Panorama

The question you've probably wanted to ask all week is, "Wordplay, how did you spend your first Fourth of July in L.A.?" Hopefully, no one missed any sleep over it, but in any event, I'm about to satisfy your curiosity: first I went downtown to the festivities at Grand Park, and later I went up to the Observatory to take in the view. There was no formula to it other than the fact that both events were low-cost and sounded like fun, and that's pretty much it.

I thought that going downtown, where the music and food trucks promised to bring in a cross-section of people, would be a good way to see a microcosm of the city. I suppose it also seemed most similar to the type of celebrations I'm used to in Lexington, where most of the main events take place downtown. I went to the Observatory because I was fascinated by the prospect of watching multiple fireworks shows going off at once. That promised to be quite a spectacle (and it was). Why restrict yourself to one fireworks show if you can see all of them for the cost of bus fare to the top? I had already enjoyed some fireworks that I could see from my window the night before; it was nice to have such a good view without having to go anywhere.

On the Fourth itself, I was feeling a little daunted by the thought of looking for parking downtown, so I decided to park in Los Feliz and take the Metro in. When I got there, it was by no means deserted but wasn't exactly bursting at the seams either. I had to ask for directions to Grand Park, and I told someone that at first glance it really didn't seem like the Fourth of July. I was comparing it with Fourth of July celebrations I remembered from Lexington and actually felt a bit homesick for a little while. Never mind the fact that I hadn't attended any downtown festivities in Lexington for quite a while; I believe I was remembering Fourth of Julys from happier times. Certainly, the celebration in Lexington used to have a "Main Street USA" feeling that was different from the feeling I got in scattered downtown L.A.

Once I made my way to Grand Park, I found a very lively scene and walked around for a while, taking a few pictures and trying to get the pulse of the place. I felt more like an observer than a participant, and it certainly didn't look like half the city had crowded into the festival area, but OK. The people-watching wasn't bad, and I had a really good chicken sandwich for dinner. I was starting to think of staying downtown instead of making the trek to Griffith Park, but I decided I'd be sorry if I missed the panoramic view while I had the chance, so I hopped back on the Metro at Pershing Square and caught the observatory shuttle at Sunset and Vermont.

I've been up to the Observatory before, but the bus trip to the top that night on a road crowded with cars and revelers was something I doubt I'll forget. That's where the traffic jam was, not downtown. The Observatory was brightly lit, and there were people everywhere at the top. When I got off the bus, I was rooted to the spot for a while, riveted by my first glimpse of the myriad lights of greater L.A. spread out below and fireworks going off simultaneously all over town. When I walked over the hill and to the side of the Observatory, the view was even better since I could see the L.A. skyline.

I felt something up at the Observatory that I had been missing earlier, a sense that L.A. had its own way of exhibiting pride in America, that it had something to show me that I had never quite seen before: what patriotism looks like when a number of individual celebrations are seen to be part of a greater whole. That's what America actually looks like on the Fourth of July, after all, if you could reach a high enough vantage point to see it all at once. What my Fourth of July in L.A. lacked in intimacy it made up for in awe. I think it would have been nice if someone had arranged to have a band playing patriotic music in front of the Observatory, and maybe a few ice cream stands and flags and so on, but for sheer visual fascination, I've rarely seen anything to beat the view.

The ride down on a crowded bus was a little tiresome, but never mind that. I was glad I went, and I only had to walk around for about 10 minutes before finding where I had parked my car. When I got there, I was greeted by two nocturnal animals of uncertain pedigree grazing in the grass nearby. I had two thoughts, and one of them was badgers. Since I didn't think L.A. even has badgers, I was pretty sure I was looking at skunks. I gave them a respectful distance, and it ended happily for all concerned. On the way back to my lodging, I saw multiple fireworks going off all along the way, and it was the first Fourth of July I can remember that ended in fireworks partly shrouded in fog.

So that was about it: fireworks, food trucks, a chicken sandwich, Metro rides, incredible views, skunks, and a finale of fog. The experience would have been enhanced if I had had someone to share it with, but I will go ahead and make a recommendation: if you ever find yourself in L.A. on the Fourth of July, alone or not, make your way up to Griffith Observatory to cap things off. You'll never see fireworks in quite the same way again, and maybe, by that time, someone will have thought to hire a band for the night.

L.A. Sees a Shooting Star

A news item showed up this week about a strange light in the skies over Southern California last Saturday night. I almost didn't read the article (because when isn't something odd happening in Southern California), but the story came with an amusing video shot by some excitable kids as well as descriptions of a host of reactions from residents. There were anxious calls to authorities and theories about UFOs and meteors, but the reality turned out to be somewhat more, well, if not mundane, at least more terrestrial in nature.

