Thirty three
Who decides when a decade starts and ends? Zero to zero feels too neat, too circular, less like a progression. I’ve discovered that my decades begin and end with three.
On the day that America elected a convicted felon as their 47th president, I drove 83 miles north west from Los Angeles to Ojai. For about fifteen minutes on the 101 just before Oxnard, I drove through a sepia-toned sky. Almost apocalyptic, what felt like a dust storm was in fact the beginnings of a wild fire caught up in the wind. It felt like a strange sign. Traffic emerged on the other side, a sudden break in the air and the wall of blue sky returned.
25 minutes later: arrival in Ojai. Exhale. Usual routine completed and I was itching for nature. I had four hours until I was to meet my friend Molly and I asked her what I should do. She replied with some options but suggested a scenic drive up the 33. I had a car with a tank full of gas, ten downloaded playlists and nothing else to do.
I drove with no direction, just a number 33 ahead of me for miles and miles. A road that takes you from Ojai through the Los Padres National Forest, up winding roads that ascend and ascend and ascend. I was torn between stopping and driving, too in love with the soundtrack and the lack of phone signal and views that lay ahead of me. But I was also desperate to smell the trees or find a swimming hole, to shake off the strangeness I’d been feeling for the past few weeks.
It didn’t seem to matter that I forgot to pack boots or any form of hiking gear. It seemed serendipitous that when I arrived at Nicole’s house to pick up the car, she returned a swimsuit I had left there earlier in the year, a literal gift from a stranger when I was last in Ojai. I had gone into a thrift store and picked up the suit, having forgot one and desperately wanting to lie by the pool at Capri. I didn’t have any cash and said I’d return with some in 10 minutes. The woman at the till ahead of me said, oh I’ll grab that, and I said, no you can’t do that! Why not, she replied - I want to! And so I let her pay for my $10 swimsuit, confident in the kindness and magic of Ojai, something I’d always known.
It was also serendipitous that when I opened Nicole’s trunk, there was a large striped beach towel - pretty much the only thing there other than a few vinyl records and a book about wine. In my bag was a dry bag, haphazardly thrown in for no good reason that morning when I was rushing to get ready.
I saw a sign to Wheeler’s Gorge trailhead and figured all roads must lead to water. I parked up and only half equipped scrambled up the path in literal slippers until I heard it, like an audible oasis. It did not take me by surprise. Instead it seemed like a cosmic sign. Just me, a car, the mountains and river, a perfect playlist and no signal, escaping the shock of the day, if just for a while.
Suddenly the number 33 felt significant.
The fact that it was November 6th, exactly halfway between my 33rd and 34th birthday, to the day, felt significant.
I’ve spent three decades trusting signs thrown out by the universe and using them to forge a path. I’ve been known to rely on tarot readings and animal spirit cards and psychic interpretations of all-too-convenient coincidences. When I am presented with a signal, I turn right the American way (even if it’s on a red).
The shift from one decade to another did not happen suddenly. Instead it emerged like a slow breeze caught between the trees. Twenty three looked like movement, commotion, lust, impenetrable pain, soaring highs and deep lows. I was twenty three when I met the next person who wouldn’t miss me and thirty three when I figured that last part out.
Perhaps it was only when I was sat by this body of water, the water trickling down my back, the sun warm on my face and no sign of anyone else around me that thirty three began to take effect. It felt correct to be submerged in cold water. A shock to the system and barely deep enough to lie down, it was a baptism of sorts as I plunged myself backwards and felt the cold surround my cheeks. I hear cicadas in the background and feel truly, deeply beautiful.
I walked up a path not knowing where it would take me and found myself looking out across desert-hued canyons and forest green canopies. I clambered back down and got in my car, playlist turned up high, encountering only three other cars on the way up. I kept climbing until I reached almost 3000m elevation. I stopped the car and took it all in and then drove back down as the sun began to fall.
Later that evening I drank three martinis with an old friend at the bar, reminiscing on past adventures and regaling each other with stories of lovers and friends, of writing and reading. I returned to LA the next day feeling so full I could burst and thought about all the things I could now let go of from twenty three. The flat that bears the same number. The constant need to keep moving. The him that never missed me.
In my purse was a coaster stolen from my favourite Vancouver brewery: 33 Acres. I landed in Vancouver at 13.33 and listened to the pilot over the tannoy. I sent Molly a message with the words: you’ll never guess what carousel number my baggage is coming into…
Thirty three.
She replied simply: new chapter.
Every time I stayed at someone’s house during this trip, I made a playlist named after the street or a nearby street to commemorate it. This one was made for Molly, whose little house was just around the corner from North Signal Street. The signs just keep coming.
