As blissful July memories fade into seemingly endless gray–sky mornings, my longing for a listless drive down the Pacific Coast Highway only increases. Already anticipating the chill of Philadelphia winter weather, I know that twenty–degree mornings will make me dream of trading my thick puffer for the cushioned seat and blaring heater of my 2016 Honda Civic.
This is a feeling that I can’t think of a name for, a feeling that I did not anticipate experiencing when leaving California for college. It’s a sort of yearning similar to the one that tugs at my heart when I realize that, if I were home, all I would have to do is glide down to my pantry to choose from an array of snacks, from Trader Joe’s sugar–coated dried mango to peanut butter–filled pretzels. Right now, I can confidently say that the only trace of food in my high–rise dorm room is half a sleeve of saltine crackers, proof of last month’s dining hall–induced food poisoning.
When listing the things that I would miss most in my head as my plane from LAX took off for Philly, my car did not immediately come to mind. But, after just a few weeks of classes, I found myself pining for the familiar grip of my steering wheel and the hum of the air conditioning that spoon–fed the beautiful void of nothingness to my ears. Or, at least, nothing that “mattered”—the past and the future seemed to seep out of the cracked windows as I drove down Ventura, and I was left with the blissful state of my mind at its freest.
When I was given this car by my parents as a junior in high school, my friends told me to name it, as they all had done with their shiny new Subarus that had just barely grazed the streets of the San Fernando Valley. It was almost too easy a task—I knew I would spend so much time in this space, given the constant congestion of traffic on the 101 and my affinity for Zuma Beach. “Helen,” I told them. Her name rolled easily off my tongue.
Although naming a car may seem odd to some, I saw it as a rite of passage. With this car came my first tastes of adulthood. Asking my mom or dad to pick me up from a friend’s house was no longer an issue; I could stay and gossip while munching on Nestle Toll House cookie dough as long as I was home at a reasonable hour. My Van Nuys thrift trips and Studio City Farmers’ Market excursions became more frequent. All the while, the air inside my car was constantly filled with voices of teenage girls attempting to harmonize to “Love On The Brain” by Rihanna—or, in my more idle moments, the sweet sound of Lizzy McAlpine’s “To the Mountains."
I began to traverse and fall in love with the Los Angeles landscape, from the billboards promoting new reality shows on Sunset Boulevard to the palm trees that seemed to grow out of every sidewalk next to a traffic light. After long, sun–soaked afternoons spent in the city or a late–night concert at the Greek Theatre, I always looked forward to the drive home. It was on those 30–to–45 minute drives that I felt most in touch with myself, most in tune with my mind in a place that was enclosed, in a place where I could disregard the happenings of my day, reflect on them, or do a mix of both.
Not only did Helen take me everywhere, but she bore witness to the most pivotal moments of my high school years. My car carries the laughter that accompanies driving four friends to the beach after school on a Friday. It carries the initial tears I shed after my first breakup. It carries my heaves of exhaustion from a long and tedious track practice. It carries the angry lash–outs I experienced when life felt like it wasn’t going my way. It carries the tranquility I so craved whenever I felt scatterbrained and, as I would tell people who inquired, “Just needed to go for a little drive.”
At Penn, I found it difficult to adjust to Helen’s absence. Shoving headphones into my ears and trudging down Locust to my classes does not offer the same sanctuary that the enclosed space of a Honda Civic does. Alone time for collecting thoughts (or letting go of them) became nearly impossible with the bustling population of students convening in dining halls like Houston after their 12 p.m. class and the reality of sharing living spaces with other people.
But, over time, I began to find value in the shared experience that being a college student is. There is solace in knowing that we all, having lost the confinement and comfort of what only we knew as our niche spaces at home, have to come together in this shared environment to discover new sources of peace. We spend time becoming familiar with the new space that we are all a part of, and then eventually figure out what works for each and every one of us. Many of my mornings consist of a short walk to Clark Park. If I need some extra time to myself, I order a matcha latte and a croissant from Green Line Cafe and choose a table next to the window to get some work done. If I am walking back and realize I still have a little bit of extra time before my classes start, I’ll grab a McClelland chicken bowl to eat in the confines of my Harnwell dorm. Maybe I’ll call my mom while I eat or bring an extra bowl for one of my roommates to sit beside me. Or, maybe I will just sit and enjoy my chicken bowl while basking in the peace of my own existence.
I am looking forward to being able to cruise down the streets of Los Angeles when I go home for winter break. But, when the beating sun trades itself in for the wind and crisping leaves of autumn, I will be more than happy to return to the joys that come from the shared experience of walking down Locust wearing earbuds, the possibility always lingering that the person walking to my right is listening to the same song as me.
