Adrift in LA

Outside, the constant din of Los Angeles traffic made the motel room feel like a fragile cardboard box. Mateo was already annoyed by the strange noises when he woke up early. Be careful, Seraphina's cautionary tale from the dream seemed to echo. Avoid being careless. People keep an eye on me. It now appeared that the original, naive plan of just locating the Griffith Observatory viewpoint she had mentioned and hoping for something was incredibly reckless. Yes, he was here, but more than anything else, he needed to exercise caution when traversing this vast, foreign land.

His first goal was straightforward: to survive and get oriented without depleting his limited and valuable resources. He stepped out onto the sun-drenched sidewalk from the air-conditioned motel. With six lanes of unrelenting traffic speeding by in either direction, the boulevard's sheer width was startling. Engines roaring, horns blaring occasionally, the constant hum of a city that never seemed to stop, the noise was tangible. Taller and more unkempt than he had anticipated, palm trees bordered the street, providing insufficient patches of shade for the glaring concrete.

He walked for a few blocks past low-slung buildings with check-cashing offices, laundromats, small ethnic groceries, and donut shops with brightly colored pastries. Everything seemed fleeting, sun-bleached, and dispersed. In contrast to his hometown's small, pedestrian-friendly streets, LA appeared to be built for cars rather than people. Walking seemed ostentatious, almost rebellious.

He discovered a tiny Mexican restaurant sandwiched between an empty storefront and a tire shop. His first real language test since the airport was placing an order. The menu was a jumble of strange words. Hoping for the best, he gestured hazily toward what appeared to be chicken tacos. The woman at the counter asked a string of quick questions in English with a strong accent. Hot? What about onions? Cilantro? To stay or to leave? Mateo floundered, catching only pieces, and was asked if he had cash or a card. He succeeded in saying, "Not too spicy? For here?" and made a payment, feeling awkward and unworthy. When the tacos finally arrived, they were inexpensive and delicious—a minor triumph in the overwhelming weirdness.

The problem of transportation followed. Neither Griffith Park nor the wealthy hills where Seraphina probably lived were even close to his motel. It was impossible to walk. The cost of ride-sharing or taxis was too high. That got off the bus.

He discovered a bus stop, a plain bench beneath a small shelter with a bewildering route map that appeared to cover a territory bigger than his native Portugal. Squinting at the small print, he attempted to make sense of schedules and intersecting lines. He was aware that, in general, he should move toward the hills that could be seen in the distance, north and slightly east. With the sun beating down, he waited after spotting a bus number that appeared to go in a vaguely correct direction.

He struggled with the fare when the bus, a massive, lumbering machine that hissed pneumatically as it stopped, finally arrived. With a nonchalant chew of gum, the driver indicated a machine that required either exact change or a pre-paid TAP card, neither of which Mateo had. Until an elderly woman with gentle eyes patiently explained in slow, clear English how to buy a temporary card from a nearby machine he hadn't even noticed, a moment of panic flared. Feeling a wave of appreciation for this brief human connection in the faceless city, he showered her with thanks.

At last, he settled into a plastic seat and gazed out the dirty window at the city. It was hard to imagine the sheer, monotonous vastness. Block after block of strip malls, apartment buildings, and single-family homes with incredibly lush lawns are connected by massive freeways that are congested with cars. From a huddle of glittering skyscrapers downtown to a sudden pocket of designer boutiques, and back to endless stretches of unremarkable urban sprawl, the landscape would occasionally change suddenly. It resembled a labyrinth intended to cause confusion and alienation, a city constructed without a clear plan.

He made an effort to hear the conversations going on around him, with snatches of Spanish and English mixed in with other languages he was unable to recognize. Despite being so close, everyone appeared to be in their own little worlds, staring at screens and wearing headphones. As an outsider listening in on a million stories at once that he couldn't comprehend, he felt incredibly alone.

He saw Seraphina on his first billboard. Her face was a huge, impossibly glamorous, professionally gorgeous advertisement for a new streaming service, suspended high above the traffic. The gap between the girl in his dreams and the world-famous celebrity was brought home to him by seeing her picture displayed against the LA sky, a commonplace commodity. How was he going to bridge that? It was a paralyzing thought.

He made the decision not to head straight for Griffith Park today after remembering Seraphina's warning. Too risky, too obvious. He decided to stop instead in a neighborhood that was tucked away close to the foot of the hills, called Los Feliz, according to the sign. He just intended to stroll, watch, and get a sense of the place from a safe distance without attracting any attention.

The mood changed a little as they got off the bus. The shops were quirky, the streets were quieter, and there were more greenery. The distant, minuscule white domes of the Observatory, the landmark from Seraphina's dream, towered over the verdant slopes of Griffith Park, which rose sharply in his direction. Even though he was miles away, seeing it gave him a rush and confirmed that her clue was real and physical.

He just watched for an hour as he walked. He observed trendy cafes with outdoor seating, people jogging with designer dogs, and pricey cars parked outside quaint bungalows. He was acutely conscious of his backpack, his worn clothes, and his alienation. He lowered his head, avoided making eye contact, and simply took in the atmosphere while looking for something he couldn't even begin to identify. A sign? Feelings?

The effects of the persistent jet lag, the sensory overload, and the ongoing low-level anxiety started to wear me out. The city seemed more like a complicated labyrinth created to keep people like him out than it did like a place where connections might be made. Perched on its far hill, the Griffith Observatory appeared more like an inaccessible, remote castle than a beacon.

Eventually, he made his way back to a bus stop, making the trip back with a little more assurance but no less fatigue. He gazed out at the endless city lights that were starting to flicker against the twilight sky as the bus drove him back to the privacy of his motel. His first full day of exploring the labyrinth had gone well. He hadn't acted carelessly. He had spotted the far-off target. But like the encroaching darkness, the enormity of the task, the overwhelming sense of being a small, unimportant dot in this vast, uncaring metropolis, descended upon him. It felt less like a quest to find Seraphina here, discreetly and carefully, than it did to find one particular grain of sand on an endlessly long beach.