was papable. If you missed a bus and saw it heading away without you, the lamentations began in earnest. The wait would most likely be at least a half an hour for the next one. It was a feeling of being dependent and vulnerable to the fates. Is it any wonder then, that my reoccuring dreams of missing buses is symbolic of life’s uncontrollable ups and downs? You had no idea that this blog was going to be so deep, now did you? Ha!
Over the years, my family had a few cars but it was the dark green Mercury Montego that truly stole my heart. Before that we had a big old Chrysler on its last legs which was affectionately known as “The Clunker.” I went with my father when he traded in the Montego for a used Cadillac. There is something heartbreaking about seeing your beloved Montego abandoned in a used car sales lot. This could also explain a lot…
At 16, I went through the driving rite of passage and despite failing my first time because of shoddy parallel parking, I got my California Driver’s License. Because we only had the one car, however, I was still at the mercy of public transportation. My wealthy best friend had her own car, though, with which we would cruise around West L.A. in the evening hours. We had a blast parking on a dark hill top that overlooked a brightly lit gas station on the corner of Santa Monica Blvd and Beverly Glen where our boyfriends worked. (That gas station is still there, too.) Those were the nostalgic good ol’ days when gas station attendants still pumped gas, cleaned windows and checked fluids in California. My friend brought out her binoculars and we spied on them. Life was good.
Fast forward to being a college student in 1970s San Francisco. Navigating buses, trains, trolleys and the BART rail system was a cinch. After two years in the wild and crazy dorms, I moved to Daly City which was a boring but relatively affordable suberb right outside of San Francisco and at the southern end of the BART line. From the BART station it was a good mile to my cheapo apartment. Walking that mile was often grueling in the foggy, bitter Northern California cold that penetrated your bones. Brrrrrr.
Sometimes, just for fun, and usually after surviving finals, I would catch the iconic cable car line to the wharf. The cable cars were a heady mixture of sounds and smells. Rings, dings, brakes clanging, sudden stops jarring your whole being, and the smell of metal on metal. It was glorious, and even better when barely hanging on from the side while going up and down notoriously steep hills. You took your life in your hands! The reward was to arrive at the wharf and pig out on Mexican food in the Cannery followed by a hot fudge sundae at Ghirardelli Square. Then I discovered the Irish Coffee at Buena Vista. As you can tell, I was very hungry back in the day and San Francisco has always had world class food. Chinese, Italian, Mexican, etc. Not too many delis, however. (I’m definitely getting off topic…)
My boyfriend, who later became my first husband, had bought a used light blue Ford Fairlane after getting out of the Navy. That car was our ticket to more exciting places like North Beach, the Embarcadero and vintage movie theaters throughout town. One time, however, the drive train fell out while we were going up a steep, narrow and very busy residential hill. He couldn’t take his foot off of the brake or else the car would roll backwards into oncoming traffic. I ran around the neighborhood ringing doorbells so I could call for help. After trying several doors, a group of hippies let me in. They were very hospitable and also offered me a hit on their bong (I declined). Life before cell phones was certainly an adventure.
Part two will include a harrowing trip cross-country on a Greyhound bus, scurrying around New York’s underbelly (subways) and a return to Los Angeles. Stay tuned!
Cheryl Thatt-Burbank 