Dispatches from Lalaland (Part I)

From Iceland to America; or, being tossed into the basin

Jan 23, 2023

The year is 2013, or 2018, or maybe even 2023, but it doesn’t really matter—the point is, you’re traversing time zones, going back in time, and it’s well-past midnight at your final destination.

You were supposed to be here seven hours ago but were delayed in Iceland en route from Paris, courtesy of a budget airline that will surely go bankrupt in a few years time. The ticket was cheap, and so here you are, en route to see your father, hurtling through space and time some 30,000 feet up in the air.

You’ve been up in the air for a while now, have already witnessed the white caps of the English Channel and the volcanic tundra of Iceland and the sunset—or was it the sunrise?—over the glaciers in Greenland. You’ve seen the contours of an arctic storm brewing somewhere near Saskatchewan, but at this present moment in time you’re careening towards the earth at a speed you cannot fathom; you look out the window to calm your nerves and bear witness to the emerging electric haze of the megalopolis known as L.A.

“Flight attendants, please prepare for landing,” the captain says. You gaze through the porthole at the sprawl of electric lights dominating the landscape. It looks as if a demi-god has removed millions of Christmas tree lights and scattered the strings across the night’s darkness of the Los Angeles basin.

You press your nose to the airplane window to marvel at the endless traffic, long, slithering lines of mellow yellows and exit-sign reds that snake across the rivers of concrete. From on high, even the speeding black, white, and yellow Ferraris with custom rims and tinted windows look nothing more than slow-motion fireflies trying to get home. Rivulets of red break-lights taper off onto exit ramps, marking a clear divide between the actual city of Los Angeles and the sickly yellow gloom of its endless freeways.

You sit back in your chair and try to relax because you dread the take-off and the landing. You can feel the stranger’s knees in the small of your back who’s been bonking you for most of the flight.

As the aircraft’s landing wheels emerge from their metallic cocoons, groaning into existence, the large-kneed college kid sitting behind you begins speaking to the older man sitting next to him, taking it upon himself to explain the geographic features of L.A.

“You see how it’s all black out there, up north?” he explains. “That’s the Santa Monica Mountains. To the east is the San Fernando Valley. The west is the Pacific Ocean.”

“I’ve lived here all my life, kid,” the elder says. “But thanks for the refresher. I’m so glad to be back. Can’t wait to take a drive in my new beamer on the PCH.”

As the plane descends, the college kid continues digging his knees into the small of your back. Earlier, he spent a good thirty-minutes using his fold-out tray as a drum kit. His behavior, vocal tenor, and general demeanor strike you as typically American: the surrounding environment must acclimate to our desires, needs, and comforts, not the other way around, and the reason you’re particularly put-off by this is because part of him exists in you, too.

“So, I have to ask: when did you make your first million?” he asks the elder.

“When I was twenty-five. But I’ve made fifty million here, fifteen million there. It’s not about the money, though. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah. The journey, right?”

“Totally. You seem like a smart kid. Let me give you some financial advice …”

You pull out your notepad to note down their conversation. You can sense it might be useful to you in later years. You write down the conversation verbatim:

“I mean. I’m a smart guy, you know? I just trained myself well. They hired me and said, ‘You’re a smart guy, we could use you.’ Nobody understood what I was doing at the time, back when I was first investing. Keep it simple. That’s my motto. People overlook the obvious all the time.”

You’ve been engrossed enough in the financier’s loud voice to forget about the plane landing. As it slows to a halt in front of the gate, the engines shut off and the massive metallic tube is filled with the click-clack of hundreds of seat-belts becoming undone. The most frantic passengers amongst you stand up from their seats as if it might change anything. Their stress is palpable and for the families with multiple children understandable, but it’s past midnight now, and the seven-hour delay means nobody is making any of their connections.

The disembodied voice of the financier speaks more quickly now, as if his time is running out: "I'm not joking. Do it. I've got like 30% of my wealth invested in mostly long stuff: long Apple, long American Airlines, long Hawaiian airlines …”

You stop writing for a moment to ponder why this successful financier would take a red-eye flight on a budget airline that doesn’t even offer business class, but the answer will remain a mystery to you, even if what he says next answers a different question:

“My cousin went to MIT. I went to Stanford. He sold his company for $385 million. His second company for a billion. But he's not a greedy guy. He doesn't care. As for my daughter, she’s a math gal. I raised her to be smart and work hard. You just gotta be a little smarter and better than the rest of them. She helps companies figure out where to put their money. Tax free zones, you know, not to get screwed. They don't pay her too much, though, only about one hundred thousand dollars. But it’s a good start. You can do it. Just go for it is my advice. Then you’ll shine. But also be humble. Where did you say you’re studying again?”

“UCLA,” the college kid says as he unbuckles his seatbelt, stands up, and proceeds to grabs the top of your headrest as he exits his row, jangling you backwards and forwards with total disregard for other human life.

“Shit, man. I gotta take a piss,” he jumps up and down in the aisle, almost bonking an elderly woman in the face with his shoulder-bag. “So what were you doing in Paris?” he asks the alleged millionaire. You are prepared to write the answer down:

“My girlfriend is in quantum mechanics. She's pretty young. She's French. She's going to get her PhD at MIT. I'm actually flying her back to Boston in a few weeks.”

“Hell yeah, man. French girls are sexy.”

“There are benefits to being divorced,” the financier laughs. “Here’s my card. And just remember, stay hungry and humble, kid. But also, be just a little bit better than all the rest of them.”

You finish taking notes and exit the plane, entering a labyrinthine hallway of stark-white antiseptic walls void of any advertising at all, which you find surprising.

Upon arrival in the customs hall, however, you are confronted by the first of many identical advertisements throughout the airport, a recruitment poster for US Customs and Border Protection, a horizontal triptych of two white men sandwiching an ethnically ambiguous woman in the middle, offering you three prospective career choices: DEFENDER / PROTECTOR / GUARDIAN, with a hashtagged question just below: #Areyouwilling?

“No, sir, I am not French,” I tell the official at the customs booth.

“But you were born there?”

“Yes.”

He looks tired and angry and his outfit is too tight. His collar is squeezing his blood-red neck and his shirt looks painted onto his massive belly. “So you’re not French, but you live in France. Why?” he asks genuinely.

“I’ve lived there for a decade,” you reply.

“Sir, that isn’t what I asked you,” he raises his voice and fidgets in his squeaky seat. “I’m going to ask you one more time, sir: why do you live in France?”

“I’m a writer and a teacher in Paris. I like it over there.”

“Good. Was that so hard?” He stamps your passport. “I don’t know why anyone would want to live over there, though. Welcome back to the USA.”