Chapter 2.

There is very little in the world that will make a person feel more untethered in life than showering in a truck stop in Barstow and having no idea where you are going or how.

There are places in the Mojave where the vastness of everything begins to wear out your eyeballs.

I fly to Washington DC tomorrow for four days, then back to LA. Hunter will be going back to Oregon and I think I will head East. Or perhaps it's time to go to Mexico? New York? Time to throw one's fate to the wind in any case.

This is a kangaroo rat. I named him Mr. Tubbins. He hung out with me all night. I think he may be my spirit animal.

Hang ten, brah!

I went surfing for a few days while in Cardiff-by-the-Sea, California. I feel that this statement is misleading, however, as it conjures up images of competence and a kind of laid back athleticism, neither of which I have ever claimed to possess. I had tried surfing exactly once before in Oregon. I splashed around a good deal, got smacked upside the head by a few waves, rode in a few times on my knees, and finished the whole day rather exhausted and pleased with myself on the whole. But that was Oregon. Nobody surfs in Oregon. I had been vaguely aware that people do that sort of thing in that climate, wearing wetsuits and whatnot, the same way I was aware that people jumped out of helicopters and snowboarded down mountains. It's something so far out of the realm of my experience that it may very well be fantasy. The point is, I was satisfied by my attempt at surfing in Oregon simply because of its novelty.

California is an entirely different creature, however. Even in January, there were so many surfers jostling for position on the waves it was a singular feat in itself that they were not running each other over. There are also always a fair number of people at the railings on top of the bluffs overlooking the water, just watching. Surfing is definitely a spectator sport down there. Finally, imagine all of the California surfer-guy stereotypes. They are all true. These muscular, sun-bleached, affable men are everywhere. They have special racks on their bicycles to carry their boards. And they are good.

Hunter and I were the only ones I saw with long boards. Everyone else had very short, sporty-looking models that they whipped back and forth down the waves. I was certainly the only one with a beat up, foam topped long board and a wetsuit that said "rental" across the chest in large letters. Hunter stayed with me for my first few attempts, giving me pointers before setting out past the breaks. Here is the thing about surfing: catching a wave is easy. Getting up on your knees is easy. Getting up on one knee and one foot, steering down the wave, and not hurting yourself is far from impossible. Actually standing up and surfing is hard. This is not far from the truth: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59nrQPo53xo&feature=related        No, really. Go watch it. I'll wait.

So, when I say, "I went surfing", what I really mean is: "I spent 15 minutes struggling with a heavy and unwieldy rental board that is too wide to carry in any vaguely comfortable way, trying to get it down to the beach. I then spent a few minutes surveying the waves, strapping the leash to my ankle, and thinking about what a tool I look like compared to all these actual surfer types. After I got in the water, I spent 90% of my time flailing about, trying not to have my board crash into my teeth as I get battered by waves, and 10% of the times frantically paddling, catching waves, and then wiping out in ridiculous and creative ways the moment I try to stand up." After an hour of this, I drag my board back out to the sand, sit down with my head on my knees, and literally cry with frustration.

But. However. On the second day, after a few rounds of the process described above, I was nearly too tired to care. I flung myself on the board and the next thing I knew, I was standing up, cruising fast over the water, carried effortlessly by the wave all the way until I hit the sand. It was exhilarating and amazing and hilarious. I whooped and hollered and hammed it up for the few veteran surfers who were just getting in. They gave me wan thumbs-up. Oddly enough, the whole thing struck me as incredibly funny.

We are headed back to California tomorrow. I think I may have recovered enough to try it again.

I'm in Miami, bitch.

The University of Miami Law School has offered me some monies to go to their school. Now the U of M isn't a law school that's necessarily going to impress people and launch me to superstar lawyerdom.  On the other hand, it's not a bad school, and with the nearly 2/3 of tuition scholarship, it's the cheapest one I'm looking at. And it's in Miami. And, look at this:

This is the bar on campus, right between the law school and the music school. See those umbrella/booth combos? The whole thing swings back and forth on rockers. They have rocking chair booths at the bar next door to where I would be going to class. Plus, everyone is wearing shorts and T-shirts. In February. Fuck yeah, Miami.


Visiting the school put me through a few different conflicting feelings. As we walked around and the guide described the different law reviews, the clinics, the public interest scholarships to go overseas, the internships and clerkships and societies and what-have-you, I saw myself doing them all. I imagined myself in the top whatever percent of my class, editor of the law review, working on actual cases at the human rights clinic, spending my summers working for the UN. A latent sense of serious ambition is lurking in my brain, methinks. I was getting myself excited about all this.

At one point in the tour, a guy emerged from one of the clinic offices and greeted the tour guide before purposefully striding off. I at first wondered if he were a professor, as he had such a professional, confident air that made him seem older than he was. Later on, the guide explained that the guy was a friend of his. Or, had been a friend of his. They hadn't socialized much since their first year because professor-looking guy was doing all the things I had been thinking about: internships, reviews, clinics, etc. Which meant that he basically had no social life.

And, well, I simply don't like to work that hard. Am I totally fucking myself by continuing down this path? (continual) Moment of crisis, yos.

Otherwise, I was amused by Miami. We had gone out to South Beach one night, and I bought the most expensive Corona I have ever drank. After I visited the school, I had some sushi, talked to some current students, hitched a ride with some activists on their way to a rally, walked around a cute district called The Grove, met a local semi-celebrity named Bahama Rob, who took me to Jimbo's, which is a squatters camp/bar/shrimp boat place on an island right across the water from Miami proper.

 I got eaten alive by mosquitoes and no-see-ems at Jimbo's.  Interesting place. Full of crazies.

Miami is not a bad looking city. 

I also went snorkeling off the coast of Key Largo. Painfully gorgeous. Could I live in South Florida? I have reservations, but yes, I think I could.