something can be done

So I work in a slightly wretched area of Pasadena called "Old Town." When I was in middle school and just being introduced to the outside world, my friends and I thought it was a cool place to hang out, and I guess in some respects, it was. For one thing, it's where Urban Outfitter lives, along with a few movie theaters, every conceivable chain clothing store, a now extinct bagel shop, restaurants, alley ways, and disgruntled "street kids" playing guitars. Badly. When I started working there in high school in earnest, I discovered that while Old Town is an okay place to visit and the diagonal crosswalks are indeed useful AND badass, it actually kind of sucks. Because people kind of suck. And Old Town is full of people shopping, walking so goddamn slowly, and generally proving every gross stereotype flung at Southern Californians.

I use one of two parking lots when I go to work - one that's across the street from the store and costs a staggering $6 for the day, or one that's two blocks away in the metro complex and costs $3.50, including "valid proof of transport" - i.e., a metro ticket. When I'm feeling rational and not in a hurry, I park in the latter near the ever-present bright yellow Scientology van. I'm not even joking. It says "Don't Worry! Something CAN Be Done About it! : Scientology Volunteer Ministers" on the side.

Were people worried? Though I see Scientologists aplenty in their very distinctive uniforms, I've yet to see anyone driving said van, or even remotely near it with a fist full of van keys. The van changes parking spots nearly every day on its own. Spooky? Yes. Are the windows heavily tinted? Yes. Do I envision an Alias-esque kidnapping whenever I see it? Yes. Do I feel a little bad for making fun of Scientologists on a daily basis? ... (yes.) Anyway. The process of parking in this lot is a rather intricate one and as such, takes time. At first it felt like a hassle, and now it's one of my favorite parts of the day. Ten minutes of walking up two flights of stairs, assembling $1.50 in change for a metro ticket I never actually use, and then a brisk walk up the street to work where I am inevitably, painfully, bafflingly always at least five minutes early. It's the time I take every day to soothe my own frazzled nerves, enjoy any decent weather before eight hours of "inside fun," and scrape together loose ends of thoughts / freak-outs / schemes.

As some of you know, I've been working on a few schemes lately. Number one scheme: moving. Somewhere. Scheme number two: moving somewhere for a job that will pay me better. Well, even. A job I might actually find fulfilling. Scheme three involves a tattoo idea I just can't even talk about because I said I'd only have one tattoo and I can't let myself go down that road. (I said I can't. Don't encourage me.) It feels a little... uncomfortable to reveal this to the world at large, but uhh... I'm pretty set on moving to Istanbul at this point. To say "wtf" is an understatement, I realize. I only became aware of Istanbul and the rest of Turkey in any real way like... a month and a half ago. And now I want to move there? Does that seem insane to anyone else? Unhinged? Illogical? Irresponsibly hasty? Rash, even? I know. Part of me thinks it's totally batshit crazy. The other part of me knows it is.

But as I was walking from my car to the stairs up to the metro kiosk this afternoon, something hit me - so what. Yep. That was it. So what. It is insane. It is unhinged. Very irrational. Extremely hasty. Turkey is just about half-way around the world. It's ten hours ahead and they use umlauts there like there's no tomorrow. Kooky. And yet something is pulling me there. Something inside of me is telling me that I need to go. I need to do something wild and drastic and distant and pursue the magic I felt and saw and heard there. Something else hit me on my parking lot walk, and it's trite and self-helpish, but for once it struck me in a real way:

The only person responsible for my happiness is me.
The only person who can make my life worth living is me.
The only person who will ensure that I have no regrets at the end of this, the only person who makes the rules, the only person who can make this decision...

that's me.

I've heard those sentences so many times from older people - including my mom - but today I came to those conclusions myself. If I'm not happy in my own life, it's totally my fucking fault. There's no one else to blame. So all of these "pressures" I feel to do the "right thing" and start a career in an office somewhere - well, to be frank - that isn't my idea of happiness. That isn't what I see when I see myself. And I know it's a trade off, a compromise, but I can't not listen to my intuition. And my intuition is pushing me to The Meeting Place. Not for good, but for a while, at least. I still have major doubts and concerns and moments of hyperventilating, but then something happens to help me. Last Wednesday it was a customer who spent two hours talking with me about my trip to Istanbul and the one she's about to take. She told me repeatedly that hearing me talk about it gave her "goose bumples." She also told me that I needed to become a tour guide, because she would hire me. ("No. Seriously. I'm not joking. Do it. You know too much not to.") Yesterday it was Sarah calling me from a Hawaiian airport, asking me about a Berlitz interview scheduled for Friday morning that never panned out. (Flakiness is not merely a domestic disease. Alas.) Sarah has a finely honed ability to cut through the swathes of bull shit I wrap around myself. She knows when I'm lying - to her and myself - and she can detect weakness of thought like a bear sniffing out foodstuff. Much to my intense relief, she has been astonishingly supportive of this move. Last night, she even promised an extended visit. I can't say how much that meant. If Sarah is on board and actively pushing me forward, I know it's solid. I trust her.

Here are some images that didn't make it to the facebook album. (I did take about 800.)