“On the road again, oh I just can’t wait to get on the road again.”

I’d eat these words in about five hours but for now I’m all smiles and sunshine as I head down Highway 1 towards Los Angeles. The regular highway would’ve taken around four hours, but I yearn to be near the coastline, so scenic route it is.

I make it about an hour in before the waves crashing against the shoreline to my right and thirty yards below me is too much to bear. Edge off the highway into a small lot filled with cars toting surfboards and suntanned locals. Park and set my sand dusted feet onto hot pavement.

A little sand and gravel path weaves around the inside of the sloping highway retaining wall and down towards the beach. There must’ve been another way in but the path I choose involves a tide pool around twenty yards wide and knee deep. I wade in and salt water laps up over my hiked up capris. I could care less.

I was eleven the first time I saw the Atlantic Ocean or any ocean. My pseudo-grandmother Lin took my brother, sister and I camping in Myrtle Beach and we were supposed to set up camp first.

“Please, oh please Linny, we’ve never seen the ocean before. Can we just put our feet in?” We pleaded. Ten minutes and we’re all but washed in the tide, shorts and t-shirts soaked and we’re all laughter and innocence. This moment feels like that one, but whether thirteen years ago or thirteen seconds I couldn’t tell you the difference.

Smell of the air brings me back to the present and I walk to the ocean’s edge. Dig my dirty feet into the sand. Warmth, light, happiness and clarity all bubble over within me and emerge as a smile. Manifest Destiny comes to mind. I’ve touched toes to both sides of the country, from east coast to west coast. Those early pioneers must’ve felt this same sweeping sensation, of conquering an entire land.

I am Alexander the Great. I am Cleopatra. I am Columbus and I am a wanderer and a vagabond and a dreamer and a lost soul bound on a train I can no more control than the weather or the tides. I am no one, only beginning to know my real name.

“What is the purpose? What is the purpose? And would you believe it, if you knew what you were for? How we became so informed, bodies of info, performing such miracles. I am a miracle, made up of particles, and in this existence, I’ll be persistent, and I’ll make a difference, because I will have lived it. Aloha ke akua.” – Nahko and Medicine for the People

Before I give myself to the ocean entirely I snap out of my reverie and pull my conscious tendrils back to the present. Wade back through the tide pool, barefoot to the pedal and carry on.

If you’re ever thinking of taking a giant, white rape-y van down the coast, don’t. It’s like the Black Hills all over again except instead of potentially plummeting down the mountainside I’d be plummeting into the ocean. I’d probably rather be crunched than drown but let’s go with option three of continuing life without a gruesome end. The 25 mph switchbacks mean 15-20 mph for a van like mine. It’s hard to take it all in with one-hundred percent concentration on the road in front of me. There are multiple scenic vistas to this purpose, but now that I’ve gotten this far I’m on a mission south. I soon realize taking the coast nearly doubles the mileage to L.A and I’m hell bent on covering some ground.

As if to mock me I saw I sign some ways back. Los Angeles 340 miles.

Hill after rolling hill and white lines start to blur. Periodic glances to my right as the sun begins its descent and shines brilliantly on the Pacific. Here where Helios’ chariot makes its rounds each day to bring home the sun.

I pass a couple state forests but the camping is all booked up. Typical. So I set my sights on Santa Barbara. Hours and hours later the hills begin to slowly flatten out and the towns start to resemble real towns – rather than a gas station and a diner tucked amongst sparse housing in the residence of nowhere. Buildings here are made in sandstone colors and clay reds, to battle the SoCal sun. I’m getting close. Subtle beauties are mostly lost on me though at this hour. I’m exhausted and ready for sleep.

Sleeping in the van has yet to be an issue…until now. Even the crummy Motel 6 in quiche and cozy little Santa Barbara has “absolutely no overnight parking,” signs posted everywhere. I pull in the lot anyways and receive a stare down from the attendant inside. Circle the building and turn right back around.

I try two Wal-Marts. Forty miles apart and was promptly booted out of each. Normally Wal-Mart is a safe haven for wayward travelers, but pretentious NorCal wasn’t having it. Some folks with a camper are being kicked out of the second Wal-Mart with me, so I ask their advice.

“In a little van like that?” The woman driving the R.V points at my van. “I’d just go find a hospital parking lot, they won’t notice you.”

Bingo.

There is a hospital literally across the street. I roll through the intersection and pick a spot near the very end of the parking lot. It’s huge and I couldn’t even pinpoint this place on a map again if I had to try – since I had to drive so much further from Santa Barbara. I jump into the back of the van, put up my make-shift towel curtains over the windows and drift into sleep’s sweet oblivion. Night night.

