See my review on The Brenda Diaries by Margo Candela on Livin' la vida Latina.
http://livinlavidalatina.blogspot.com/2012/01/review-brenda-diaries.html
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
2011 Reading Wrap-up
I started the "2011 Colorful Chick Lit" challenge at the beginning of the year. The objective was to read as many books written by or featuring a woman of color (i.e. Latino, African, Asian, or Indian). And since this was "chick lit," the story had to fit into the romantic-comedy genre. At first, I was extremely voracious about my reading with one book each week, but then, like the spring flowers in the midst of ambient change, my desire began to wilt toward the summer; by the fall, it had completely dried out leaving nothing to regenerate a new breed of life. The last four books were the insects treading across a field of dead twigs--my passion was long gone. I just couldn't rekindle that same spark, and, of course, it didn't help that those last few books I tried to read kept on blowing (total, major blowing.) I pretty much had to stop reading before there would be nothing left to light.
Now as far as the challenge goes, I basically stopped reading for that in the summer. The last few books I tried to finish (I couldn't even break the middle spine mark) did not meet any of requirements for the challenge. First of all, they were all written by white women.
So to wrap it up, here was my total:
Now as far as the challenge goes, I basically stopped reading for that in the summer. The last few books I tried to finish (I couldn't even break the middle spine mark) did not meet any of requirements for the challenge. First of all, they were all written by white women.
So to wrap it up, here was my total:
Latina books - 4
Asian books - 3
African books - 2
Indian books - 2
I'm not sure if this classifies me as a "queen" of colorful chick lit, but, hey, it's a start. Hopefully my hunger for books will return in 2012. I'm pretty sure it will.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Just Sex
This is the fourth book I’ve read in two months, and it was still a bust. Just Sex by Susan Kay Law is a story of a woman, who has an unfaithful husband that dares her to have an affair to prove that an infidelity can be nothing else but “just sex.”Chapter one started off with a nice bang. I loved the powerful rage Ellen exudes at the therapist’s office as she rants on and on over Tom’s uncontrollable cheating. Who could blame her, right? The interesting part was Tom firmly stating that his infidelity was not out of romantic pursuit or disrespect to his marital vows, but it was more due to curiosity. What would it be like to touch this woman, to kiss her, to be near her, to just have sex with her? Tom had to remedy his aching wonders and find out. And, of course, Ellen did not believe his theory, so he asked her if she ever wondered the same about other men she’s come across. It was in her pondering moment that Tom proposes that the she try it out for herself.
At first, Ellen’s agreement to Tom’s suggestion was purely out vengeance; but then she gives a second thought to the idea as she was never the expert dater. A contrast to her best friend Jill’s wild, boundless persona, Ellen is shy, introverted, and quite content with spending a nice, quiet evening with a good book. But, with Jill’s help, she embarks on a quest to find a lover, once again reverting to the doe-eyed, innocent days when her naïveté ran rampant and her virginity was untouched. And just as Ellen is re-discovering her dormant lust, her teen daughter, Katie, begins to experience the power of the temptation with her own innocence hanging in the balance.
I thought it was admirable how Ellen and Tom wanted to “let go of the anger” and try to get along for the sake of their children, but the whole repartee was just too corny and unrealistic. For god’s sakes, it was like watching a Hallmark movie. Nobody gets a long that well.
Was this a story about getting a family back together?
About half way through the book, I had to wonder why I was even reading this. At times, the writing was so confusing that I had to go back and re-read some parts just to find out who Ellen was even talking to. Bobby, Jake, Tommy—who the hell were these guys? They were just dropping in, trying to squeeze into the scene like jagged pieces in a puzzle. This is where I had to stop reading. Maybe this is my sign to take a break from it.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Emily Ever After
“I wish…I could be around people who care about books all the time”—a dream for every book worm and a great start to Emily Ever After, a novel by Anne Dayton and May Vanderbilt. (pg. 6)
Emily Hinton loves books and wants nothing more than to work with books and people who love them as much as she does. Her goal was to get out of her small California town and make her dream a reality someday. Finally, with the same fearsome drive of any college graduate, she packs up her things and trots off to New York, the book publishing capital of the world. You can’t help but love her determination.
