Malibu, California - March 28, 2014
Mission accomplished. Loo Loo and I woke up early. With no one around I let Loo Loo out without a
leash. She generally just lays outside
until she wakes up. I made myself busy
straightening things up in preparation for our trip back to LA. The bright California
sun had risen and as I looked out the door and Loo Loo was gone. I walked around the Brazilians trailer and
there she was making friends with  |
| Loo Loo's Brazilian friends |
They couldn’t have been nicer. It turns out the bearded, ominous guy is the
oldest, principle driver and leader.
They packed up as Loo Loo and I got organized and gave the two of us a
big wave as they departed for all points north.
But our day was just beginning. First, for some reason which I am sure
physics could explain but I
cannot, I was unable to back up the truck to hitch
onto the trailer. As was my habit, I’d
back up slightly, then jump out of the truck and see how close the ball on my
truck was close the to the hitch. “OK –
six inches back and maybe four inches to the right.” I crank the steering
wheel, back up the required length, jump out of the truck and look. Hmmmm threes inches off to the left. I’d jump back into the truck, adjust the
steering wheel and try again. No, now
I’m four inches to far forward and maybe two inches to the right. I backed up, jumped out, looked, took in the
estimated adjustment, jumped back in, readjusted and then tried again, maybe
forty times. Just could not get it
right. There was another couple in an
Airstream a couple of slots down, who were hitching up at the same time. They seemed to have no problem at all. Pretty soon they were waiting on me because
they could not get by me until I was hitched to my trailer. I kept saying to myself, “Remain calm. You can do this thing.” The problem I keep having is I don’t seem to
be learning from my mistakes. Maybe
there is a life lesson there as well. Finally,
at long last, under extreme duress, through no fault or design of my own the
ball aligns itself over the hitch. If
that is bad enough, I am next headed to the dump station.
 |
| Living Large in Malibu |
The phrase “dump station” has just
got to conjure up a horrible mind picture to anyone with any sensitivity at
all. “I am headed to the dump station.” “Jesus, not the dump station!” I conjured up an image of some crazy high pressure-pumping
going on, along with the opportunity that if things went wrong, sewage might
somehow explode sending jets of your own human sewage into the air or, at
minimum sewage spewing around like a loose fire hose. If the term dump station isn’t bad enough for
you, the water you dump is called “gray water” and black water.” I am certain who ever nicknamed it was trying
to be both descriptive and politically correct, but those terms set off some
pretty bad images as well. The truth is,
at least for me, the dump station is one of the most painless things involving
Airstreams. The idea is just to dump the
water from your sinks, shower and toilets.
It’s all about gravity. You hook
up this flexible pipe to a hole in the ground and then open to values underneath
the Airstream. That’s it. The stuff goes out. I guess if things go wrong it can have
terrible consequences, but I found the job to be much quicker and much easier
than when I heard that dreaded phrase “dump station.” I don’t know. I hope I am not some jinxing myself but all
you do is plug it in and let gravity take over.
So without much trouble, we took
off to Venice at 11:00. The general plan
(and general is generous. The plan is
actually no plan.) was for me to stay with Kat for awhile, the make it over to
Denver and then over to Chicago. That
said I wanted to spend some time with Kat, like two weeks sounds good. We get along just fine. She is busy with her work and I enjoy
Venice. She appreciates that I take care
of her little cottage and Loo Loo and we genuinely have fun together. Its’ great.
So, I am going to
hang out for awhile.
The question is, “What to do with the Airstream?” I had scoped out a storage place near the
airport that charged $150.00 a month. I
decided that I would first drive to the Airstream dealer that I had contacted
regarding the “pings” from the hail. I
looked and they were right off I-10 so I figured I would run over there and
have plenty of time to get back to Kat’s, do some laundry, clean up her place
and meet her at LAX.
 |
| Airstream Los Angeles |
We left Malibu, which is only a
couple miles down the road to Santa Monica, the beginning of I-10. Like many drivers before me, I underestimated
LA Freeways. Its’ deceptive really. You think you are making progress. You, slow
down. You speed up. You stop dead for no
real reason. You get almost up to
speed. With the Airstream, I was enough
of a veteran that I did not push it.
