Why I Left Los Angeles 🚙
A dispatch from I-80
This week, I’m taking a little break from the usual things that come across my purview because, well, I’ve been pretty much taking a break from the internet as a whole since leaving Los Angeles and beginning my drive across the country.
For those of you who reached out: Yes, I’m moving (again). I’m not sure where to next, but I’ll explain everything a bit more further down.
In the meantime, I figured I’d mix things up, as I’m probably on the last leg of I-80 as you’re reading this. Here’s Five Things I Think (I Think): Road Trip Edition.
— NGL
P.S. Last blog, I wrote about social media’s correlation with the rise of steroids, sidewalk taco stands, and the most effective way to ship a human. If you missed it, check it out here.
SUNDAY, 4:53 p.m. // I think you never know where (and when) life will take you back somewhere. When I was six, my family moved to Thousand Oaks (a suburb north of Los Angeles) temporarily for two years.*
We spent the summer in between home in West Hartford…before winding our way back to California via a two-week, cross-country road trip. I have a lot of nostalgia for that fortnight, as this was the first time I saw a good chunk of the states outside of my little New England bubble.**
One of the stops along the way: the Grand Canyon. A pinnacle of any Great American Adventure™, my elementary school brain took in the gaping cliffs and sprawling mesas with a sense of sheer wonder, a firsthand look at what makes this country’s natural beauty so special.
Eighteen years later, I find myself staring back into this large pit in Northern Arizona. Only this time around, the context has completely changed—as well as my company.
Vicky has never seen the Grand Canyon, so right before the sun sets on the first day of our trip, we make sure to check this southwestern staple off of the list. Upon rushing out of the car, the first thing we encounter is a fully-grown elk—laying down and staring at us from the side of the Rim Trail, almost like it’s bored with how normal the whole situation (along with the giant hole to our left) is.
The park isn’t too crowded on this chilly October night, so we're able to run up and down the trail and grab photos before the moon eventually makes its presence known. To save some cash (and mix things up on our quest), we continue onto our hotel for the night—or, rather, campsite.
We don't get very high quality sleep while glamping. What we do get, though, is a dark sky away from civilization’s light pollution. And even if Vicky is the certified space nerd out of the two of us, I can't help but stare up at the clusters of stars twinkling above.
I'm today years old when I learn that my Google Pixel has an astrophotography feature, and over a five-minute-long exposure around 10 p.m., I capture the above photo of the Milky Way. Another magical, core memory delivered at the Grand Canyon—and another timestamp at a unique moment in life.
MONDAY, 11:27 a.m. // I think spontaneous fun is the best kind of fun. I have an inside joke with my college roommates about being “spontaneous fun” that's rather uninteresting and not worth explaining in depth here. Yet as someone who used to be somewhat rigid—a homebody comfortable in his little pocket of the universe—spontaneity is a trait I've come to embrace as I've grown older and seen more and more of the world.
As I open up Google Maps in the car, I notice we'll be passing Arizona’s Horseshoe Bend on the way to Bryce Canyon. So thirty minutes out, we take a slight detour and hike to this incised meander of the Colorado River.
Later, at Bryce, we make our way down the Queen’s Garden Trail and into the canyon. Our original intention: complete the one-and-a-half mile loop, and call it a day. But the park’s biodiversity just keeps getting more fascinating—why not add in the Navajo Loop Trail and double the hike?
Spontaneity isn't something we need to limit to times of adventure; we can inject it into the mundane, too. When I run, I try to add a new segment every outing as a way to keep exercise exciting and fulfill that innate desire for exploration.
But today's events serve as a more explicit reminder that the best laid plans are only as good as our ability to embrace the unknown. And sometimes, we wind up with a hefty dose of spontaneous fun.
TUESDAY, 1:14 p.m. // I think I could learn to be where my feet are. Five million people visit Zion each year. One of the park’s most popular attractions: The Narrows, a nearly ten mile trail through a gorge—and the river that carved it.
Not many people make it past the first mile before turning back. At one inflection point, the cold rush of water rises above my waist and almost convinces me to join them.
Almost. See, I'm the one who really pushed us to do this hike, and yet I look up and observe Vicky forging ahead. And I'm glad she did! We end up making it roughly four miles in, where the cliffs get skinnier and the views grow more stunning.