In the beginning, it was easy to relate to Emily’s new-girl-in-the-city routine illustrated by her clumsy, wide-eyed, naïve manner. It practically brings you back to the early school days, being the new kid in class with all the other students staring at you like you were a 3-headed alien from outer space. And, of course, nobody wants to be the funny-looking kid that the others make fun of. You would pretty much do anything to avoid taking on that role, which was precisely the thought of our dear Emily. She wanted to fit in so badly with her fancy colleagues at any risk—even if it meant losing herself.
One thing I liked that was definitely different from many of the main heroines I’ve read about was that Emily was a “good girl,” which probably came from her traditional upbringing as a faithful Christian. The fact that she had little experience with boys made her all the more easy to relate to. I also suspected that Emily might have been born a Virgo because she had the tendency to be overly-critical of herself (who isn’t, right?)
I must say that Emily was too gullible about Bennett. One date with the guy and she was already planning the wedding and thinking up names for their children. Oh, please! Even for a school girl crush, it was still pathetic. And Bennett—he was way too perfect. What’s wrong with him? Every time I read something that made him sound like Prince Charming, I had to wonder what was wrong with him. He was really a frog, right? C’mon, nobody is that perfect.
The problem with Emily was the she believed everything she heard. I mean, if she heard that fish could fly and birds could swim, would she believe that too? Also, she was so bent on being a good Christian that I didn’t see this thing with Bennett—a guy always claiming to be a good Christian—working out. I must also admit that I skipped a lot of the religious stuff as it was all pretty dull.
At one point during the story, I wondered if the authors were British, only because this novel was classified as “Humorous Fiction,” and it didn’t make me laugh once. I thought perhaps it could’ve incorporated that dry, British humor no one ever gets, in which case, I definitely did not get my money’s worth. The only part that gave me a chuckle was when Emily’s roommate accused her of stealing her underwear. Oh, my god, that’s so outrageous when you think about it.
Even though the time correlated to the current season, I still had to skip all the holiday hoopla in the story (Emily having Thanksgiving with Bennett’s family and her flying home for Christmas) mostly because I get too much of it already from the media shoving all this jolly crap down my throat—it kind’ve makes you want to hate it all. I think Bennett said it best—“It’s just a holiday that Hallmark took advantage of. There’s nothing to do but sit around and watch It’s a Wonderful Life again and again and again and eat too much.” You said it, brother. (pg. 195)
The story didn’t really pick up until Jacob entered the scene about half way through the book. He was basically an old school friend that re-enters Emily’s life and refreshes her with a comforting past and youthful humor.
Overall, I felt this story was much too passive—no action whatsoever. I felt like I was being told the story, not shown it. Also, I really didn’t care for any of the characters, not even Emily, as they we were too flat and unrealistic. And, finally, there were some editing issues that got a little annoying. For example, “But,’ I say, pausing”—you can’t say something and pause at the same time.
The title was all wrong. It shouldn’t have been called “Emily Ever After;” it should’ve been “Emily Finally Over…Thank God.”
Emily Hinton loves books and wants nothing more than to work with books and people who love them as much as she does. Her goal was to get out of her small California town and make her dream a reality someday. Finally, with the same fearsome drive of any college graduate, she packs up her things and trots off to New York, the book publishing capital of the world. You can’t help but love her determination.In the beginning, it was easy to relate to Emily’s new-girl-in-the-city routine illustrated by her clumsy, wide-eyed, naïve manner. It practically brings you back to the early school days, being the new kid in class with all the other students staring at you like you were a 3-headed alien from outer space. And, of course, nobody wants to be the funny-looking kid that the others make fun of. You would pretty much do anything to avoid taking on that role, which was precisely the thought of our dear Emily. She wanted to fit in so badly with her fancy colleagues at any risk—even if it meant losing herself.
One thing I liked that was definitely different from many of the main heroines I’ve read about was that Emily was a “good girl,” which probably came from her traditional upbringing as a faithful Christian. The fact that she had little experience with boys made her all the more easy to relate to. I also suspected that Emily might have been born a Virgo because she had the tendency to be overly-critical of herself (who isn’t, right?)
I must say that Emily was too gullible about Bennett. One date with the guy and she was already planning the wedding and thinking up names for their children. Oh, please! Even for a school girl crush, it was still pathetic. And Bennett—he was way too perfect. What’s wrong with him? Every time I read something that made him sound like Prince Charming, I had to wonder what was wrong with him. He was really a frog, right? C’mon, nobody is that perfect.
