You Can’t Get There From Here

My friend Harry Seymour telephoned the other day from Bakersfield. He was driving down from Oakland for a visit and wanted to know how to get to our place.

I said, “Simple. You take the 5 south to the 405 south to the 134 north or maybe it’s the 101 north at that point and you . . . “

“Wait a minute,” he said. “How can I take the 405 south and then take the 101 or the 134 north? Won’t I be going back in the same direction from whence I came?”

I said, “Well, not exactly. The 134 or the 101 only goes north until it goes west and then it goes north again.”

“Just start from the beginning,” Harry said, irritation creeping into his voice.

I tried to explain the psychology behind the directions first, pointing out that L.A. is crooked and that our Pacific Ocean is often to the south rather than to the west, which alters the ordinary concept of east and west.

“In other words,” I said, “if Columbus were driving east on, say, Topanga Canyon Boulevard, he would have to travel north.”

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“YOU DAMNED FOOL, IF YOU’D . . . no, no, wait a minute, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry I yelled. Just pay attention, OK, Harry?”

“You don’t have to get hot about it,” he said. “Chill out, man.”

“Harry,” I said, “don’t you ever say ‘chill out’ to me again. I hate that. Say ‘calm down.’ Say ‘easy, man.’ But not ‘chill out.’ You’re 61 years old, Harry. You’re not a kid. So don’t use kid terms.”

“OK, man,” he said sullenly. “Just give me directions to your pad.”

“My pad? My pad, Harry?”

“JUST GIVE ME THE DAMNED DIRECTIONS!”

“All right . . . all right,” I said, calming down. “I even have a map in front of me. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“I want you to know first of all these are not exactly my directions. These will be the signs you will confront on the way to my house.”

“I’m with you, daddio,” Harry said.

I could imagine my hands around his throat.

“OK, Harry,” I said tightly. “You are coming south on I-5 from Bakersfield. You follow it until you come to the 405, at which point you go south. You follow that until you come to the 101, at which point you go north. In a little ways on the 101 it will say west. Then you . . . “

“Does it turn?” Harry wanted to know.

“No. It just keeps going in the same direction, but someone in Caltrans decided it would say west at that point. Later it says north again.”

“What a screwed up city.”

“Watch your tongue, Harry. We’re a proud people.”

“Sorry.”

“South on 5 to 405 south to 101 north, which becomes west, and then north again to 27 south toward the ocean then north or east to my place depending upon your orientation.”

There was a muffled sound on the other end. I suddenly realized what it was. For God’s sake, Harry was crying.

“There, there, Harry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We all go through this when we first come to L.A. Try to see it from our point of view. When you consider the ocean to the south, you have to reorient. It’s like being in space and realizing up and down are the same thing.”

“I’m trying to adapt,” Harry said, sobbing, “but the ocean ought to be to the west!”

“Well, actually, it is when you’re on the 10. The 10, which is the Santa Monica Freeway, runs east and west. If Columbus were on the Santa Monica he would get east by driving west, like he planned. I think.”

“Why can’t I just take the Santa Monica then?”

“Because you can’t get here on that, Harry. Try to understand. In simple terms, you’ve got to go south to go north to go west to go north to go south.”

“This is crazy!” Harry said.

“I guess it is a little strange, Harry. Tell you what. I’ll give you easier directions for a far more relaxing drive.”

“Thank God.”

“Take 5 south to 126 near Magic Mountain. 126 will go west toward the ocean.” Pause. “Well, it may say south, but just follow it. When you get to 101, go south. Or maybe east. That will take you to Highway 1. Follow 1 south and it’s a pleasant drive along the ocean until you get into Malibu. Well, actually, Malibu runs east and west but . . . “

Click.

“Harry? You still there, Harry? Harry? . . . “

Apology to athletes: In his column last week, Al Martinez referred to the L.A. Athletic Club as old and musty. Actually, Martinez was talking about the Hollywood Athletic Club. He has never visited the Los Angeles club and thus does not know whether it is old or musty.