Gas problems? I'm not a doctor, but I can help!*

*Actual advertisement promoting a car dealership featuring vehicles boasting high gas milage and low emissions. Ad cleverly posted in rest stop bathroom stall in a forgettable town between Los angeles and San Francisco likely to be named something obscure like "Butterville" or "Los Banos".

Today I drove from my home in Santa Monica to San Francisco- a seven hour trip up the 5 freeway that takes one through California country resembling saturated oil painting scenes in the movie "What Dreams May Come". My mind wavered along with my small car fighting the blustering winds. Here are some of the profound musings produced while gazing out a significantly battered windshield (those who have seen it know this is a terrific understatement).

Have officially researched and documented the scientific, soul-enhancing benefits of singing favorite songs as loud as possible in the confines of one's vehicle. Effects vary pending participant's singing volume, attention to personal vocal liberties and impromptu hand gestures (including, but not limited to, fist pumps, pointing to the CD player while nodding as if to say "fuck yeah" and, of course, drumming on the steering wheel).

Pondered several of life's plaguing questions such as,

1. What is the difference between 'beneath' and 'underneath'?

2. Doesn't the term 'Dust Bowl' refer to something that occurred at least 50 years ago?

3. What happened between the hours of 1:30 am and 2:30 am? Why did I wake up with a bruised knee?

Saw the land and the light evolve boldly as I traveled. Purple-gray trees in a militant line made me feel like a mythical knight, armor gleaming and sword drawn, riding bravely into battle then broad, squatty white hills blanketed by low clouds made me feel like a tiny molecule unable to touch or step on the ground and nearly crushed by the unforgiving weight of gravity. Spherical bodies of lambs huddled together and hummed the same tone as the engine, plastic model trees had been placed methodically on a distant hillside as the ground had been painstakingly painted vibrant greens and golds.

Drank a large cup of coffee after having virtually given up the robust, beloved drink for nearly three months. Enjoyed this immensely. Cursed every damn cup of green tea I have ever ingested.

While on the road, attempted to visualize this trip being an actual move, a complete change of location, from LA to San Francisco. Found the idea unsettling.

Upon arriving in city limits, driving past victorians and 1920's typography, felt entirely at home.

The End is (not so) Near:

Cat's Cradle in Costa Rica

Last weekend I traveled to Costa Rica for my step brother's much anticipated destination wedding in the small coastal city of Santa Teresa. Before leaving my LA apartment, I quickly skimmed my literature collection, passed up a few Oprah's Book Club paperbacks with a yawn and spotted a small brightly colored book tucked away amongst the classics: Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. I shamefully had no idea what it was about and with mild enthusiasm stashed it away in my purse, presumably to be given initial attention followed by disinterest and distraction. However, the book proved to be an integral component contributing to my travel experience and thus, this entry.

It turned out the TACA airlines flight from LAX to Guatemala offered little to no entertainment (which is, even amidst constant air travel cutbacks and frustrating fees such as lack of free peanuts, universally loathed baggage fees and $10 granola bars, unacceptable by modern standards). The only in-flight magazine was, understandably, written in Spanish and the audio/video system was "experiencing technical difficulties". After sleeping off my hangover for a few hours and discovering that my ipod earbuds had been conveniently left in my gym bag at home, I dug out Cat's Cradle and began reading.

What ensued was a courtship and love affair with Vonnegut's satirical, succinct voice. Unaware of the imminent "end of the world" ending (note: apologies to to all readers who have not read this book, but come on, you wouldn't admit to that anyway), I followed the main character, a writer researching the life of one of the scientists behind the making of the Hiroshima atomic bomb, on his part-reality, part-science fiction journey. The "journey", of course, resonated with me as I sat in the muggy, humming aircraft and breaked intermittently for wine-enduced naps, dreaming of tropical beaches ahead.

8 hours later I landed in Tambor, Costa Rica and toted my single piece of luggage, an 18-pound duffle bag, to the small adjacent airport and boarded what looked to be an advanced toy plane with small propellers and, at maximum, housing around 14 people including the pilots (who were, strangely and perfectly, terrifically small as well). As magnificent as the evolving scene was outside my window, I found it difficult not to read fervently after discovering Vonnegut's fictionally created religion of an island culture, Bokononism. The first quote referenced from one of the books of Bokonon is, "'All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies'". The main character follows by saying, "Anyone unable to understand how a useful religion can be founded on lies will not understand this book either". While I did not unquestionably agree, I certainly understood the feeling. I looked out the rattling window at the bluegreen water and fluffy-topped islands existing in unwavering unity and thought that it had all been here without me for so long. I felt both hopeless and hopeful at the same time.

Upon arriving at an even smaller airport in a remote coastal area, I deplaned (rather digressive note to reader: who the hell thought of that stupid word anyway? deplaned. could great minds come up with nothing better? if anything, I believe we should "deboard" as we have, in fact, participated in the initial act of boarding in the first place, thus, resulting in the counter action of "deboarding". who ever heard of "planing" an aircraft?) I found myself on a dusty piece of cleared land among hills laden with jungle thicket. Quite favorably, a grinning, sweating man held a sign reading "Jeff and Jen's wedding". He proceeded to drive me on many surfaces and precarious terrains, a small percentage being actual, viable street pavement, to the resort in Santa Teresa.