The problem with Emily was the she believed everything she heard. I mean, if she heard that fish could fly and birds could swim, would she believe that too? Also, she was so bent on being a good Christian that I didn’t see this thing with Bennett—a guy always claiming to be a good Christian—working out. I must also admit that I skipped a lot of the religious stuff as it was all pretty dull.
At one point during the story, I wondered if the authors were British, only because this novel was classified as “Humorous Fiction,” and it didn’t make me laugh once. I thought perhaps it could’ve incorporated that dry, British humor no one ever gets, in which case, I definitely did not get my money’s worth. The only part that gave me a chuckle was when Emily’s roommate accused her of stealing her underwear. Oh, my god, that’s so outrageous when you think about it.
Even though the time correlated to the current season, I still had to skip all the holiday hoopla in the story (Emily having Thanksgiving with Bennett’s family and her flying home for Christmas) mostly because I get too much of it already from the media shoving all this jolly crap down my throat—it kind’ve makes you want to hate it all. I think Bennett said it best—“It’s just a holiday that Hallmark took advantage of. There’s nothing to do but sit around and watch It’s a Wonderful Life again and again and again and eat too much.” You said it, brother. (pg. 195)
The story didn’t really pick up until Jacob entered the scene about half way through the book. He was basically an old school friend that re-enters Emily’s life and refreshes her with a comforting past and youthful humor.
Overall, I felt this story was much too passive—no action whatsoever. I felt like I was being told the story, not shown it. Also, I really didn’t care for any of the characters, not even Emily, as they we were too flat and unrealistic. And, finally, there were some editing issues that got a little annoying. For example, “But,’ I say, pausing”—you can’t say something and pause at the same time.
The title was all wrong. It shouldn’t have been called “Emily Ever After;” it should’ve been “Emily Finally Over…Thank God.”
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
1-900-ANYTIME
The fact that the economy sucks right now is no big surprise to anyone. Many are out there, sweating it out under a blistering heat with bumper-to-bumper traffic and infuriating people just to get to that 30-minute interview at the end of a 20-mile long drive. And, unfortunately, I’m one of the many.
Everyday I scan the job postings on Monster, Career Builder, and Craig’s List. They say to check everyday so you can get in before the position gets filled, which is all fine and dandy….when there are actual jobs that you can apply for. Most of the time I just sit there and openly declare “no jobs” after having gone through about 15 pages worth of nothing. I’ll pretty much consider any job at this point. And then, one day, I found an ad for a phone sex operator. No experience necessary. Flexible hours. Work from home. Pays…..$26 an hour! What!? Seriously? I hummed with intriguing wonder. It’s not like I’d actually be doing anything. Just talking, listening, agreeing mostly. I wouldn’t have to leave the house, and I’d be banking $26 bucks an hour. How bad could a gig like this be? And that’s why I chose to read 1-900-ANYTIME by Tracy Price-Thompson.
Bertha, A.K.A. “Bliss,” is professional about her work and awards her clients top-notch service, which is the main reason why most of them keep coming back to her. She has the gift of painting lustrous fantasies of pleasure with her sultry voice. With words so provocative and scenes so vivid, the experience explodes into a gratifying reality for her clients. Everyone loves Bliss, especially Bertha, because being Bliss is the only way she is able to release her own fervent desires—desires that are buried underneath the fragmented skin of a disfiguring “beast.”
Sadness envelops you as you learn of the pain and humiliation Bertha had to endure growing up with this congenital disease. When I think of people like Bertha, I get the impression that they live a cloistered, lonely life. They don’t go out, they don’t meet people, and they surely don’t get “normal” jobs. I honestly thought her reason for this phone sex gig was purely to make ends meet. But, instead, it was to fulfill her own aching sexual urges, which, surely, are also left forgotten for a “beast” like Bertha. Perhaps the monetary reason may have made Bertha more sympathetic, but the fact that it was purely sexual definitely made her human—a horny human, but human nonetheless.
In the story, we learn about Bliss’ clients—their history, their family, but, most importantly, their reason for wanting to call Bliss. Jim Burgess is an honest, hard-working man who wanted nothing more than to make a decent living and, eventually, fall in love with the right girl. But then a fraternity prank left him with an ailment that destroyed his hope of having the All-American package. His calls to Bliss were so earnest and genuine that they seemed to have a special connection.