Right lane and stuck with it. It
took a solid hour to get up to Airstream of Los Angeles in San Rafael, California. This place is, or at least should be, The
Mecca for Airstreamers. This is not any
Recreational Vehicle Dealer, like they have in Texas, with a host of RV’s from
different makes and then an Airstream or two.
This place is one gigantic Airstream shrine. An entire dealership totally dedicated to the
Airstream. They had at least fifty
Airstreams for sale. The place is absolutely
pristine. The sliver land yachts are
lined up as if waiting for a military review.
I pulled in and asked for Lisa, the person who had responded to my email
about the hail. She was a smiling happy
30-year old, eager to help. The first
thing I did was get an estimate for the hail damage. The first thing she did was say hi to Loo
Loo. She got Loo Loo out of the truck and
was petting her, walking her around, introducing her to people. Meanwhile she spotted, Earl, the service
guy. A bull of a guy with a vintage
white flattop framing his equally squared head, didn’t take two minutes. “You gotta replace four panels. It’s $1,200 a panel.” “Man,” I said. “Can’t you like pop out the pings with a
suction cup or something?” I asked. I had done some internet research. At least that is what I thought. “Nope” he replied in a matter-of–fact
manner. “Doesn’t work. You gotta replace them. You are looking at $5,000.”
I turn to Lisa. “I’m not ready to do that.” “No problem,” she smiled at me. “I understand. That’s a lot of money.” I had come across repeatedly that Airstream
had created this community of people, this environment that was different that
the normal RVer’s; people who sincerely were nice and looked out for each other
just because they owned this one type of home on wheels. I got that sense in this place and it was a
dealer! These guys are out for the all
mighty buck, right? But Lisa seemed like
she was sincerely a nice person. She
came out of her office. More than willingly to make certain that my
experience was a good one. Even introduced me to Wes, the General Manager, who
chatted me up about where I was from and where I was headed.
“Let me ask you a question,” I
asked Lisa. “Is there anyone you know
who stores these things?” “We are
getting into that,” Lisa replied. “How
much do you charge?” “$185.00 a month.” The outfit I had found near Venice Beach was
going to charge me $150.00 a month and it was a vacant lot surrounded by razor
wire. “That sounds good. Another
question. Does anyone do detailing? You know, cleaning inside and out?” I
asked. “We do,” Lisa answered. “OK, why don’t you detail it for me, too, and
I will leave it with you for two weeks.” “I’ll tell you what,” Lisa said. We’ll wash and wax it and you can keep it
here for nothing.” I couldn’t believe my
ears. Was this the Airstream
mystique? Were just being nice to me
because I was in the club, part of the team?
Or perhaps this really is the right
way to do business? .” A lesson about business and humanity? The Golden rule works. I am not religious (spiritual yes, religious
dogma leaves me cold. More on this
later.), but it seems to me that the Golden Rule works in religion, business
and human interaction. Treat people like
you want to be treated. Airstream own me
over right then thanks to Lisa. “Oh, My
God, that’s great. What do you want me
to do?” I asked. “Just leave it right
there, leave me the keys and come in and we’ll get your information and get Loo
Loo a treat. Ten minutes later we drove
away with my storage problem solved and having made a whole new set of friends.
When we hit the freeway again, I-10
was at a crawl. As we edged toward the
beach I realized it was getting close to 3:00 when Kat arrived from New
York. The main drag in Venice away from
the beach is Lincoln Ave. It was at a
standstill on this Friday afternoon. The
plan was for Loo Loo and I not to leave for the airport from Venice, which is
normally only 20 minutes away until Kat texted a message saying she was on the
ground. She had checked her bag and
figured it would take her at least 20 minutes to get off the plane and gather
up her bag. By the time we pulled up to
Gatto’s cottage, my phone rang. “OK, I’m
here” she cheerily said. “I have my bag
already. It was really quick.” “Oh my God,” I replied. “The traffic is brutal. It will take me at least 40 minutes to get to
you.” “Don’t worry,” Gatto chirped,
“I’ll just jump in a cab.” I was
relieved. I realized that Loo Loo and I
had been on the road for four hours fighting LA traffic the entire time. We parked the truck. Loo Loo was obviously glad to be home and in
anther 50 minutes so was Kat.
That night the three of us returned
to Baby Blues BBQ, dining outside, all happy to be together again and off the
road for a while
No comments:
Post a Comment