No, it's because when my little car passed the state line from Arizona into California, the cesspool that is the California highway system declared war on both me and my car. At first it was just the potholes. No big deal, just a few bumps here and there. I was just glad to be free from the snow at that point. Then the trouble began. While driving home on the 10 from downtown LA one Friday night, I was singing along, loudly, with Lily Allen. Probably driving around 80 mph. Then, BANG. Not good. It sounded like someone had fired a gun at me. Traveling through east LA, that was a distinct possibility...Anyway, I pulled off at the next exit, drove my car all the way up the excruciatingly long exit ramp and finally pulled into the sketchiest looking Chevron I've ever seen in my life. By this point, I could smell burning rubber. Yup - blown tire. As in, literally no rubber left on the rim. Excellent.
This incident now caused me to think every bump, pothole, crack, piece of previously blown tire, and/or other debris I drove over was going to instantly destroy another one of my tires. (Oh, did I not mention I'm a complete and total worrywart?) This wouldn't be such an issue except for the fact that on the highways in California, there is a bump, pothole, crack, piece of previously blown tire and/or other debris approximately every nine inches. It makes for teeth-chattering, nerve-wracking road trips.
Last week, just when I was beginning to gain a little more confidence in my ability to survive trips longer than fifteen minutes, I ventured back into Hollywood with friends. Mistake One: Volunteering to drive. Mistake Two: Missing a turn that resulted in having to make a U-turn. Mistake Three: Convincing myself and my passengers that the loud, echoing CLUNK we heard upon making the U-turn was just something in my trunk. Mistake Four: Driving all the way home, laughing nervously every time the CLUNK sounded, reminding said passengers that it "was just something in the trunk."
Result?
Well, when I eventually realized that the car was, in fact, badly broken, I surrendered it to the shop and prayed it would be an easy fix. It was not to be. Struts, shocks, etc etc, four digit price tag. Apparently, the corrosion on the car from its time served in the Great North did not combine well with the concrete ditches that pass for roads in the Wild West. When I went in to collect the car, I mentioned my car was the one from out of state, and every mechanic in the place swiveled to look at me. A couple laughed. One looked at me with what was either sympathy, or just outright pity, and said: "Oooh, that one? Yeah, we've all taken a crack at that one. Yikes*, they just turned to dust" (*yeah, that's not exactly the word he used). I smiled nervously. "So, it's getting a reputation for itself, is it?" The owner, silent to this point, looked at me and said, "For that one, I'd recommend two sticks of dynamite. That oughta solve it." Awesome.
Then, he proceeded to inform me that the car wouldn't be ready until the next day. Of course. So, that's how I found myself standing in a parking lot in the 107 degree heat, carless and newly impoverished. It was on the three mile walk home that I realized why Californians are so dependent on cars:
a) cars have air conditioning
b) there are precious few sidewalks, making any attempt at being a pedestrian extremely difficult
c) cars have air conditioning
d) cars allow you to keep a protective barrier between you and the sheer ugliness of much of this town. Don't believe the postcards, people. It isn't all a beach. But...that's another story for another time.