By the end, all hell breaks loose when her clients discover that their fantasy girl was not what they had imagined. I gotta say that I was surprised to find out who actually wanted Bertha dead—always the last person you expect.
The writing was so raw and powerful that you could feel the characters come alive with crippling anger, sadness, and passion. However, the energy of the words wilted towards the end as some editing issues floated to the surface. Many of the sex scenes may have been too graphic—too disgusting, really—for my usual taste. Did they really have to be that descriptive? And then I thought, yes! Isn’t that what a sex operator does?
But, seriously, those scenes were still too nasty. I only kept on reading to explore the danger Bertha finds herself in, and I have to say the whole thing was pretty anticlimactic. The book started off well, but then it kind of tapped out in the end.
In conclusion, I think I’ll keep skimming the job ads.
Everyday I scan the job postings on Monster, Career Builder, and Craig’s List. They say to check everyday so you can get in before the position gets filled, which is all fine and dandy….when there are actual jobs that you can apply for. Most of the time I just sit there and openly declare “no jobs” after having gone through about 15 pages worth of nothing. I’ll pretty much consider any job at this point. And then, one day, I found an ad for a phone sex operator. No experience necessary. Flexible hours. Work from home. Pays…..$26 an hour! What!? Seriously? I hummed with intriguing wonder. It’s not like I’d actually be doing anything. Just talking, listening, agreeing mostly. I wouldn’t have to leave the house, and I’d be banking $26 bucks an hour. How bad could a gig like this be? And that’s why I chose to read 1-900-ANYTIME by Tracy Price-Thompson.
Bertha, A.K.A. “Bliss,” is professional about her work and awards her clients top-notch service, which is the main reason why most of them keep coming back to her. She has the gift of painting lustrous fantasies of pleasure with her sultry voice. With words so provocative and scenes so vivid, the experience explodes into a gratifying reality for her clients. Everyone loves Bliss, especially Bertha, because being Bliss is the only way she is able to release her own fervent desires—desires that are buried underneath the fragmented skin of a disfiguring “beast.”Sadness envelops you as you learn of the pain and humiliation Bertha had to endure growing up with this congenital disease. When I think of people like Bertha, I get the impression that they live a cloistered, lonely life. They don’t go out, they don’t meet people, and they surely don’t get “normal” jobs. I honestly thought her reason for this phone sex gig was purely to make ends meet. But, instead, it was to fulfill her own aching sexual urges, which, surely, are also left forgotten for a “beast” like Bertha. Perhaps the monetary reason may have made Bertha more sympathetic, but the fact that it was purely sexual definitely made her human—a horny human, but human nonetheless.
In the story, we learn about Bliss’ clients—their history, their family, but, most importantly, their reason for wanting to call Bliss. Jim Burgess is an honest, hard-working man who wanted nothing more than to make a decent living and, eventually, fall in love with the right girl. But then a fraternity prank left him with an ailment that destroyed his hope of having the All-American package. His calls to Bliss were so earnest and genuine that they seemed to have a special connection.
By the end, all hell breaks loose when her clients discover that their fantasy girl was not what they had imagined. I gotta say that I was surprised to find out who actually wanted Bertha dead—always the last person you expect.
The writing was so raw and powerful that you could feel the characters come alive with crippling anger, sadness, and passion. However, the energy of the words wilted towards the end as some editing issues floated to the surface. Many of the sex scenes may have been too graphic—too disgusting, really—for my usual taste. Did they really have to be that descriptive? And then I thought, yes! Isn’t that what a sex operator does?
But, seriously, those scenes were still too nasty. I only kept on reading to explore the danger Bertha finds herself in, and I have to say the whole thing was pretty anticlimactic. The book started off well, but then it kind of tapped out in the end.
In conclusion, I think I’ll keep skimming the job ads.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Review: All-American Girl by Meg Cabot
My thoughts: When I first saw the name “Meg Cabot” on the cover of All-American Girl, I had no idea that she was the author of The Princess Diaries—a story that I had seen on screen and never read in paperback.
Samantha Madison was the middle child stuck between her older sister’s effervescent popularity and her younger sister’s precocious intelligence. Now, I was never a middle child, but I do know how much the middle sucks, whether that middle is a line at the DMV or a seat on an airplane. Being the eldest in my family, I thought it would be interesting to see life through the eyes of a middle child.
