Doncha Love…Driving

Ahhh, no traffic!

Let’s get this out in the open.  I did not get my driving license until I was 25 or 26.  And I’d never really done the whole “driving on the freeway” thing until Rollagirl and I got in the car the day I moved to Los Angeles.

But, after that trial by fire, which included a near fatal accident, an encounter with a bunch of people that were clearly intermarried, Elvis, Carhenge and Dolly Parton — and those were the tamest elements on the southern route between New York and LA — I learned to like driving.  In fact, as often happens when you do a lot of something mundane, while you detest a good bunch of it — in this case, traffic, people who put on their signals as they are turning, and people who cut in front of you and then slow down top my list — there are some parts of it that grow on you.  That, do I dare say it, you fall absolutely in love with.  And, as I mentioned the other day, one thing I love about driving is heading west on the 10, early in the morning, sun coming up, maybe you’re bundled up a little bit.  This is a good time to play Here Comes The Sun.  Which not only happens to be written by my favorite Beatle (George) but also happens to an excellent song for this kind of situation.  I mean, just listen to that song.  It feels like the sun rising and sparkling over the water.  Which is what happens when you’re driving west on the 10.  Eventually you’re gonna hit the water.  And when you do, you can park the car and take a walk on the Boardwalk and do something superbly ridiculous, like get your palm read (I recommend doing this at least once in your life) or you can do what I usually do when I need to clear my head: hang right and head up the PCH, past Pepperdine, to Zuma.  Park the car, leave your shoes, bring a towel and go sit on the beach.  Most of what I do is sit.  Other activities: watch the waves, dig your feet in the sand, attempt to read the paper or catch up on The New Yorker or squint your way through some book in a series (Agatha Christie’s a classic beach read in my book.  Other choices: The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, Game of Thrones, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Harry Potter, even — dare I say — Twilight), take a few pictures for your Facebook page or your Twitter but try, Lordy just try, to refrain from updating your status.   You’re aiming for a little alone time and blasting that you’re hanging solo at the beach does not count as true alone time. I know, I know.  This is the 21st century, where we all, yours truly included, feel the compelling need to share our every movement to the point of apologizing — Sorry dude, I was off grid — as if we’ve all got some collective fear of being kidnapped if we don’t.  But I digress.  Sorta.  Anyway, what you’re here for is clearing your head space.  So, I leave you be…

Okay, now that you’ve cleared your head by spending a few moments contemplating the movement of the waves, how many grains of sand there are, or some other equally deep, unanswerable and mind boggling thought, it’s time to roll home.  I recommend hanging left at Sunset.  There’s something about curving down the road, a little too fast maybe, it’s a little deserted (you started this adventure when the sun was coming up — remember? — so you’re prolly only hitting maybe 10 am right about now).  The day stretches out in front of you.   A nap beckons, later there’ll be brunch with friends.  All is right with the world again.

*If you get hungry and they’re open, Malibu Seafood is an excellent place to fuel up on fried clams, fried oysters and clam chowder.

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