A ballistic missile submarine conducting a test fired the unarmed missile from off the coast, creating a spectacular display that was apparently visible even across state lines. The submarine was the USS Kentucky, conducting a test that was routine but unannounced--hence all the nervous speculation from the public. Yes, the USS Kentucky, but don't go thinking I had anything to do with it. Do I look like I know how to drive a submarine? Besides, I was thousands of miles away, in actual Kentucky, exiting Starbucks to avoid some excessive and unconscionable oversharing at the next table, though this may have happened a little in advance of the missile test.

But I don't have to have been there to imagine it. Over on Melrose, conversations over organic salads and vegan sandwiches would have ground to a halt as trendy diners tried to figure out if this was part of a filming; some of the beachgoers in Santa Monica and Malibu may have wondered if California was under attack--up at the Getty Center, people may actually have ducked. Near the observatory, a shooting star might have seemed quite plausible, while in the line at Diddy Riese, the UCLA kids must have had a field day with their cell phones. I'm not sure how much time people in Beverly Hills spend on their lawns; if someone was having a party, there may have been speculation about it all being a stunt for their amusement. Up in Topanga Canyon, it might have seemed like the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Maybe in Watts, someone had a glimmer of the truth.

If it had happened here, I'm sure there would have been, likewise, a variety of theories, but the Age of Aquarius probably wouldn't have been one of them; the Second Coming, maybe, but not the Age of Aquarius. We see the world through the lenses we're used to using, but I imagine explanations for what was happening would have run a similar gamut. Such an unexplained event is bound to turn into a Rorschach test of sorts.

The article didn't say whether the test made any noise or not, but if it didn't, I think it was a missed opportunity. A little sonic boom to shake up the cocktails on the rooftop bars and rattle the teacups at the Huntington Tea Room would have been just the thing for a full-on Night of Mystery. The video I saw featured no sound but that of a bunch of girls yelling as a radio played in the background, which was entertaining but provided little context.

When I read the article, to tell you the truth, I had a whimsical thought, which was that the whole thing reminded me of Mary Chapin Carpenter's song, "Halley Came to Jackson." It's a very sweet song about the effect of Halley's Comet on the inhabitants of a small town in 1910 Mississippi. For the people in Jackson, the coming of the comet is a visit from heaven, a time of celebration, awe, and wonder, as well as the occasion for a little well-placed wish-making. So Cal may not seem to have much in common with Mississippi, and perhaps it doesn't. (I can tell you, though, that even places as disparate as L.A. and Lexington KY are a lot more like each other than you might guess, and I know, because I've seen both of them.)

So I say that if you choose to "dream a little dream of a comet's charms," as Ms. Chapin Carpenter says, well, why not? A practical explanation may be perfectly true but doesn't rule out the phenomenology of the miraculous. Many of the people observing the mystery light experienced a sense of the marvelous, and who's to say they're wrong? Not I. My theory is that all proper wishes made on celestial objects on the supposition that they're shooting stars count. Unarmed missile, ball of gas and dust, what's the difference? I'm not being facetious--it's bound to beat anything you'll see on TV this week. I'm just glad someone else knows how to work the submarine.

The Freeway Method of Enlightenment

I've been in L.A. since Thursday for some events connected with the publication of Jung's Red Book, but it hasn't been all scholarly activity. I've spent a lot of time exploring: looking for places to eat, shopping, walking, driving, and just plain looking. Lots of walking, lots of driving. The thing about writing about labyrinths is that you start to notice them more and more, both the ones that are clearly marked and the ones that aren't.

Yesterday I drove down to Laguna Beach, chancing the freeways of Orange County. Laguna Beach, with its curving boardwalk and garden-like cliffside path, sparkled under a cloudless sky. I made time for a labyrinth at an Episcopal Church in Laguna Hills, finding it after only one wrong turn on a street named El Toro. This church is next to a busy road, with the freeway humming not far away, so the labyrinth is an oasis of calm in the midst of much activity.

I left that labyrinth only to enter a larger one, the freeway system of Southern California. Despite driving down from L.A. without a hitch, I missed my freeway entrance on the way back and ended up on the I-5 instead -- so the way in was not the way out. I was trying to get back to L.A. in time to stop by the Jung Center, where a colleague from school had offered to show me around if I was in the neighborhood, and I would have made it if not for taking that wrong turn (or was it the right turn?). I ended up seeing parts of L.A. that I wouldn't have seen otherwise but missed the Jung Center altogether.

Then things got really complicated this morning, after I had what seemed like a simple idea. I thought it might be nice to visit an old church I once discovered near Olvera Street in downtown L.A. Olvera Street is all I saw of L.A. the first time I visited years ago, so it's where all my explorations here began. I even gave up breakfast at my hotel to try to get to the church by 8 a.m., which is saying something considering how much I like those Urth Cafe danishes.