The first thing I learned from being born in the middle, according to Sam’s story, was how much I would hate my big sister, Lucy. She was basically your “popular girl” nightmare—she was the one person in school who had all the friends, all the party invitations, and all the guys pawing at her feet. I guess I wouldn’t have minded the whole popularity so much if Lucy was just a little smart or, at least, appear to be smart. But, man, what a ditz!
My first impression of Samantha was that she was too political, which probably makes sense since the book was set in America’s capital. I also couldn’t figure out why Samantha refused to take art classes. Wouldn’t that be the natural recourse for aspiring artists to further develop their skills and practice the craft? Yeah, Samantha was already a great artist. But was she so great that she couldn’t stand to be better?
As I kept on reading, I felt like I was learning more and more about the problems of rich kids, and Samantha, in her own Beverly Hills way, was protesting against it. I guess she was kind of the black sheep of the bunch, which is probably the general feeling of the middle child. I must admit that throwing in the attempted assassination of the president did include some enticement as in a “what the hell is the president doing here?” kind of way. I liked Sam’s apathetic, no-nonsense attitude and thought it complimented the political theme in the book. I totally related to Sam’s preference to watch The Simpson’s instead of the presidential speech. And I thought it was funny how after saving the president’s life and had injured her arm, all she could think of was how mad her parents will be after they find out she skipped class.
Overall, I thought that Cabot rendered Sam as an impressionably naïve and, at times, delusional teen. Throughout the bulk of the story, Sam often fantasized about her sister’s boyfriend, Jack, soon realizing his deep devotion for her and sweeping her off her feet. She also was too quick to agree with whatever Jack said and did. I mean, my god, he wasn’t so great that he needed to control Sam’s mind. And that’s why I was glad she met David, the president’s son, because he freed her mind and her artistic soul. He taught her to think for herself and not be afraid to have opinions of her own. By the end, Sam becomes “patriotic” over an artist’s view of America through her window and fights for her entry in a national art contest, which was a little heart-warming.
The one thing that I didn’t like and found really annoying a lot of the time were all the lists like “The Top 10 reasons I hate sushi” or “The Top 10 reasons my sister’s boyfriend is right for me.” Really, what was the point of the lists? Did Cabot want to emphasize a neurotic side of Sam? Was she some kind of list freak?
Overall, this book was a combination of Clueless and Legally Blonde—two movies I watched and had no particular fondness for.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Escape from L.A. (and failing every time)
So I had an entire day to spend in L.A. After all, I was already going there to do a lecture at the Los Angeles Public Library for Teen Read Week; but the event wasn’t until 2pm. So what could I do to kill some time until then? What could I do to soak up some “local color?” Then someone suggested I check out Olvera St. and the Grand Central Market in downtown L.A. I said, “Cool!” I’ve never been there, and it’s always good to try something new every now and then. So the plan was set. I would go to the Grand Central Market and Olvera St., and then leave at around 1 o’ clock with plenty of time to make it to the library event. Simple, right? Wrong! I never thought when I woke up that morning that I would find myself in the Bermuda Triangle—and not make it back out.
That day started off fine. We—my mom and I—decided to head off as early as possible so we could beat the traffic. We got on the freeway at about 9:30am and arrived in L.A. at 10am. The first thing that came to mind was how outrageous the parking rates were. $5.00 for parking!? $6.50!? Were they nuts? And it seemed that the price just kept getting higher and higher the deeper we went. We kept asking people on the street, “Where is there free parking? Where can you park for the market?” And they just mumbled a few incoherent remarks and threw a few gestures in aimless directions. Yeah, that helped. We kept on driving until—at the corner of my eye—I spotted an entry way to a parking structure behind the market. Halleluiah!
After we got a parking, we got off and hopped in the elevator, where we saw a sign that stated the first hour of parking was free with a stamped ticket, which would’ve been great if I hadn’t left the ticket on the front dash of my car (I thought that ticket was like a parking permit or something.) So back we went to get that ticket. The weird thing was that the car wasn’t where we left it.
“Didn’t we park near the entrance?” my mom asked.
“I thought so,” I said. “We parked as soon as we got the ticket. Oh, great, we’ve been here 10 minutes, and we already lost the car.”
It took us a while to realize that we were on the wrong floor; the car was on level 2, and we were on level 3.
