It stands to reason that LA wouldn’t let any longtime resident escape without a final all-out demonstration of the horror and almighty mess that is the greater Los Angeles freeway system. En route to New York via Scottsdale, Albuquerque, cowboy country, Super Bowl Central¸ the bayous etcetera etcetera on a rainy post-Christmas weekend, I first had to get through 90 miles of sluggish, rage-inducing Southern California freeway mess. Not only was the I-10 (I-60, 405, 110, take your pick) bumper-to-bumper with holiday traffic and CHP, it was washed out and rocky due to five straight days of torrential downpours. Two hours of potholing in parking lot conditions gave me plenty of time to reflect on the virtues and frustrations of my loaner Suzuki Kizashi AWD.
On the bright side: the car is built to withstand tough conditions, and therefore didn’t make horrifying scraping noises or exaggerated bounces when driven over a patch of mud/grooves/rocky stormwash. It felt sturdy and reliable. The speakers are excellent, especially when bumping early ‘90s rap. On the down side, it took me some time to figure out the shift mechanism—or, more precisely, to figure out how not to engage the shift mechanism. It also was incredibly conspicuous, driving around in a car with a giant “TOKYO TO LA” decal emblazoned on the side and a fuzzy red chow dog poking his snout out the back window. Everyone stared. All the way out of LA, 20 miles per hour to Palm Springs, and on into the east California night, people stared as though they were somewhat surprised and disappointed not to see a Japanese race car driver accompanied by a James Bond-style sexy secretary. We could tell that they wanted to ask us why exactly we were in the car, and where the Japanese were.
Once across the Arizona border, the traffic and stares lightened up considerably, and we sped into the night at a quick clip, not stopping till we reached a road construction site 40 miles outside Scottsdale. This only slowed us down enough to facilitate a call to our hotel, the Arizona Biltmore, to let them know we’d be two hours later than expected. Oh, and that we were famished.
An hour later, we barreled into the Biltmore bar demanding flatbread and duck fat fries and baked chicken and many, many beers. We piled in our food not like people at an elegant spa resort known for its specialty body treatments and golf course and celeb clientele…but instead, like starving lost lumberjacks in fancy dress. We gobbled, we boozed, we blinked and growled a few times in satisfaction. We paid, and were gone.
Back in the room, the hungry red chow named Rocky awaited his chicken dinner and ignored his kibble like only a very savvy and spoiled creature can. The chicken was duly produced from a takeout bag. Afterward, our little family went to bed, each of us so grateful to be under the starry Arizona sky instead of back in the blizzardy East Coast or over in Los Angeles with all the potholes. Day One of the Kizachi Ruff Way Adventure was done.
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