Welcome to the Jungle

A good-sized gray mouse scurries across the floor from one end of my hostel dorm room to the other and takes refuge underneath the bedside table.

“Nah,” I mumbled aloud to myself. That will be a problem for another day, I decide.

Instead, I flip off the light switch, plunging the room into almost-darkness. The hazy neon glow of Hollywood Boulevard remains ever-present, filtering in through the thin cloth curtains. The room vibrates a little bit from the steady bass pounding through the speakers of the tattoo parlor downstairs.

I climb a rickety staircase to flop wearily down on the top bunk bed I’ve claimed for myself, even though I am alone in the four-person room. Above me, the ceiling is suspiciously covered with brown splotches. The smoke detector is hanging sadly by a single wire. Outside, drunken tourists are engaging in shouting matches with street vendors and car horns are honking.

I can only think of the immortal words of David Byrne, “This is not my beautiful house.” And I ask myself, “Well… How did I get here?”

It’s been quite a day.

Earlier that week, I had finally turned 21. I promised myself that I would go to Los Angeles to see one of my favorite bassists perform his DJ set at a tiny bar on Sunset Boulevard as soon as I was able.

True to my word, I booked a room in Hollywood, packed up my 1997 Volvo station wagon and headed out on US 395. It was almost perfect. If only my car had air conditioning. Or a radio. Or a fully-functional speedometer.

But nothing was going to slow me down (in a metaphorical sense — not just because I couldn’t tell how fast I was driving). My small-town eyes widened as I pulled off the freeway, passing the Hollywood Bowl, the Hollywood Sign, the wax figure of Marilyn Monroe in her “Seven Year Itch” dress, a guy dressed as Captain America languidly smoking a cigarette. And then my engine died.

I managed to restart the car and gently coax it into taking me to the hostel, where the staff proceeded to have no idea who I was, nor any rooms to accommodate me.

After a moment to appreciate the exercise in Murphy’s law that had become of my vacation, my car and I lurched over to a different neighborhood. My only option was to wander aimlessly until I found a vacant bed. Which I eventually did. And it worked out spectacularly. There was just the one mouse, after all.

I spent a week adventuring alone in Los Angeles. I made it back home without my car.

Suffice to say, I loved it so much that I now live in Hollywood.