So, with ticket in hand, we arrived at the market, where we were instantly greeted by the alluring scent of carnitas. What else could we think of but eat? So we chowed down on some papusas de queso y pollo. Oh, my god, delicious! After that, we walked around, sampling some other foods and checking out the scenery. But somehow we ended back where we started—at the papusa station, where we ordered a bean and cheese papusa with a beef empanada. The empanada wasn’t that great, but the bean papusa was even better than the chicken one we had earlier. It almost made the 35-minute trip worth while.
It was about 11:20am, and we thought we should leave so as not to get charged the additional parking fee for staying beyond the free hour. Of course, we ended up paying anyways. Oh, well, $1.50 was better than $7.00, right?
One thing that I noticed about L.A.—and I didn’t notice this until it was too late—was that it had all these one-way streets that go in all these directions. And I realized this after I had made a right turn into a street, where traffic was going the opposite direction. Aahh, mercy! Man, it was a good thing there were no cars coming. But, yeah, the L.A. streets were weird. Ya never know which way the traffic is going and you can’t turn anywhere. We were stuck on a one-way pile of congested traffic from 4th all the way to 9th St. with nowhere to turn and fat, giant buses blocking our view. And the entire time we kept asking people on the street how to get to Olvera St., and no one knew. How could they not know? They live here, for god’s sake. It wasn’t until we found a cop, who told us that Olvera St. was going toward 3rd St. instead—the exact opposite of where we were going. And, of course, turning back around proved to be impossible with all the streets being blocked off and cars not letting you get through. I swear, if you added a boogeyman with razor-sharp claws in his glove, you could’ve called this horror A Nightmare to Olvera St.
Eventually, we got away from all that hell (Phew!) and were clear on our way. Again, parking was a bitch. We ended up parking in a $9.00 lot. Boy, L.A. really probes you for every nickel and dime, huh?
So there we were at Olvera St.—a slice of Tijuana at our feet. The street had booths all the way down to the end, and they were all selling the same Mexican crap—ponchos, tamarindo, Chiclets, maracas, and, of course, the ever popular sombrero. What made this different than a swap meet was how all the people were scrunched together in the aisles, and you had to practically climb on top of one another just to get through. In fact, that’s kind of how it was at the Grand Central Market too. As soon as people got their food, they’d all huddle tightly together like rats, clawing and munching at their meal as if it was going to run away from them. I guess this was the natural hustle-and-bustle of downtown L.A. You buy, you pay, they throw the bootie, and then they throw the line back out there to try to hook another sucker.
By 1 o’ clock, we were heading back to the car. According to the Map Quest directions, we had to take the 110 freeway over by 3rd St. near the Grand Central Market. Well, I didn’t really want to get stuck in that horrific traffic jam again, and I knew we were near the 101 ‘cause I had just seen it. Wasn’t there a way to get the 110 via the 101? I wondered. A guy parked next to us confirmed that it was. Like idiots, we listened to the guy. Little did we know that getting on the 101 would prove to be start of one of the most disastrous domino effects ever.
Somehow the 101 turned into the 5 freeway, which we stayed on hoping to run into the 110; but we didn’t. We got off the freeway and arrived in a city called Montebello. It was 1:30pm, so we thought the library I was scheduled to do a lecture at would give us the directions to get there. Unfortunately, we wound up talking to a lady who didn’t know how to use Google and had virtually no idea how to get to that library, even though she worked there. It didn’t help that the lady was a moron, nor did it help that we were getting a heat stroke under the blazing sun (it was so freaking hot out there.) So we called our cell phone rep, hoping he would be able to utilize the GPS service to find out where the hell we were ‘cause, surely enough, we had absolutely no idea. But we basically spent all of 20 minutes spelling out “Montebello” for him. So then my mom found a trucker nearby and asked him for directions on how to get to the 110 freeway. After all, he was a trucker, and all they do is a drive around all day—they should know where they’re going, not to mention where they are. He told us to go down the street, where we’ll get the 710 freeway, then transfer on to the 10, and then finally the 110. That would’ve been all nice to try out……if it hadn’t been for the stalled train in the middle of the road. It was just sitting there, not moving, not an inch or a budge. I swear it was worse than a sleeping cow. And the whole time I kept thinking fate does not want me to get to this event, the world does not want me to get out of here!
