The Significant Trivialities #1

Volume I "Westward, Ever Westward" 

The last time I stood by the window for such a long time was the night before high school graduation. With the sun protruding from the horizon and below, my disguise withered and my innate nature elucidated. When the burning cloud hastened its radiant glory upon the terrace this morning, I realized it wasn't the Platanus in father's front yard, nor mother's smile, in front of me. The beaming rays of sunshine come from the future, where the songs are unsung, and new stories await to be written.

Dawn is my favorite time in this city; vast and splendid the landscape, vigorous and hopeful the crowd. Unlike my home city, LA's rushy morning crowd consists of more than just briefcases; there are yoga pants with their Chihuahuas, cowboy boots with Starbucks, and last but not least, the graphic tees with sustainable tote bags. Everyone is their own scenery and also a fraction of the big picture. All the strangers and their untold stories turn into yarns; they stitch and mend, knitting one after another beautiful morning in the city.

If you take a train departing from Downtown Riverside, it will take you less than one hour to arrive at the world-famous Los Angeles Union Station. When your feet touch the warm-toned marble floor in the main lounge and the colonial-style chandeliers smile at you with their historical grace, your dream starts (ideally). This city may seem welcoming and gentle at first sight, but this one-hour ride took me quite an interval to get through. No, I was not kidnapped halfway and kept hostage for years, if this is what you think; I also didn't get here from Riverside on a chic and filthy train like I imagined as a teenager. 

I arrived in LA on August 2nd, 2018, on a Greyhound bus from San Antonio after a month-long trip in Texas. 

It was the most exciting and scariest summer of my entire life. I was 18 and in the long and mentally taxing process of applying for College. Being anxious and adventurous, I took a plane south to Austin, which later turned into a three-week job at a sushi restaurant as my mother decided to take my allowance south altogether. The restaurant owner was gracious and kind; his family even offered me their guest room, knowing the hard time I was going through. In that quaint restaurant, I received favorable news from my admission advisor, which was soon followed by a video tour of a charming apartment in the heart of Los Angeles, a signed lease, and the resumption of my financial source. 

As you may guess, I waved goodbye to the job I genuinely loved and thanked the owner for his hospitality. After countless museum visits, restaurant hoppings, and bizarre tours, I found myself in San Antonio. I was immediately retained by this city's astonishing beauty forged in conflicts and mergence. While I enjoyed strolling along the riverwalk and delving into the American Frontier stories at galleries and museums, my destination was "westward, ever westward." The real ever westward, Los Angeles.

Never judge a book by its cover; I may seem like your average neighborly Asian boy, but I'm a walking encyclopedia of unprecedentedly bad decisions. Not only had I chosen to sail away to my dream on a Greyhound bus, but I also arrived at the station so late that only the bumpy last row was available. During those 36 hours of dreading to stretch my legs, with malfunctioning AC and electrical outlets, we encountered at least three ICE check spots and switched buses twice for unknown reasons. 

And little did I know, it was only the beginning of horrors. 

I threw my luggage into the trunk and myself into the comfort of cold air as soon as my Uber arrived. As the gleaming glass buildings got closer and closer, I felt my heart pounding for the opening of a new life and the metropolis I was going to be part of. When I was just about to praise my clever self for finding a home in the heart of LA with a mere website, the Uber suddenly halted and dropped me off in the "heart attack" of LA. 

After scanning through the graffiti-covered wall and fighting off numerous flying plastic bags ripped and torn by life, I found my new home. Right there, behind the barren yard guarded by a broken metal gate, in between the contrast of an abandoned store and a restless factory. The "pre-war Italian style building" is covered in white paint that seems dying to peel itself off the walls. The landlord greeted me with a forced smile, then, with the stairs making noises every step we made, she led me upstairs. My unit is at the end of the hallway; apparently, "Antique interior" refers to the door that couldn't be fully closed and a string hanging in the middle of the apartment, which is supposed to be the light switch. If the condition of the living area was a shocker, then the restroom could break the world record as a torture chamber. The "reimagined vintage standing shower" was a tarnished shower trim installed between two walls that were way too close. At that moment, I knew I was not having sex in that shower; one person barely fit. 

