2009-05-14

Pre-Dawn
3:40 - the second of four set alarms goes off, and the dream is ended...we must wake up. Or must we? Neither Kiara or I know truly whether we slept or not in our Californianticipation; I can't speak for her, but my uncertainty stems from the melatonin-Vitamin B6 post-finals sleep assurance cocktail that, far from delivering a much needed night-nap, brought upon some sort of tryptophan->seratonin conversion psychadelichosis that was truly stranger than fiction. We soldiered on out of Hemnes, our IKEA bed, and began packing/booking/printing. We also greeted Gregor, who looked at us with a, 'do you know what fucking time it is?" sort of cat-look. Lionel is left to guard the roost...when China finaly happens, we'll post a picture.

Ice and gas. I-10. First stop is Quartzite, AZ; Kiara needs breakfast (a McDonald's bacon, egg, and chees biscuit), and I stick with Gatorade Lime and Fritos. We have to turn down Kanye West as we pull up to the window, nearing 6:00, but he made his presence known with the Lawry's seasoned salty look given to Kiara by the server...Quartzite is a WASP-town.

I-10. Zero mile-marker over the water, and we're in, carrying no Arizona produce across the border. Blythe - gas and a look at a couple of beautiful Rottweilers.

I-10, and at some point on this leg, the ridiculous math problem described by Kiara. We enter the outer-L.A. limits, and the congestion happens. We ponder this, and decide that California drivers seem to have a method to their madness which justifies the high-speed constant lane changes and aggressiveness; plus, they SIGNAL and HONK appropriately, which is a godsend. Arizona drivers seem malicious by comparison, to generalize sweepingly.

The taggers own L.A., it seems - even the 16' clearance overpass underbellies have graffiti on them, which confounds. Some of the art is spectacular, and some, better yet, is commisioned by store-owners.

101, exit {blank}, and the Chinese consulate is easily found, though it is not at 443 Shatto, as some internet searches indicate, but at 500, across the street. I drop Kiara off since parking is difficult, and upon returning, understand that the statement 'expect lines' holds true even for Thursday mornings.

A quick digression: from the official consulate website, the Google searches for hours and address information, and the phone calls to three different numbers, I was expecting the actual consulate process to be as sufficiently fucked as the preparation for was.

I was not let down. Our ticket number was A152; they were serving A078. Kiara and I waited fifteen minutes, filling out the newly required Declaration Form, before deciding we would return at 7:00 the next morning, two hours before the building opens, to try our luck. This decision was prompted by a goof on our part - not remembering two self-addressed envelopes - and the fact that in those fifteen minutes, the service went from A078 to A080. Expect lines.

11:00 - we cannot check into our hotel until 14:00, and we are hungry. Having been previously, I propose the Huntington Beach Ruby's Diner which stands out on the pier. Post-lunch, we test the water's edge. There is a painted girl posing uselessly for an amateur photo-op; white folks on a Vitamin-D precipitated melanin-reintroduction regimen; and Kiara as the most elegant beach patron, opting for the more-is-more approach to swimwear skin coverage.

14:38 - hit the 405 to the 110 to get back to the hotel, with absolutely no success. We end up in downtown L.A., and decide to navigate our way through the tangle of surface streets. It's laborious, and at some point, we hit 6th and Bonnie Brae, and I'm reminded of a passage in Anthony Kiedis' Scar Tissue where he confirms the existance of black-tar chiva and freebase dealers three blocks up B. Brae on 3rd street. Moments later, we're back in Koreatown, where the consulate is located, and have discovered 6t and New Hampshire, and Jimmy Kim's independently owned and operated Quality Inn, where we have reserved a room; this is wonderful, as the consulate is spitting distance from our hotel, which will allow us to get there tomorrow morning without fighting Friday morning car-traffic.

Check-in, and we're off to the post-office to buy stamps. I would like to add to Kiara's tale of the man on New Hampshire Avenue: this was not an abstinence-only booty scratch...this was an ASS-OUT, no Fruit-of-the-Loom barrier method, archaeological DIG! Onwards, the post-office is also a convenience store, which is novel.

This is where we stand now, and after a Korean barbeque dinner, we're off to bed; tomorrow is the consulate, and in all likelihood, a Six-Flags sojourn to celebrate Kiara's laudatory Spring semester academic performance.

-L, 19:22 Pacific