After the train, we got ourselves into a tangled web of freeways. We saw the 710, we saw the 60, I think we even saw the 605; but we did NOT see the 110. Ooh, pues! So we got off again—this time in Alhambra. We sought more directions from people, which didn’t help. Then we found a computer. Hooray! We should’ve been able to find it now, except….not even the computer could find where we were. Map Quest did not recognize the address. By this time, I was pulling at my hairs.
Taking in a few breaths, I fumbled with a few keys and was able to pull up some directions. It said to go south on Freemont, make a right on Helmond, and take the 10 west freeway. Well, obviously, if one way was east, then the other way would have to be west; and that’s what we did. If I said this once, I will say it again: L.A. has got the weirdest (and stupidest) streets as they curve in all sorts of directions that take you nowhere with no way of getting back to where you started from. We traveled to Alhambra, Vernon, and Monterey Park. This Bermuda Triangle was spinning us in a whirlwind of circles. It was by dumb luck that we ended up at Cal State L.A., where I was a panelist at last year’s Latino Book Festival, and I recalled what freeway I took to get home—the 710 to the 5. At this point, we just wanted to get out of this upside-down world and back to where it was normal—home.
So there you have it. I didn’t make it to Teen Read Week, but I made it out L.A…...just barely. Who knows, maybe fate was keeping me away from that event for a reason. Maybe the roof caved in, or maybe there was a terrorist attack. Oh, well. Yes, I felt bad for having missed the event (even though I could feel we were dancing around the location,) but, in all honesty, this ain’t the first time I’ve missed something just because I got way lost on Planet Weird. But, hey, sometimes you have to get lost to truly find yourself; and that day, I got really found.
That day started off fine. We—my mom and I—decided to head off as early as possible so we could beat the traffic. We got on the freeway at about 9:30am and arrived in L.A. at 10am. The first thing that came to mind was how outrageous the parking rates were. $5.00 for parking!? $6.50!? Were they nuts? And it seemed that the price just kept getting higher and higher the deeper we went. We kept asking people on the street, “Where is there free parking? Where can you park for the market?” And they just mumbled a few incoherent remarks and threw a few gestures in aimless directions. Yeah, that helped. We kept on driving until—at the corner of my eye—I spotted an entry way to a parking structure behind the market. Halleluiah!
After we got a parking, we got off and hopped in the elevator, where we saw a sign that stated the first hour of parking was free with a stamped ticket, which would’ve been great if I hadn’t left the ticket on the front dash of my car (I thought that ticket was like a parking permit or something.) So back we went to get that ticket. The weird thing was that the car wasn’t where we left it.
“Didn’t we park near the entrance?” my mom asked.
“I thought so,” I said. “We parked as soon as we got the ticket. Oh, great, we’ve been here 10 minutes, and we already lost the car.”
It took us a while to realize that we were on the wrong floor; the car was on level 2, and we were on level 3.
So, with ticket in hand, we arrived at the market, where we were instantly greeted by the alluring scent of carnitas. What else could we think of but eat? So we chowed down on some papusas de queso y pollo. Oh, my god, delicious! After that, we walked around, sampling some other foods and checking out the scenery. But somehow we ended back where we started—at the papusa station, where we ordered a bean and cheese papusa with a beef empanada. The empanada wasn’t that great, but the bean papusa was even better than the chicken one we had earlier. It almost made the 35-minute trip worth while.
It was about 11:20am, and we thought we should leave so as not to get charged the additional parking fee for staying beyond the free hour. Of course, we ended up paying anyways. Oh, well, $1.50 was better than $7.00, right?
One thing that I noticed about L.A.—and I didn’t notice this until it was too late—was that it had all these one-way streets that go in all these directions. And I realized this after I had made a right turn into a street, where traffic was going the opposite direction. Aahh, mercy! Man, it was a good thing there were no cars coming. But, yeah, the L.A. streets were weird. Ya never know which way the traffic is going and you can’t turn anywhere. We were stuck on a one-way pile of congested traffic from 4th all the way to 9th St. with nowhere to turn and fat, giant buses blocking our view. And the entire time we kept asking people on the street how to get to Olvera St., and no one knew. How could they not know? They live here, for god’s sake. It wasn’t until we found a cop, who told us that Olvera St. was going toward 3rd St. instead—the exact opposite of where we were going. And, of course, turning back around proved to be impossible with all the streets being blocked off and cars not letting you get through. I swear, if you added a boogeyman with razor-sharp claws in his glove, you could’ve called this horror A Nightmare to Olvera St.
