Part One—Why Birmingham?

When I decided to leave Los Angeles, most people were surprised. I had lived in LA for so long; how could I leave they asked. I was a California girl; I wouldn't fit in anywhere else they said. When people asked where I was going, I always received the same response: Why Birmingham?

Why Birmingham indeed. I could have moved anywhere. I can operate my nonprofit Blue Faery and my freelance business from any location. I still need additional income so that issue was definitely a factor. I considered many other cities including Atlanta, Charleston, Portland, Fayetteville, Washington DC, and more. I didn't want to move any farther north than DC, which is already cold enough. The Midwest didn't appeal to me either. I wasn't going to move to Kansas, which is where I was born. I eventually crossed the Northwest off my list because my husband wasn't too enthusiastic about Eugene, where I found a viable job. Also, I want to live in Gold Beach, Oregon, but it isn't feasible yet unless I want to become a fisherman. (No way!) I gave up on DC when I realized the cost of living was higher there than it is in LA. The shortlist became a handful of cities in the South. The only one that made the cut was Birmingham.

Why Birmingham? Well, I'm from Birmingham, sort of. I went to high school there, the School of Fine Arts is what the locals call it. It's a small performing arts charter school for grades 7 – 12, and my closest friends are the ones I made in high school. So I know many people who still live in and around the Birmingham area. It makes sense to go where I know the most people. I also have family in Alabama. I am close to my aunt and cousin, and they live about 80 miles outside 'the Ham.'

The funny thing is 'I'm from Birmingham' is one of the few acceptable answers to the Why Birmingham question. I imagine a few others would be: I have family members/parents who are ill; I am married to someone from Birmingham, and he/she insisted we move there, or I was kidnapped and forced across the state line against my will. I don't think saying you landed your dream job would be believable because Birmingham isn't the place people go for their dream jobs. On the top of their bucket lists, no one writes "Moving to Alabama." I mean, no one.

If I had told people I was moving to Oregon, Colorado, or Montana (as a high school friend of mine did last year), I don't think they would have questioned it for two reasons:

Those states are still in the western part of the U.S. so they don't seem like they're on another planet.
Those states are well known for their beautiful scenery and lower cost of living compared to California, which is beautiful too but far from cheap.

People don't understand moving to Alabama. One of my Angeleno friends heard Birmingham and thought I meant England. Seriously. And she knew I was from the South. I thought it was just Angelenos, but it's not. I've been in Birmingham for one month, and I get the same question from people here. When they realize I have moved from Los Angeles to Birmingham, their brow furrows before they ask why Birmingham or why Alabama?

I was here two days when one of my closest friends took me out to dinner. After our drinks arrived, he said he had been waiting to ask me something face to face. Something he didn't want to ask in an email or text. I had no idea what he was about to say. He looked me in the eye and said, "Why Birmingham?"

Part Two—My Favorite Leather Jacket

When I was sixteen years old, my mother bought me a leather jacket for my birthday. Though many of my peers received cars at that age, I knew my mother couldn't afford to buy me one. So when she asked me what I wanted, I selected a brown leather bomber jacket that cost almost $200, which was a lot of money for us. I wasn't sure she would buy it for me, but she did.

I wore my leather jacket almost every day rain or shine. It never occurred to me not to wear it in the rain; after all, it was my favorite jacket. From the soft brown leather to the inside lining that showed a map of the world, I loved every square inch. I kept my favorite jacket for eight years before I decided to give it up.

By that time, my sister Adrienne was ten years old and living with me in Los Angeles. She begged me for the jacket. I refused to give it to her. It was falling apart: the lining was hanging on by mere threads, the leather was ruined from constant exposure to water, and the zipper was useless. I should have given Adrienne my jacket, but I didn't. I thought it was better for her to have a newer, nicer coat. Instead, I donated my favorite leather jacket to Goodwill and never saw it again.

I've been living in Birmingham for two months, and it's as if I've been reunited with my favorite leather jacket. The city feels warm and familiar even if I still need GPS to get to most places. Like me, Birmingham has grown up so we are getting reacquainted. We are older, wiser, perhaps damaged, but we know each other. We have a history together. We have memories.

Today I possess many leather jackets: one red trench coat, two motorcycle, four different blazers in different colors, etc. But none of my current jackets are more than ten years old and few of them hold any memories. They make me look good and keep me warm, but they don't feel like home. Maybe that's the keyword: home. Birmingham feels like my favorite leather jacket because Birmingham feels like home.

Now if I could find my original jacket ... wouldn't that be something?