I knew I needed to get on the I-10 from Cloverfield, and even though I knew it, I turned onto Olympic instead and missed the entrance. I cut over to Pico and headed for what I knew was another entry to the I-10. I almost missed this one as well since it came up sooner than I expected, but I saw the sign at the last minute. I had memorized the series of moves I needed to make downtown and didn't consider it to be big deal since I had gone this way many times. But somehow the directions didn't work, and I found myself on a strange freeway, heading toward Santa Ana, with downtown fading into the distance and the sky turning a grim industrial gray that made me think of East Germany behind the Iron Curtain. According to my map, I was southeast of L.A., but I felt like I was in Mordor, or at least in one of Dante's lower circles. Sometimes the descent happens just that fast.

I figured the best thing to do was to stay on the freeway and wait until it connected with a road I knew. This happened eventually, but not until I had crossed all the way back to the 405 and then the I-10, retracing my route from earlier. I obviously wasn't going to make the Mass, but I could still visit the church, and this time, following my own hunch, I exited at the right place and found it. I addressed myself to Mary, Queen of the Angels, since she was the one I had come to see, put money in the poor box, and lit a candle. Then I walked over to Olvera Street and had breakfast.

I was supposed to meet friends at 11:30 at the Hammer Museum, and at that point I still had adequate time. Not wanting to risk getting lost again, I asked the parking lot attendant the best way to get back to I-10; either I misunderstood him or he had things a bit scrambled, because the way he told me to go ended at a dead end. Then I got on the freeway, but it was going the wrong way. I got off and traveled the surface roads until I saw a sign for I-10 West, and I was just congratulating myself on spotting one when I realized (right after getting on the freeway) that I was almost out of gas. After a quick exit and a panicked search for a gas station that refused to appear until I was almost running on fumes, I found one at the corner of Pico and Vermont, jumped back on the I-10, and sailed on, making it to my destination 45 minutes later than I had planned.

I was still early for the event but too far back in line to see my friends. I was silently berating myself for undertaking such a wild scheme that morning when a man who had joined me in line struck up a conversation. We ended up talking during much of the hour and 40-minute wait before the event started. He had a background in film and writing, and I was struck by the ways our stories were alike as well as the ways they differed. I had once wanted to be a psychologist; he actually was one. We had both written unpublished children's stories. I told him about the recent "big dream" I had about my grandmother, and he picked up on an aspect of it that I had overlooked. He talked about his wife helping to design the facility we were standing in. He had just joined the Hammer Museum as a member and kindly offered to let me enter as his guest so I would be sure of getting a seat in the auditorium instead of the overflow gallery.

I wouldn't have met this man and had this conversation if I hadn't been lost and running late. So was I really lost and late, or did I arrive just when I was supposed to? Perhaps there was something he said that I needed to hear. One of the things he told me was that in his own life he was trying to listen to the universe, trust it, and live in the flow. That is a Jungian idea, and I agree with it, but as I said to him, it's hard to know sometimes just how to do that. He agreed that it is a challenge.

While we were waiting, I saw my friend from the Jung Center at a distance, and we waved at each other across a sea of people. One connection missed . . . but another one made. I found the friends I came to meet, and we decided to get together in the courtyard afterwards. The talk itself, a conversation between James Hillman and Sonu Shamdasani, editor of the Red Book, was rich and fascinating, but it was only one of several remarkable things that happened on this trip.

After the talk, the Red Book exhibit, and a visit with my friends, I drove toward the ocean, feeling pensive. I went for a walk in the canyon neighborhood that I somehow think of as mine, though I don't own an inch of property there. A bit of melancholy had hung over this trip, retreating and returning at intervals, and it came back now as I faced my last evening here. After the walk, I drove down to the Pacific Coast Highway, thinking of having dinner downtown. Instead, I found myself in a lane that only turned right, once again forced in a direction contrary to my intention. I sat at that long light feeling both annoyed and tired, though there was nothing to do but go with the traffic.

When the light changed, and I turned onto the highway, I saw what I could not see before -- the rays of the setting sun streaming down from behind a bank of clouds, forming a shining path on the ocean and the land in a spectacular interplay of light, sky, water, and earth that I would have had my back to had I gone the way I intended.

I've walked so many of these labyrinths, always considering it a conscious choice, something for research, the path to my dissertation -- meaningful, of course -- but really my own doing. But right now I'm beginning to wonder: Am I walking them, or are they walking me? Both, maybe?

