Los Angeles International Airport is full of ghosts. As the ebony rubber wheels slam down on the runway's hot skin just minutes ago I noted that I'm sitting an aisle away from the ghost of my 20 year old self, confident that I had solved poverty in Upstate New York after working only ten months of 1966 as a social worker.
Then....Walking through the waiting area I see a 1971 version of my long dead Mother and Father, still married. They smile when they see their draft dodger son exiting the plane from Canada - my adopted home.
Then... Visiting the men's bathroom, I take note of toilet stall furthest from the door. It was on March 3 of 2014 that I spent unknown minutes - hours - eons trying to convince myself that I wasn't having a heart attack minutes after receiving news that my Ex had cut me off from my grandchildren.
Now I'm back in LA. Some might say that I am an Angeleno returning to his roots. But I am fully aware that there is nothing for me in this expanse of sweltering asphalt, anorexic palm trees, obscenely large servings of food, brilliant minds, entrenched racism, grinding poverty, ostentatious wealth, greed and abundant crime.
Yet, here I am. For how long, I do not know.
Sorry Mamas the Papas, California Dreamin' was never on my iPod.
You can follow my Los Angeles adventure on my blog.... oldguyinparis.blogspot.ca