Part Three—The Traffic

When you make a major life decision, sometimes there's a trigger, and one day you snap. Other times, an accumulation of bad stuff forces your hand. Either way, you realize to maintain your sanity you have to change your environment. I had many reasons for wanting to leave Los Angeles, but near the top of my list was The Traffic. I know Birmingham natives think Highway 280 is the worst traffic ever. It's not. You have no idea what real traffic is until you've lived in Los Angeles and experienced the 405 freeway during rush hour, which goes from 4 p.m. - 7:30 p.m. When Southerners complain about traffic (including Atlanta folks), I laugh because it's like Angelenos complaining about the humidity. Until you've lived somewhere where X is the worst, you have no clue how good you've got it.

According to a 2014 Fiscal Times survey, Los Angeles has the worst traffic in the United States followed by San Francisco, Honolulu, Seattle, and San Jose. Three out of the top five cities are located in California, four of them are on the West Coast, and the other one is on an island. New York and Washington DC are not in the top five. The average commute time is longer in those two cities, but for overall traffic congestion, the City of Angels wins. In fact, congestion rose two percentage points from 2012 – 2013. So it's not my imagination: LA traffic is getting worse, not better.

Traffic brings out my inner beast. When my sister Adrienne was alive, I did my best not to curse in front of her with one exception. When I was driving, all bets were off. Every curse word she ever learned was probably from me in the car in traffic going nuts because yet another asshole cut me off. When I began studying the philosophy of yoga, I would listen to the Yoga Sutras in my car in an effort to calm down. Chanting the Sutras helped but it wasn't enough to lower my blood pressure.

Last fall, I realized if I spent one more day in LA traffic, I was going to hurt someone. I arrived home and decided to figure out how much time I've spent driving in my car over the past 24 years in Los Angeles.* I was shocked by the answer: I have spent 365 days of my life in LA traffic. Okay, maybe it wasn't always bumper to bumper, but still, I've spent one year of my life in my car. I'm never going to get that year back. What good is beautiful weather if you're always trapped in your car trying to get somewhere?

Many years ago, a high school friend was visiting me, and we were stuck in traffic at 2 a.m. She marveled at it. I still remember her asking where are all these people going at two o'clock in the morning. I remember thinking they're trying to get home from the club just like we are. When I was looking for apartments in Birmingham, I had the funniest conversation with a property manager:

Me: "Does Birmingham have Costco now?" (I like my monthly Costco trips.)

Her: "Oh yeah, but it's all the way in Hoover."

I remembered the basic layout of the city and knew Hoover wasn't far from where she was so I thought her answer was odd.

Me: "How many miles ... no how long does it take to get there from where you're at?" (In LA, distance means nothing; it's all about time.)

Her: "About 15 minutes."

I laughed so hard I almost fell off my chair.

Me: "I'm so sorry. I'm not laughing at you but you have to understand I'm coming from Los Angeles. It can take me 15 minutes to get to my local Costco and it's only two miles away."

Her: "Oh yeah, I see. Well, we think it's a haul. Ya know, ya gotta get on that Interstate and all."

The idea of getting on that Interstate and driving a little over 10 miles in 15 minutes sounded like a gift from heaven. She was correct. From my apartment, I can drive to Costco in 15 – 25 minutes depending on traffic, which is usually non-existent. The funny thing is if you ask someone in LA how long it takes to get anywhere, the standard answer is 20 minutes, which is complete bullshit 95 percent of the time.

Do I miss the warm LA weather? Yeah, I do. I hate being cold. As I write this blog, I'm wearing three layers while sitting inside my apartment with the heat on.

Do I ever want to drive in LA traffic again? Never.

*My LA Traffic Calculation: allow one hour for each day of the year, which is a conservative figure. One hour x 365 days = 365 hours. Now multiply 365 hours by the number of years you've lived in LA. For me, that's 365 hours x 24 years = 8760 hours. Divide that answer by 24 because there are 24 hours in one day. 8760/24 = 365 days.

Part Four—Arizona and Texas

When I was planning my move to Birmingham, I knew I would drive my car across the country. I mean, how else was it going to get there? However, many people were surprised I drove alone. Less than a week before my December 2 departure date, my ex-best friend's younger sister's husband offered to fly to Los Angeles and drive with me. We had met one time over four years ago. Now as strange as that may sound to some people, he was being a Southern gentleman. Polite, courteous, and thoughtful. He is also a man, and most men cannot conceive of a woman driving 2000 miles alone as if we are helpless creatures on the open road. When one of my male Facebook friends found out I had driven by myself, he said, "You are one ballsy chick."