A Goddess Decides

Last Monday, on vacation, I visited Malibu's Getty Villa, where even the driveway was inspired by the streets of ancient Rome (it's like driving on cobblestones). I wandered early on into the Outer Peristyle, a beautiful garden with covered walkways and strategically placed statuary. In a niche at the end of the peristyle was a "touchable" Aphrodite/Venus. It's the only piece, as far as I know, that visitors are encouraged to touch, so that they can experience the varied textures of the stone. Rather shyly, I touched the most innocuous spots I could think of, an arm and a leg. For one thing, it felt strange to be touching anything in a museum, even a copy. For another -- well, after all, it's Aphrodite, a goddess. And not just any goddess, either. Boy, is that ever true.

Of course, the gods and goddesses are only personifications of forces, but the ancients revered them, and the forces themselves are real enough. That feeling of attraction toward a special someone? A love of flowers, chocolate, and gourmet dining? The urge toward adornment and the appreciation of beautiful things? All Aphrodite. I am probably more of an Athena in general; I am a little out of my depth with Aphrodite (except for the chocolate), and you can be sure she's quite aware of that.

After touching the statue, I almost felt I'd committed a sacrilege, or at least a social blunder, and everybody knows how testy the immortals could be over even the tiniest things. Did someone make Aphrodite mad? Well, they might be torn apart by rampaging horses, for starters. When someone dissed her (or she even thought they had), she took swift action. So what would Aphrodite think of a tourist putting fingerprints on her marble limbs? Would she think a mythologist, of all people, should know better? I was ever so slightly uneasy.

As it happens, I was visiting a city that celebrates all things Aphrodite pretty unashamedly. A lot of places are suspicious of Aphrodite, but I don't think L.A. is. What a lot of people criticize as shallow or vacuous in L.A. culture, at least as it's popularly conceived, are things I associate with Aphrodite -- the worship of physical beauty, for instance. This isn't bad in itself, but it can be if over indulged. It's all about balance. You can just as easily be running an Aphrodite deficit as an excess; the former is my usual condition -- and probably part of the reason L.A. appeals to me.

Aphrodite does has a generous side, and because of that, or maybe just because she's a little vain and likes attention, I did not turn into a flock of goats. Instead, I believe she decided to take me under her wing. I developed a propensity for taking scented baths in my jetted spa. I've never craved spas before, but -- presented with the opportunity -- I was suddenly enamored. That's the first thing I noticed. Next, I sought out a three-course meal in a restaurant that had previously intimidated me, ending with a fabulous chocolate dessert that was pure Aphrodite. It had her fingerprints all over it.

As the week went on, things got more interesting. I saw a car near the inn with a license plate that said O EROS. Even my labyrinth researches got the Aphrodite touch. I drove down to Palos Verdes one day to seek out a labyrinth-by-the-sea that I had heard about. It was a long way and not easy to find, but something made me go, and after getting very close to it once and doubling back on my tracks (that labyrinth thing again), I finally found it. It was behind a church on a little promenade overlooking the Pacific, the most Venusian labyrinth I have ever seen, a glowing pink and coral surface with the emblem of a shell at its center. Standing on the shell, with the sea breeze on my back and surfers down below, I closed my eyes and thought about Botticelli. For the first time, I had a visceral sense of that painting.

Of course, it was inevitable that the urge to shop would kick in. On Tuesday, I made a preliminary sortie into Anthropologie, but the jacket that caught my eye didn't fit. On Wednesday, I bought gifts of bath salts on Montana Avenue even as my laundry tumbled in the dryer. On Thursday, I set out to visit a boutique that promised personal attention from the staff, who would size you up and bring you clothes to try. Momentarily daunted when I found out movie stars went there, I recovered with Aphrodite's help and pressed on, letting the stylish, boa-wearing shop girl bring me armloads of items, some of them a bit out of my normal comfort range, until I left an hour later with two new outfits and a dent in my credit card. No, it was not self-indulgence, but a necessary wardrobe corrective (besides, it was good for the economy).

On Friday, I found myself in Silver Lake (in a pouring rain, no less) eyeing hand-crafted jewelry, cosmetics, lace and silk, flowers, and chocolate. I bought a few things, things I didn't strictly need according to Maslow's hierarchy of needs -- but of course, that's the whole point.

I think I fixed my Aphrodite deficit, at least temporarily. I'm pretty sure she thinks I did OK for a novice. So maybe my hesitant bumbling, which I took as an affront, she took as supplication. Maybe she has a soft spot for librarians. Or graduate students. She did such a good job on me that even on my last morning, at the airport, I was looking at the shoes of every girl that walked by, searching for the style of boots that would go with my new pants.

I think the moral of the story is . . . when in Rome, do as the Romans do; when at the Getty Villa, do as the tourists do; and when in L.A. -- live a little.