On the hour long taxi ride, legs outstretched and crossed in front of me, hot gusts of heavy air hitting me in the face, I sleepily gazed out the window, envisioning the fantastic greeting and celebration that awaited me. I imagined my mom standing anxiously in a sparkling lobby, her hands outstretched and her skirt delicately dancing in the soft tropical breeze. Other family members would be wondering about, smiling and wide-eyed, their faces radiant with the promise of heightened adventures to come aided by my presence. Wrong. I was promptly dropped off on a gravel pathway surrounded by hut-like structures seemingly uninhabited. Besides the scrambling lizards, not a soul in sight.

After the wandering around for a bit, I found and spoke with a tatooed woman in the main office smelling of pachouli and fish. She told me, in broken English, that everyone had gone snorkeling for the day and would not return until after dinnertime. It was 10 AM.

Normally I would have been quite alright in this sort of situation, perhaps even relieved, however, after enduring an arduous travel day and night, fighting a headache and reading about the end of the world, I felt indignation followed by sadness and abandonment. I searched the hotel room for a note from my mom, looked and listened outside on hotel grounds and found nothing. I sat on the bed and cried.

I'll admit, my reaction could perhaps be interpreted as the self-pitied actions of a spoiled premadonna. In truth, I sobbed far heavier and longer than should have been allowed and I even wondered during, "what the fuck is your problem, Sara? You're in fucking Costa Rica for God's sake! This sort of weeping is reserved for deaths, heartbreaks and speeding tickets". Ten minutes passed, then 20 and as the breakdown approached a half hour, I jumped in the shower and put on my bathing suit in an effort to emerge in vacation regalia. As it turned out, my bronzing mother was sitting contently at the hotel pool and, upon seeing me, wore the same expression I had projected she would. She, of course, felt terrible that I had been so upset and did her best to console me, deeply confused as to why I had reacted so strongly. Here lied a very poignant metaphor reflecting my self-generated familial separation. The pivotal phrase being "self-generated".

As expected, everyone else arrived that evening. The betrothed couple, her loquacious Manhattan family, friends of the bride and groom and my step family including three children belonging to my step sister, all under the age of 9.

The truth is, I hardly know my step brothers and sister- and, for that matter, my mother. Frankly, I felt guilty even being included in the whole wedding extravaganza as my step father organized and paid for everything. Prior to the trip, I was apprehensive knowing that I would be spending more than a few hours with these people. This was no obligatory Christmas dinner. This was a retreat.

The weekend ensued with no further bouts of uncontrollable crying and Cat's Cradle stayed by my side, keeping my company as I tackled cordial conversations with strangers and family members alike. I felt strangely stronger after reading of yet another Bokonon concept called a "karass". A karass is a thing. A noun. It relates to the people that we find ourselves connected to, however, "ignores national, institutional, occupational, familial, and class boundaries". It is described by Bokonon in a simple and abstract way, "'If you find your life tangled up with somebody else's life for no very logical reasons...that person may be a member of your karass'". I liked this concept instantaneously. It resonated with my general feelings of muddled family relations and catered to my resistance to claiming any real role in the step family. Perhaps some of the people at the wedding were part of my karass, and perhaps not. My inclination was to think that none of them really fit the criteria due to the documented, well-founded reasons we had all been brought together- years ago up until last weekend. There is family, there are friends, mentors, lovers- and there are those people that are part of our lives for unexplainable reasons. Those people share some sort of common thread, whether weak or strong, and they are a part of our existence. They are in our karass.

Flying back north over the same coastline I had just a few days prior, I reflected on these thoughts concerning my weekend and the family members who had shared the experience with me. We had laid lazily in hammocks, stood together on the rocky beach as Jeff and Jen were married, road ATV's on dusty paths, climbed up waterfalls and drank beer at night under cabanas, laughing freely while monkeys howled in the dark. I nodded to the stoic island mountains and luminescent sea and felt much more connected to them than I did before. Perhaps I had been intrinsically linked to the grandiose scene all along.

My body aching from the weekend's activities, I took a deep breath and let my muscles relax. My head leaned against the window and I read the last pages of Cat's Cradle. After the earth has been effectively destroyed by a deadly, frozen substance called ice-nine, the protagonist has succumbed to living underground with a few members of his karass- people that had little to no connection to his life prior to the events that sparked the Armageddon. He has found that his capability for love has all but disappeared as the people he had previously loved have all died. He is left to live a rather dire life surrounded by disjointed souls. Somewhat counteractively, I found solace in the promise of life that I felt when looking out at the Costa Rican coastline. I would go on and build upon my karass, picking up people as I went along, but perhaps nothing is as sacred as the people who are, for better or worse, inescapable. There are magic occurrences- the ones that make us feel alive and somewhat special- and then there are deep seeded hurt feelings, broken connections and there is tiredness. I felt tired. And I felt good.