I don't think I was being ballsy; I was being practical. I had to get my car, my cat, and myself to Birmingham, and my husband wasn't able to come with me. So I did what needed to be done. I think most women in my situation would have done the same thing. Get in the car and drive.

I planned the trip around our cat and spread the driving over four days to give me and her a break. When I was looking at hotels I wanted four things: pets accepted with no fee (two hotels lied about their fees), free parking, free Wi-Fi, and free continental breakfast. I didn't want to pay more than $200 per night though that proved impossible in Texas. Worst hotel room, highest price tag.

Day One: Tuesday, December 2

Because I had waited for the moving company to pick up the trailer packed with my stuff, I didn't leave Los Angeles until 5:15 p.m. In addition to rush hour traffic, Mother Nature picked that afternoon to assist the California drought by drowning Los Angeles in water. I drove for three hours in the pouring rain before I made it out of the city. During that time, our cat Beatrix cried non-stop because (I assume) she thought she was going to the vet. Once the rain eased up, the last four hours were uneventful. We arrived in Tempe, Arizona, after 1 a.m. I was exhausted and hungry; Beatrix was confused and hungry. But we were no longer in California and that was progress.

Day Two: Wednesday, December 3

Because I didn't make it to Tucson as I had originally planned, Day 2 became my longest day of driving: 12 hours. However, that morning was beautiful. I ended up on U.S. Highway 70, which took me through Globe, Arizona. Suddenly, every time Adrienne and I had visited my dad and stepmother in Arizona flashed through my mind. I remembered when my Honda CRX died in Globe, but eventually started again. I remembered how much Adrienne loved Arizona, how she wanted a house there one day for "hell-raising bonfires." I had forgotten how beautiful those red rocks are. More than anything, I remembered how much I love driving on the open road. The last few years in Los Angeles I dreaded getting into my car to go anywhere. But in the early morning sun among the red rocks and green cacti without another car in sight, I wanted to kiss the sky. Even Beatrix relaxed and fell asleep in her carrier barely lifting her head when I stopped for gas.

If you want to see the most boring part of New Mexico, drive on Interstate 10. Those five hours were dull as dirt because that's the only thing I saw: dirt. One time I asked Adrienne what she thought about Kansas and she replied flat, flat, flat. The same could be said for the lower part of New Mexico. Thank god for Pandora.

I drove into El Paso, Texas, around 6 p.m., only it wasn't a dirty ranch town anymore. El Paso has grown up. I was stuck in traffic for about thirty minutes, but it gave me time to marvel at the beautiful lights and wonder how much they cost ($8.9 million!). I wouldn't say El Paso is sophisticated, but there is definitely more money in that city now than there was twenty years ago.

Some things, however, don't change. West Texas is still a black hole of nothingness, especially at night. For one hour, I lost all satellite signals and could not listen to Pandora or the radio. I would have talked to Beatrix, but she was still sleeping. Instead, I looked at the stars through the window, drank in their beauty, and appreciated the stillness of the night.

I arrived in Stanton, Texas, after 10 p.m. and was pleased to see a small cafe still open. However, when I walked in, only the lights inside the convenience store side of the building were on. The cafe was dark. A man had walked in behind me and we asked in unison if the cafe was open. The young woman behind the register shook her head and said it closed at two. The man snapped, “Then turn the outside light off!” Then he stomped out.

"Why isn't the cafe open?" I asked.

"The owner can't find anyone to work the dinner shift so he gave up and only opens for lunch."

Her answer made no sense to me.

"Are you telling me—and don't take this the wrong way—that every person your age in this town is employed?"

She laughed.

"No, I'm telling you that most people my age in this town refuse to work because mommy and daddy pay for everything."

We continued our conversation for another five minutes. She is a single mom with two kids, and she dropped out of college to work full time. Meanwhile, her brother, who has a child too, attends the University of Texas. Their mother pays all his bills including his child support. Despite the resentment in her voice, I saw a strong, powerful woman full of potential standing in front of me.

"I know it's hard now, but you're better off because you can take care of yourself. You'll find a way to get back to school. You're a survivor."

She grinned and thanked me. Meanwhile, with no other food options in sight, I bought a granola bar for dinner that night. The longest and hardest day of driving was over.

Part Five—Sob Fest 2014

Day Three: Thursday, December 4

For the first time in almost a week, I slept in. The drive from to Shreveport, Louisiana, was estimated to be seven hours so I took my time that morning. I woke up feeling rested and relaxed until Beatrix went missing. With an army of three: a maintenance man, a maid, and myself, we found her stuck under and behind a nook near the head of the bed. Her morning didn't begin well, but mine did though I was still starving from the night before.