Just outside of the entrance to Zion, retailers rent out wooden walking poles that prove quite helpful when navigating the Narrows. Take too quick of a step, and there's a nonzero chance you slip on one of countless slippery rocks dotting the riverbed. While the poles don't mitigate every risk, they offer a reminder to look down and poke around for solid footing—as well as a tool to lean on in moments of imbalance.
I'm reminded of this dynamic as we're passing through Denver a couple days later. Back in civilization after visiting six national parks (and two state parks!) in half a week, I'm starting to catch up on emails, and a slight sense of panic begins to set in. The reality of the road ahead—metaphorically, all of the work and responsibility on my plate; literally, the never-ending nature of Interstate 80—feels quite all-consuming.
However, if our journey into the Narrows taught me anything, it's to focus on the task at hand and be where my feet are. And when shit does eventually hit the fan, it always behooves us to lean on the wooden poles we don't have to rent—the friends and family who care about us most.
FRIDAY, 2:56 p.m. // I think Nebraska is undoubtedly a card-carrying member of the Midwest. Vicky disagrees with this sentiment, and given she's from Ohio, her opinion may carry more weight as we debate our way through the Cornhusker State.
My argument hinges on a simple truth: When Nebraska joined the Big Ten in 2010, it cemented its regional standing.*** Therefore, here's what my highly-scientific, Microsoft Paint map of the U.S. looks like:
Vicky tries telling me that if Nebraska is in the Midwest, then Delaware should be considered part of New England. This libelous slander is not to be tolerated or repeated.
SATURDAY, 8:28 p.m. // I think Lou’s is better than Gio’s. I’m not an élitist about many things. But when you grow up forty-five minutes away from New Haven, pizza becomes one of them.
Nonetheless, I would describe myself as deep dish curious when I moved to Chicagoland for college. And sure, there’s the OGs like Uno’s, and the dark horse favorites like Pequod’s—though Windy City transplants such as myself quickly learn that the real deep dish crown lies between Giordano’s and Lou Malnati’s.
An early affinity for Gio’s cavernous pies and gobs of Wisconsin cheese slowly gave way to Lou’s perfect tomato sauce and crispy crust by the time I graduated. As I’m now passing through Joliet (a suburb south of Chicago) on the last leg of our trip, one thing leads to another, and a craving for Lou’s results in a Uber Eats delivery order.
Friends have described deep dish as “sloppy lasagna”; real Chicagoans swear by their thin crust, tavern-style pies instead.****
But even this northeastern élitist will say it: When deep dish hits, it really hits.
I know I buried the lede, so here ya go: I left L.A. because Vicky got a job in Geneva…
…as in Geneva, Switzerland.
We were staying in a temporary Airbnb month-to-month out west and were debating whether to sign an apartment lease at some point. And then, this opportunity with the World Economic Forum arose—the type of can’t-miss opportunity where if she didn’t say yes, I probably would’ve been mad at her.
So what does that mean for me? Well, we drove her car back to her parent’s home in Ohio, and I’m flying with her to Geneva over the weekend to help move her in. Past that, I have a lot to figure out, and I’m not totally sure what the future holds.
Though if I learned anything from this past week, it’s to be where my feet are.
Thanks for reading! And shoot me a reply or DM if anything resonated with you in particular—I respond to them all.
* Hence the long-held, long-suffering Chargers fandom (itself the inspiration for Powder Blue).
** While my mom, my siblings, and I flew home to Connecticut, my dad did the drive in five days—just so we could have the minivan for the summer and our eventual road trip back. Have I ever mentioned that my dad is one of my heroes?
*** For the purposes of this argument, I'm going to ignore the obvious rebuttal that UCLA, USC, Washington, and Oregon joined the Big Ten this year—and that regional maps should no longer be drawn based off of college football conferences due to university presidents’ endless quest for more cash.
**** If a Chicagoan swears by their style of thin crust pizza, do not listen to them. They are wrong. Rather than eat pieces of cardboard that make Chuck E. Cheese look like a Michelin Star gastropub, drop everything and run to the nearest Sbarro if you have to.
Geneva is indeed far, good luck!