A Sleep Number mattress ain’t got nuthin’ on Delilah. I wake rested and ready to fight the good fight. Crank that good soul musik, vibin’ on California sunshine state of mind and ooh so thankful. Hop in the cab and give her some gas.

I’m not feeling the radio this morning, though I hardly ever am, so throw on my Bluetooth speaker and hit shuffle. I’ll be damned if the first song that comes on isn’t Beth Hart’s L.A Song.

Coincidence? I think not. Destiny? Oh yeah. I log the last couple of hours and merge into six lanes of infamous L.A traffic.

As usual I don’t really have a plan. But I’ve got an old friend in Hollywood, so when I see the exit for Hollywood Blvd. I cut across four lanes and hang a right.

Here’s what I know.

1. I’m 6,000 miles past due on an oil change.
2. I haven’t been online in over a week and the whole three people who read this blog must be worried sick.
3. Hollywood smells like piss. And I don’t think that I care.

Then wham. I’m driving down Hollywood Blvd. My second observation after my nostrils clear is that everything seems pink instead of the California desert sandstone colors I was growing used to. There are flashing lights everywhere, probably like Las Vegas if I’d ever actually gone to Vegas to confirm all the lights people talk about.

There’s a certain dazzling affect hidden in Hollywood nightlife, but by the light of day it’s a dump. I can see why people take unkindly to this place. Streets lined with garbage and empty cigarette cartons. Camel Blues. Ramshackle tents and encampments erected in every public park. The homeless guard their carts and odd assortment of meager possessions with suspicious expressions darting from face to face.

I don’t care, I love it. Really as long as there’s no snow I’m an easy sell. A writer is a sum of their experiences. Not every experience smells like roses and tastes like glory. Get gritty. Be edgy. Dig deeper. Work harder.

I drive past a Valvoline and hook a U-turn. Oil change and new wiper blades. Mine were starting to deteriorate and smudge beetle juice across the windshield after seven states of high speed highways and insects of all shapes, sizes, colors and individual hues to their insides as they burst open on the glass. Gross.

Delilah all freshened up and I get a ring from my old friend. “Come visit me in Hollywood,” he says. I’ll be right there.

I hadn’t seen Nate in six or seven years. Not since we’d camped together as kids in South Carolina. Now he’s a scientist living in Hollywood. Weird spot for I scientist, I know, but lucky for me his Boston company transferred there so I get a real bed (well a futon) and a hot shower. It’s all in the little things.

Pull up to the apartment complex, buzz in and hugs all around. Good to see ya buddy. Tour around their cozy one bedroom and head for the roof. Hot tub time machine minus the time machine. But there was a pool and a grill so we dip our feet in the steaming water. Nate and his wife Holly cook. Feast like kings, compliments to the chefs and all three of us get to know each other again.

Beers and bourbons later, bellies full, stories told, eyes grow heavy and off to bed. They invite me to stay another night so grab some shuteye and prepare for the day tomorrow.

“Goodnight Hollywood Blvd., oh goodnight.” – Ryan Adams

Nate’s wife Holly is at work before the sun comes up. I could never be a barista I don’t function until at least 7 a.m. Kudos chica. I drop Nate off at work and save him a bus ride. I’m ready to explore.

Nate told me about Runyon Canyon. I haven’t hiked since the Redwoods and could feel the itch in the soles of my feet and my muscles tightening in anticipation. I lace up my high ankle hiking boots over tall Neff Abominable Snowman socks. Gym shorts and a t-shirt. I’m not sure what the hike will be like but thus far on my journey I’ve needed my sturdy boots.

I can immediately feel my epic fashion failure burning beneath red cheeks, mostly flushed from heat not embarrassment. But still, I am the anti-trend setter yet again. I look around at a sea of fit people in leggings and Nike’s barreling up the hill. Leggings and Nike’s next time. Got it.

Most of the winding trail is paved until the very top. And oh yeah, there’s canines freakin’ everywhere. Nate didn’t tell me it was a dog trail too but I’m not disappointed. My inner wolf wants to play.

There’s sniffing, scratching, barking, pissing and following of the leader on the whole way up the trail. I make it to the top and check out the view next to scruffy terriers and a Great Dane. Walk up to the ledge and there it is, the Hollywood sign. Cross another cheesy tourist thing to do off my list. It seems so small from this vantage point, hundreds of yards away, below and off to my left.

To the right I get my first real glimpse of L.A, buildings towering above a sprawling urban landscape. Skyscrapers are blanketed beneath a light fog, while the skies hold blue and clear all around me and outside of downtown. So it’s smog more likely. Any real angels above that city would likely choke in the air space. Can’t wait, see you soon L.A.