While getting gas in Big Spring, a small town 20 miles east of Stanton, I noticed a busy restaurant across the street. Screw fuel for my car, I needed fuel for my body. I reminded myself: don't be too picky. When I walked in, I saw a ridiculous Christmas tree with bandanas as ornaments and a cowboy hat as a star. Regardless of the menu, I was going to eat there just to say I did.

I sat down and ordered a huge breakfast: water, coffee, orange juice, two eggs over easy, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and sourdough toast. One patron commented how someone so small could have such a big appetite. I smiled. Then, I called my dad. We usually talk every week, but ever since I had decided to move to Alabama, things had been tense between us. That morning, however, we had a good conversation. My dad knew exactly where I was and being the great storyteller he is, he recounted tales about his time in Texas. He also warned me about the dreadful traffic in Dallas. I laughed. When you've survived LA traffic, every other place seems like a cakewalk.

Feeling satiated by food and conversation, I was back on the road by noon. I was driving along, listening to Pandora, when something happened. I don't remember what triggered it. Maybe it was a song or a road sign. Who knows. I began crying but it wasn't your average cry. Oh no. It was Sob Fest 2014. As thoughts filled my head, tears poured down my cheeks.

I'm leaving LA?

No, you idiot, you left LA.

I left my husband behind. What will people think?

Screw what they think; it's between you and him.

I left Adrienne.

No, you left her body. She is always with you.

I left friends.

How many friends did you really have there? Your closest friends live in other cities.

I left my communities: yoga, wine, Ladies Night Out.

You will build new communities.

I left Burbank. I love Burbank. I left our house on Valley St.

You and Corey were sick of that house. You couldn't afford to buy in LA. It was time to leave. You will make a new home in your new apartment.

Andrea: embrace change. Change is good. Change is necessary for growth.

My mother used to say to me, “It will all be alright in the end. If it's not alright, it's not the end.” I kept telling myself it wasn’t the end.

This non-stop inner dialogue went on for hours accompanied by waterworks. I swear I got dehydrated. I ran out of tissues so I used napkins. When I ran out of napkins, I stopped to get more. I don't ever remember running into a convenience store before and saying sorry, I don't need anything except for a dozen napkins. I'm sure the cashier took one look at me and thought that girl's a hot mess.

When Adrienne died, many people told me one indication you are moving past your grief is after crying about your loss, you feel better. I have never felt better after crying about Adrienne. Not once. Bittersweet, maybe, but not better.

The Sob Fest was different. I thought it wouldn't stop, but after about three hours, it did. The tears dried up. The inner voice shut up. My body had purged dozens of pent-up emotions. I felt better. Empty but better. Exhausted yet energized. Something had shifted inside of me. I don't know why it took driving over 1200 miles for me to release those feelings, but it worked. I still cry but the tears don't last long, and the inner voice never shows up. She has been silenced. I like to think she died somewhere in the middle of Texas.

I laughed when I breezed through the non-existent Dallas traffic just before five o'clock. When I became lost in Shreveport, I didn't panic. I had booked a B&B in the historic district, and they all look the same in the dark. When I found the place and entered the front door, I gasped. The owners, who were not home, should have warned me how much they love the holidays. I entered a Christmas Wonderland on steroids. Lights, ornaments, nutcrackers, poinsettias. I had never seen so much Christmas crap packed into one place.

Beatrix spent the entire night knocking tchotchkes off every piece of furniture. By morning, the floor was littered with stuff, but nothing was broken. She loved 2439 Fairfield. For my breakfast dessert, I had a fried blackberry pie. When I saw it, I laughed and took a picture. Yeah, I was back in the South. This Steel Magnolia was almost home.

Day Four: Friday, December 5

The last day of driving was somewhat uneventful. With a belly full of blackberry pie and the finish line in sight, the 6.5-hour drive from Shreveport to Birmingham felt like nothing. Since I couldn’t move in until the following day, I spent my first night in Birmingham in a hotel in Homewood near my new apartment. For the first time since Adrienne died, I felt like I had figured out how to move forward with my life. How ironic that I had to move back to Birmingham, the city where Adrienne was born, to start my life over.

If I had known how well things were going to turn out, I would have driven a lot faster.

Leaving Los Angeles was originally posted on my old blog Pondering hope, happiness, and wisdom in January 2015

Leaving Los Angeles