It was hot when I went to bed. It was hot when I woke up. Like the relentless heat, I also fell asleep and woke up to the smell and sound of motos whizzing by, but I do not let them prevent me from opening the balcony door to let in some cool air. Mental note to self: Do not take in this morning air. Do not take in a deep breath. The feeling of freshness is just an illusion, like menthol cigarettes. It is 6:30AM, early enough to wander the streets sin crema after too much time spent in the sun yesterday, so I wash my face, drip cold water on my burns, and venture out for a walk. Only the locals are up, sweeping the sidewalks in front of their shops, most too sleepy to acknowledge my presence much less have the energy to shout “come take a look at my crafts, lady.” The number of policia patrolling the streets surprises me. They seem bored, but I am hoping for civil unrest. It seems long overdue. I’ve been coming to the island every couple of years since 2004. During each visit I see more policia, fewer bicycles, more cell phones, fewer mujeres wearing traditional dresses. McDonalds and Starbucks have moved in, but my favorite panadaria is still the only one in town. There seem to be huge disparities here in health and financial wellbeing of the island’s various inhabitants. Tourism is the foundation of the economy and without it the island could support about ¼ (I made up this number) of its current population. The people who serve the tourists make just enough to get by, something I think about when I calculate tips—$2 is 20%, but that doesn’t seem enough. If I leave more, will I be flaunting my money?--questions I find myself asking more and more often, even at home. While I’ve always felt rich, even as a child when we had "candle nights" and into my graduate school years when my income fell below the poverty line, I now make more than I feel comfortable with, which isn't all that much. Making money is a blessing and a burden. The change in culture here bothers me a little, but I’m not exactly sure why. After all, the people seem happy, and when I randomly sample folks and ask them whether or not they are happy, they answer “si” with a smile. I’m reminded of an experiment that I discuss in class when I want to teach the troubles of introspection as a method for understanding the mind. The key finding is that when asked first how many dates they’ve gone on in the past month, then whether or not they are happy, fewer students report being happy than when only asked whether or not they are happy. It seems cruel to remind people of their troubles, so I don’t attempt to replicate this finding in my street version. There will be no civil unrest today, no uprising against the industry that is slowly wiping out the natural resources, devouring all available square foot of land, and filling the air with pollution. If la policia do not stop them, any revolutionaries that might exist on this island will definitely be detained by the men wearing camo who carry guns the size of rocket launchers and are hauled around standing up in the back of trucks that move up and down the main street. This is not Kansas; I am in Mexico. I make my way down to the square. It’s empty. No carts, no vendors, no informacion clerks who station themselves by the dock where the ferry lands. They draw in unsuspecting tourists who are seeking directions and try to sell them overpriced island adventures—glass bottom boat rides, snorkeling trips, and parasailing—looking very official in their white collared shirts and uniformed pants. Last night, the square was full and music was playing and elders were dancing and los ninos were alternating between kickball and some strange game that involved holding hands and forming a circle and singing songs and chasing each other. The game distracted me from the mosquitos that were apparently eating me alive. I’m having a wonderful time here, but between the burns and the bites and my shallow, forced breaths, I’m ready to go home. There are no mosquitos in LA, I can ask girlfriends to rub crema on my back, and the smog blows over the Santa Monica mountains into the Valley, perpetuating my illusion of fresh air.
The Decemberists, one of my favorite bands, describe LA beautifully:
There is a city by the sea
A gentle company
I don’t suppose you want to
And as it tells its sorry tale
In harrowing detail
Its hollowness will haunt you
Its streets and boulevards
Orphans and oligarchs it hears
A plaintive melody
Truncated symphony
An ocean’s garbled vomit on the shore,
Los Angeles, I’m yours
Oh ladies, pleasant and demure
Sallow-cheeked and sure
I can see your undies
And all the boys you drag about
An empty fallow fount
From Saturdays to Mondays
You hill and valley crowd
Hanging your trousers down at heel
This is the realest thing
As ancient choirs sing
A dozen blushing cherubs wheel above
Los Angeles, my love
Oh what a rush of ripe élan
Languor on divans
Dalliant and dainty
But oh, the smell of burnt cocaine
The dolor and decay
It only makes me cranky
Oh great calamity,
Ditch of iniquity and tears
How I abhor this place
Its sweet and bitter taste
Has left me wretched, retching on all fours
Los Angeles, I’m yours
----
Ah, LA, I both love and loathe you.
A downer? Maybe. But, like all moments, it's merely a moment and this one will pass and other, likely more upbeat one will come. For now, I'm off to do some science that will hopefully influence policy and shift social norms. Once in a while, I find myself asking why, after all, people are happy... at least that's what they say. I answer my own question, immediately, and it involves conducting a version of that cruel experiment--now that you've read this post, are you happy? If the answer is no, or less so than before reading the post, you're like me. Let's fix this problem. Let's get active.