Work my way back down the hillside with a sudden burst of energy and off to find more places to conquer. I’m not ready to give myself to the beaches yet, for I fear once I find the sand and ride the waves I’ll never look back. Indulge rather in American capitalism and tourism at its finest. I’m going to Universal Studios.

Honestly I’m really only going for the Wizarding World of Harry Potter experience.  I want a butterbeer in Hogsmead and yeah I want to wave my wand around yelling “Wingardium Leviosa!” Stop judging me. And Nate let me borrow his interactive wand for the real Potter nerds.

Get to the gates, pay the outrageous parking fee and quietly bite the bullet on the one hundred and twenty dollar ticket. Better be a damned good butterbeer.

Grab a map and get my bearings. Damn there’s a lot of stuff to do. I just miss the water show so I head towards zombie zone instead. I’ve never watched The Walking Dead but what the hell; let’s get my zombie apocalypse on.

I enter the “old hospital” beneath crackling electrical lines and low flashing red lights. It feels like a haunted house and I almost knock out the first zombie that comes at me. I’m sure I would only hurt my hand rather than inflict any damage but the swing first, process real life later instinct is hard to override. The offending zombie with a rotting fleshy face and tattered clothes stops about two feet away and I unclench and lower my fists. Calm down Pruni.

Ten or fifteen dead things later and I’m longing for little bouncy yellow creatures in blue overalls. Ditch the dead and make a break towards the Minions!

Do you think you have what it takes to be a Minion? The 3-D ride line shuffles everyone into a lab where Gru briefs us on our impending transformations into Minions to see if we are made of the right stuff. This is going to be sweet.

Sit in a boxcar with three other trainees. Don goggles. Minion transformation complete and away we go! The car can’t be moving more than four feet up, down, left or to the right on its thick metal runners. But with the goggles on and the big screen in front of me I feel like I’m being hurled through an exploding lab and bouncing off machines in a sea of yellow. A bomb goes off on my left, veer and stomach drops as we whoosh through a whirlwind of insanity.

Way too soon my cart shudders to a halt and returns us to the ground. That was so, totally, wicked! But now what we’ve all been waiting for. (Insert imaginary Harry Potter theme music accompaniment here.) To Hogwarts!

I was never one of those kids who wore black robes to the movie premiers or anything but I did read the seventh book in one single day. And cried quietly alone in my room when Dumbledore bites the bullet and Doby sacrifices his little elf self to save Harry Potter. So when I reach Diagon Alley it’s instantly magical.

I walk past Ollivander’s wand shop and the owl post and I’m giddy. I head straight for one of two wagons with the butterbeer. It’s just icy cold butterscotch soda with a ton of foam, but it’s simply everything I imagined a butterbeer should be. Sipping froth and waving my wand about. “Stupefy!” I’m twelve years old right now.

I head towards the main ride and weave through a hopelessly long line that eventually brings me into a partially replicated Hogwarts. Animated paintings wave from the walls and we walk around Dumbledore’s office guarded by his phoenix Fawkes.

Finally reach a moving platform where attendants load up three person carts. Overhead bars down, feet dangling and gears creaking as they catch and spin into motion. We are handed our 3-D goggles last minute as the cart turns the corner and into the darkness. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I hover over Hogwarts on our brooms.

“Ready?” Harry asks, and then we plunge over the side of the castle and I ‘m flying. I imagine I’m on a Firebolt as we race towards the Forbidden Forest. Aragog’s dozens of eyes ogle me and pincers chomp near as we’re whipped the other way. The basilisk’s hot breath hits my face in puffs of steam and we just miss colliding with an angry Whomping Willow. Animatronics combined with 3-D.

Through the Quidditch pitch at what feels like alarming speeds, back across the Hogwarts grounds, spin around the corner and settle back onto the lit platform. What a rush!

Fantasies satisfied, expectations fulfilled and inner child placated. I think I’ve earned a big girl beer, not the butterscotch kind. Walk towards the entrance lined with shops filled top to bottom in Potter and zombie swag. Grab a beer in a little micro-brewery. Accidently miss the water show again so I call it a day. Head back towards the theme coded parking garages. I’m parked in the blue level of E.T extraterrestrial bike flying alien. Thanks Universal, back to Hollywood.

I meet back up at Nate and Holly’s for another beautiful night of chat and chill on the roof. I can see everything from up here. The city and many divergent paths of my life lay out before me in the dying light. I could be happy here.

Sipping on bourbon, cheers and laughter and finally down the stairs to give into weary eyes and sleepy mind. The sun has gone to bed and so must I. Thanks for the hospitality friends. So grateful. Until the morrow, goodnight Hollywood Boulevard, goodnight.