The deposit had been paid, and the lease signed; it was too late to grab my bags and run. I've never felt so helpless and far from home than on my first night in that place; I realized what it means to be a young adult in a big city — a quest to find a home. 

A new school year soon started like a train entering the station, ready to carry a trailer full of eager college students to their dream destinations. Young souls from around the world turned into butterflies in a garden, we sniff and chase, seek and hide; before we know it, friendships are formed, and social circles are in solidarity. After almost four months in that desperation-infested apartment, I paid a hefty fee to break the lease and decided to move in with my new best friend. On the last day of 2018, a group of overdressed college kids stormed into the crumbling shoe box; as girls and the staircase screamed, we moved the last bit of my life out of that nightmare. When 2019 knocked on the door, we were on the rooftop of my new apartment, drinking to the fireworks, friendships, and surviving our first year in Los Angeles. 

The story of my second home in LA started with love but ended with chaos, misunderstandings, and a global pandemic. The three of us, who were no longer friends then, moved on in three different directions. I know returning home is always an option for me. However, I vowed not to go home before achieving something alone. Therefore, DTLA remained my home in hardship, and I continued my westward journey. My third apartment is a cozy studio next to the Standard hotel, a gem with beige walls, dark wood floors, and windows that open up to 6th Street and its lush greenery. In that apartment, the love I planted in my previous chapter of life bloomed and then withered before fruition. Like seasons, people came and left; I have lost people I held dearly and welcomed new ones who later taught me new values and perspectives on life. 

As the city recovered from the pandemic, the streets were getting busy again, and the noises became unbearable. My last straw was a horrifying discovery outside my door. The hallway of the building was dark with elegantly dimmed lamps; the designer dressed the floor in an indigo-based carpet with charming patterns and the wall in a gold-tone textured wallpaper. As much as I appreciated the retro chicness, the hallways gave me chills even in the morning. One evening, when I was leaving to meet my friend Schilling for our daily walk, I found a black and white photograph of Annabell outside my door and an unspeakable chill climbing up my spine. Whether it was a prank or else, I didn't want to wait to find out, not with the Honda Civics and Toyota Camrys rumbling through 6th Street with their unnatural sportscar vrooms every night. 

I agree entirely that Carrie Bradshaw compared apartments in the cities to men. You never meet them when you are prepared and well-groomed in your finest outfits; they fall from the heavens when you are in your workout clothes and "vulnerable hair." That's at least how I looked in the morning when I ran into this endearing building perched on the high ground of DTLA. The rest is history. I am now in a place where the walls are garnished by my paintings and air emblazoned by memories --- a place filled with peculiar art crafts that recite my stories--- a place that speaks and listens to me— a home. Wafts the aroma of Pu-erh tea, glides the jazzy melody; amongst the blueprint of this morning, my thread is loafing in memories. City after city, nest after nest, my "picaresque" adventure finally led me to harmony, though it also left me with the long-lingering precarious sensation. 

Regardless of the progress, life is ever demanding, and contentment remains episodic. We 20-something metropolitans strain our soul and flesh for accomplishments, stability, and, covertly, love. We eventually realize that the home we seek is where we are, but our dreams do not rest, and our footsteps do not halter herein. Driving or walking, we are all unstoppably en route in the same direction away from feebleness. Bravely and unapologetically, westward and ever westward. 

The Significant Trivialities #0

Prologue

"Life is like tea, to be filled to the brim and shared with friends." says a T-shirt I saw outside the Biltmore Hotel; I think life is a cocktail. You have the privilege to select the ingredients and develop your own midnight special. However, there's a catch, the enviable ingredients are not available at most bars and are extremely rare to find; moreover, no matter how the recipe turns out, you have to pay and chug. You must be careful. Every drop of liquid and powder you add to the shaker becomes a whiff of flavor, stimulating the tastebud to create memories and emotions. In other words, every dot counts, and no crumb is inconsequential.

I have been waking up every morning feeling hungover from the backflush of memories. I tried to calm the wave with meditation and stress relieve playlists, but my subconsciousness told me there was significance to these past trivial events. Therefore I started savoring the cocktail I made, down to the slightest sense of flavor, and writing down the recipes. I marveled at how far I've come and how the inadvertent steps built me up to who I am today.

I am now taking you to my bar and serving you my signature dirty martini made in a witches' brew. Are you ready?

I don't think so.