Me, at Game 2 of Braves/Dodgers NLDS. Still smiling. Hadn’t tried getting home yet.
There ought to be an age at which a man stops confusing being cheap with being resourceful. Apparently, sixty-seven isn’t it.
I’ve written before about my trips to Los Angeles. My daughter lives there, which makes every other reason for visiting the City of Angels secondary. You could put the World Series, the Olympics, and an all-you-can-eat dumpling festival on the same block, and being with Katie would still be the reason I come. The dumplings would simply help me stay longer.
Sunny Southern California has also become a getaway from the rigors of caregiving. I love my wife, but anybody who’s done it knows that loving somebody doesn’t make the responsibilities lighter. Sometimes you need a little distance to catch your breath. Flying back and forth from Lexington every couple of months, I’ve come to think of California as a second home, albeit one where I haven’t figured out how anybody affords the first one.
The weather, as you know, is usually glorious. You’ve got the beach, the mountains, and enough ethnic food to keep an adventurous eater looking for more. NFL Football comes on at 10 a.m. on Sundays. There are festivals, concerts, and sporting events practically every time you turn around. On this particular visit, the Braves and Dodgers were playing in the National League Division Series.
As a Reds fan, I don’t get many opportunities to watch postseason baseball. Usually by October, I’m available to rake leaves and carve pumpkins. So I figured I’d give this a try.
Ticketmaster—which by the way is still holding on to my postponed Barry Manilow tickets—was surprisingly cooperative. Plenty of good seats were available, which suggested that two consecutive World Series championships might have left Dodger fans a little jaded. Apparently, winning gets old. I’d be happy to conduct that experiment in Cincinnati.
Getting a ticket was easy. Getting myself to the stadium required considerably more imagination.
Armed with a senior citizen’s Metro pass, I intended to cross one of the most densely populated metropolitan areas in America for thirty-five cents. There was a subway connection to Union Station, followed by the free Dodger Stadium Express. On paper, it looked almost elegant.
Unfortunately, the paper neglected to mention the thirty-minute walk from my house to the Metro station in hundred-degree heat to begin the journey.
I could have called an Uber. Instead, I set off on foot, because somewhere in my overheated brain, spending money on transportation would have invalidated the entire expedition. By the time I reached the station, I had achieved the moisture content of a steamed dumpling.
Yes, Los Angeles has a subway. You might not know that from looking at the freeways. My trip to Union Station took about an hour, with only one transfer—also free, a detail I found disproportionately satisfying.
Riding public transportation can be humbling. The ride came with plenty of people watching. Some appeared to be without a home, others were elderly, and a few smelled as though they’d brought the dispensary along. For purposes of this discussion, elderly means older than me. I reserve the right to adjust that definition annually.
At Union Station, the Dodger Express folks offered free ice cream. The catch was that they wouldn’t let you take it on the bus. Offering a frozen dairy product to people right before boarding felt like a test somebody in a psychology department should have been supervising.
Eventually, I reached Dodger Stadium, where a hot dog and Coke cost me twenty-two dollars. Having crossed Los Angeles for thirty-five cents, I promptly surrendered my savings to a wiener. Somehow, this didn’t bother me nearly as much as paying for an Uber would have.
The game itself was terrific. On one side sat a rabid Braves fan, apparently determined to provide Atlanta with all the vocal support it wasn’t getting from the rest of the stadium. I admire passion, but there’s something to be said for occasionally checking whether the forty people glaring at you are enjoying your contribution.
On the other side, a couple appeared to be attempting to sample every concession Dodger Stadium offered. Every time I looked over, somebody was unwrapping something. Hey, where can I get that meal plan?
Atlanta won 3–2, but the outcome wasn’t settled until the end. Nobody left early, including me. I’d paid to see postseason baseball, and I intended to get every last out.
This was where my financial judgment began collecting interest.
Getting down from the upper deck involved shuffling through hot, stuffy corridors with thousands of other people who’d had the same excellent idea. There was nowhere to go except wherever the person in front of you went, which was generally six inches forward and then nowhere again. I had come to California to catch my breath. Now I was holding it as the stench and germs enveloped me.
Finally outside, I found the bus line back—and fortunately it appeared to be moving. That was encouraging until I realized it also kept going, snaking around the stadium as though we were touring the exterior. Fifteen minutes of loading later, I boarded a bus with standing room only.
Remember when people gave up their seats for the old guy? Well, I am now the old guy, and apparently that custom has been discontinued. Naturally, I wouldn’t have taken the seat had somebody offered. I’d have waved them off and insisted I was fine. But I would have appreciated the opportunity to lie.
I’ve spent enough years covering Kentucky games to understand postgame traffic. I wasn’t expecting our driver to part the Red Sea. Still, the word “Express” was beginning to feel like something the marketing department had slipped past legal.
Down the hills and around the turns we crawled, with me rocking back and forth among my fellow standees. Despite all my yoga, my balance ain’t that great. Apparently, holding a pose in a quiet room doesn’t fully prepare you for a downtown LA turn with a stranger’s elbow in your ribs. I clung to whatever was available and tried not to become somebody else’s problem. Luckily, the Dodger Dog stayed down.
Back at Union Station, we waited for trains. Then we waited on trains. The cars were packed, the intervals felt interminable, and even after boarding, we’d sit at a station long enough for me to wonder what in the hell we were waiting for.
By the time I finally reached my stop, it was pitch black. The condo was still 1.3 miles away.
An Uber would have made sense. My feet hurt, I was tired, and I had already demonstrated everything that needed demonstrating about the affordability of public transportation.
I walked anyway.
Somewhere along that last stretch, I thought about how often Katie must wonder whether her father has any sense. I come all this way to see her, then spend an evening sweating across the city to watch two teams I don’t even root for. Still, I’d checked off a bucket list item, experienced a little of Los Angeles beyond the beach, and acquired something to complain about. For a man who writes Huang’s Whinings, that’s a fairly productive evening.
When I finally got back to the condo, I took off my shoes and did the math one more time.
Seventy cents, for a six-hour round trip.
I’d tell you what my time was worth, but apparently we’ve established that already.
Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist, military veteran, and award-winning author. He currently serves as a columnist for Nolan Group Media and invites readers to follow him on social media @KYHuangs. His latest book is Whining for Posterity, available on Amazon.
