Stapleton: No ‘Carmaggedon’ in Maricopa

People always ask me if I miss Los Angeles.

Having lived there for half of my 35 years, I would have to say there are some things I do miss. I do miss being able to drive to the ocean, roll out my blanket and sit down with a book. Then I relax sitting in between a cigarette butt and a pile of kelp that attracted a zillion sand flies. Yes, I slightly miss that mystical vision and the salty air that blew in from the Pacific. The expanse of the great ocean would often send me deep into a Zen-like trance as I would think of the big picture.

When I was in this contemplative state, I was hardly ever distracted by the screaming children running around, kicking up sand in my face, or even by my own children saying they had to use the “less than clean” bathroom that was a quarter-mile away.  

I would admit I did have moments of conflict of carrying them across the scorching sand or advising them of “what I did at their age” as I looked into the vast ocean and the thousands of other kids jumping around in the water. However, I always did the right thing and carried them expeditiously to the bathroom, imagining myself as Mad Max in  “Beyond the Thunderdome” saving an indigenous child from an abandoned tribe and making it across the dunes to the remnants of a once civilized society. 

Often with my last remaining strength, to avoid any contamination, I would suspend the child in mid-air so he or she may do the respectful thing. The walk back could be done at a more leisurely pace, as they would be able to take their time struggling back through the dunes only to collapse nearly dehydrated upon the beach blanket.   

I also miss some of the restaurants. Like Maricopa, Los Angeles had many pizza places, so I don’t feel like I am missing anything there. However, I was able to experiment with food other than hamburgers, burritos or pizza. A perk of living in a city like L.A. was having cuisine from all over the world within a 10-mile radius. In many cases, this frivolous perk was even delivered to my front door.

Rolled grape leaves, gyros, chicken tikka masala, pad-Thai, sushi, or even a 12-ounce steak could be dropped off and I wouldn’t have to force people to endure the occasionally willful behavior displayed by my young children as they waited for food. I can imagine it is difficult for couples to enjoy a romantic evening out, when the table next you to has a child or two that is using their utensils as drumsticks and their plate as a cymbal. I can confirm it is bad enough when you are sitting at the table where it’s actually happening.

Last weekend, however, I was reminded of what I don’t miss. I don’t miss spending my life on a congested freeway system.  They called it Carmaggedon, as a 10-mile stretch of the 405 freeway was closed down for the weekend. It was predicted to bring complete chaos in Los Angeles, but it didn’t happen. I am familiar with this freeway and the side streets around it.

I  lived just a few blocks from it, and this freeway would be my primary starting point as I rode out on my workday. It used to be when people talk about how hard their eight hour work day was—I was unable to relate. I usually had about a 10 to 12 hour work day with about three hours on the road.  Also to note, I was usually only about 25 miles from home.  Having children and a hectic work life, I used to take this time to return to my Zen-like trances, reflecting about the grand meaning of life and whether I would just be a marching ant until I turned to dust.

I would look to the million miles of brake lights in front of me and imagine I was a just white blood cell travelling through a plaque-filled artery. God forbid if someone tapped someone else’s bumper and California Highway Patrol had to be called out. The system would suffer a minor heart attack as traffic slowed to see if there was any tragedy to text about. Now, when I am forced to stop because of a train passing through, I barely notice the wait time as I believe I have been conditioned to sit in traffic for infinity. I know sometimes there may be a few delays on State Route 347, but I have yet to experience driving the entire way at five miles an hour as would often happen in Los Angeles.

Thinking about the stop, go, stop, go, causes momentary anxiety now. Knowing that I may have spent years of my life stuck in that grind, which is truly the Los Angeles lifestyle, I prefer to give up the ocean experience and exotic cuisine.  I have not been in a real traffic jam since moving to Maricopa over a year and a half ago. It’s what makes me say, “I don’t miss L.A. and have no plans on returning.”

There is also something here that I didn’t have in Los Angeles. Out here, where wild horses run and coyotes howl — I can go out at night, and look up at a clear sky, see the stars brilliantly shining in the celestial heavens and still have my moments of Zen. Even while listening to a train, furiously rumbling to the place, from which I luckily escaped.