Eventually, we got away from all that hell (Phew!) and were clear on our way. Again, parking was a bitch. We ended up parking in a $9.00 lot. Boy, L.A. really probes you for every nickel and dime, huh?
So there we were at Olvera St.—a slice of Tijuana at our feet. The street had booths all the way down to the end, and they were all selling the same Mexican crap—ponchos, tamarindo, Chiclets, maracas, and, of course, the ever popular sombrero. What made this different than a swap meet was how all the people were scrunched together in the aisles, and you had to practically climb on top of one another just to get through. In fact, that’s kind of how it was at the Grand Central Market too. As soon as people got their food, they’d all huddle tightly together like rats, clawing and munching at their meal as if it was going to run away from them. I guess this was the natural hustle-and-bustle of downtown L.A. You buy, you pay, they throw the bootie, and then they throw the line back out there to try to hook another sucker.
By 1 o’ clock, we were heading back to the car. According to the Map Quest directions, we had to take the 110 freeway over by 3rd St. near the Grand Central Market. Well, I didn’t really want to get stuck in that horrific traffic jam again, and I knew we were near the 101 ‘cause I had just seen it. Wasn’t there a way to get the 110 via the 101? I wondered. A guy parked next to us confirmed that it was. Like idiots, we listened to the guy. Little did we know that getting on the 101 would prove to be start of one of the most disastrous domino effects ever.
Somehow the 101 turned into the 5 freeway, which we stayed on hoping to run into the 110; but we didn’t. We got off the freeway and arrived in a city called Montebello. It was 1:30pm, so we thought the library I was scheduled to do a lecture at would give us the directions to get there. Unfortunately, we wound up talking to a lady who didn’t know how to use Google and had virtually no idea how to get to that library, even though she worked there. It didn’t help that the lady was a moron, nor did it help that we were getting a heat stroke under the blazing sun (it was so freaking hot out there.) So we called our cell phone rep, hoping he would be able to utilize the GPS service to find out where the hell we were ‘cause, surely enough, we had absolutely no idea. But we basically spent all of 20 minutes spelling out “Montebello” for him. So then my mom found a trucker nearby and asked him for directions on how to get to the 110 freeway. After all, he was a trucker, and all they do is a drive around all day—they should know where they’re going, not to mention where they are. He told us to go down the street, where we’ll get the 710 freeway, then transfer on to the 10, and then finally the 110. That would’ve been all nice to try out……if it hadn’t been for the stalled train in the middle of the road. It was just sitting there, not moving, not an inch or a budge. I swear it was worse than a sleeping cow. And the whole time I kept thinking fate does not want me to get to this event, the world does not want me to get out of here!
After the train, we got ourselves into a tangled web of freeways. We saw the 710, we saw the 60, I think we even saw the 605; but we did NOT see the 110. Ooh, pues! So we got off again—this time in Alhambra. We sought more directions from people, which didn’t help. Then we found a computer. Hooray! We should’ve been able to find it now, except….not even the computer could find where we were. Map Quest did not recognize the address. By this time, I was pulling at my hairs.
Taking in a few breaths, I fumbled with a few keys and was able to pull up some directions. It said to go south on Freemont, make a right on Helmond, and take the 10 west freeway. Well, obviously, if one way was east, then the other way would have to be west; and that’s what we did. If I said this once, I will say it again: L.A. has got the weirdest (and stupidest) streets as they curve in all sorts of directions that take you nowhere with no way of getting back to where you started from. We traveled to Alhambra, Vernon, and Monterey Park. This Bermuda Triangle was spinning us in a whirlwind of circles. It was by dumb luck that we ended up at Cal State L.A., where I was a panelist at last year’s Latino Book Festival, and I recalled what freeway I took to get home—the 710 to the 5. At this point, we just wanted to get out of this upside-down world and back to where it was normal—home.
So there you have it. I didn’t make it to Teen Read Week, but I made it out L.A…...just barely. Who knows, maybe fate was keeping me away from that event for a reason. Maybe the roof caved in, or maybe there was a terrorist attack. Oh, well. Yes, I felt bad for having missed the event (even though I could feel we were dancing around the location,) but, in all honesty, this ain’t the first time I’ve missed something just because I got way lost on Planet Weird. But, hey, sometimes you have to get lost to truly find yourself; and that day, I got really found.
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