I Hate Nature - Part II

 Orienteering

In Sweden, there is a competitive sport called Orienteering that calls for participants to navigate unknown terrain using only a compass and a map.  If you have been raised in a natural environment and have good sense of direction you may have an advantage.  To the 17 year old me, whose only navigational skills included timing the fastest driving route from Santa Monica to the Beverly Center, the campus of Humboldt State was like an orienteering competition on Mars.

“Welcome to Orientation Weekend; a crash course in this small challenge called life.  You are being forced to attend by your parents”, said the voice in my head.  I rolled my eyes in disdain.  I was still ambivalent over this recent development.

My plane arrived on the tarmac of the Eureka airport before my brain did.  That happens when you are a creature of the night, not used to waking up until the midway point of All My Children.  Bleary eyed, wearing Ray Bans to cover my lack of makeup, I exited the plane.  With only three weeks to go before fall quarter started, I was still in the throws of summer clubbing.  I had spent the prior night, heart rate going 220 beats per minute "dancing with myself" to Billy Idol at my favorite club, the Odyssey.  I was not in good form.  Pulling a red beret across my eyes to shield them from the glare of daylight, I was met by a tubby blonde counselor whose name has escaped me though I feel compelled to call him Thumper.  He was proudly wearing an HSU sweatshirt and had pasty white skin that accentuated the yellow of his slightly bucked teeth.  He guided me, along with a few other strange looking pale children, into a van where we were shuttled to Arcata, the college town that is the home of Humboldt State University.

It was a sunny day in august, something that I would later find out is/was as rare as the Northern Spotted Owl.  Had the admissions office conspired with the Weather Gods to make us believe that it always looked this lovely?  The billowing clouds and azure skies were tainted however, by a smell in the air; a distinct odor of egg sandwiches left forgotten in a heated car.  Later, I found out that the local pulp mill was the cause of this fetid odor.  In a town with a bad economy, residents tolerated the production of paper, allowing a putrid blanket of old Easter Eggs stench to cover Humboldt Bay.  It reached Arcata occasionally, depending on how the wind shifted.

Both towns being traditional logging towns, they looked similar to any town along highways One and 101 in Northern California.  Tiny dilapidated Victorians, that must have been beautiful once, were nestled next to "large tool" equipment rental stores and truck stops with blinking neon lights.  As we reached the exit for the university the first thing I noticed was how much greenery there was.  Stepping off the shuttle, I was assaulted by giant redwood trees, the sight causing me to catch my breath in dread as I remembered my one and only stint at Girl Scout Camp.  The outdoors was a dangerous place.  I knew that from watching the news.  Weren’t people always disappearing in the Angeles National forest?  Grabbing my duffle bag, I looked around cautiously.  At least the air was better at the campus.  And with the briny scent of the nearby bay, it reminded me of Mendocino, where my mom lived. 

The campus was etched into the mouth of a hilly redwood forest.  I could see signs for hiking trails. (As if, I would hike, I thought to myself).  The dorms were constructed along the escarpments of the forested canyon and had weird names:  Hemlock, Madrone, Chinquapin, Alder, and Cypress, among others.  It was quaint but I couldn’t have identified the differences between a Chinquapin and a ground squirrel under the best of circumstances.  If we had been talking record labels or tracing the nuances and migrations of punk, mod and rockabilly music from the UK to the US I was your girl, but tree names were beyond my sphere of influence.  Climbing what felt like 8000 steps to my dorm room in Madrone, I was nervous.  I didn’t know anyone, of course and so I was my usual silent self.  I saw kids with parents, mostly moms, who walked around with those smiling confident faces that adults usually wore and felt a sting of envy.  As lame as parents were, I wished mine had come with me. Both said they needed to work.  Being no fool to their ways, I knew that they were cohorts who had joined forces to kick me out of my feathered LA nest.  The downy comforts of a concrete jungle: traffic, smog and the cocoon of my car were of no use here.  I stood in front of the guest room suite and opened the door.

“Hi” said a freckle-faced girl with short auburn hair.  She too was from LA.  Her name was Nancy and we had a common friend in the nightclub scene, which put me at ease.  She was hip with an air of confidence and she had... records!  She was a sophomore who had moved in early.  Immediately I flipped through her vinyl collection and we began listening to the Dance Craze album, discussing the superiority of the B-side while she offered me a clove cigarette.

How strange, I thought to myself.  What a small world. I put my things down on the crude bunk bed and looked out of the window.  Redwoods encircled the building, while shards of early afternoon sunlight lit the room.  I had dressed somewhat conservatively on the plane and needed to up my game.  Purple Guess Jeans and a striped t-shirt from Flip of Hollywood would not dress to impress.  Putting on my plaid bondage pants, I mused, would be edgier.  I also added a vintage man’s sweater vest for a touch of androgyny.  In truth, the clothing I wore was armor that I used as a distraction to hide my slightly chubby physique.  Ripping off the red beret I began a typical 80’s hair routine:  wet hair, add just the right amount of Dippity Do, and blow dry upside down.  Using teasing comb, tease hair vertically and apply Aqua Net hairspray, until hair won’t budge.  This coif added a good three inches to my 5’3” frame.  The dyed platinum color would hopefully draw the eye upward.  For makeup, I added some Maybelline black cat eyeliner and some frosted pink lipstick.  I thought I looked fabulous.  Since I was 17, I probably did.

Checking myself in the mirror, I did my best pout and nodded in approval.  I picked up the Xerox copy of the day’s events and saw that I need to be at a group orientation in Founder’s Hall in five short minutes! Shit!  I thought to myself.  Throwing on my Ray Bans, I quickly dashed out of the building, wondering how long it would take to walk there.  I was no good at calculating foot time, only driving time.  As fast as I was going, clomping along in uncomfortable vintage heels, by the time I reached the top stairs at the opposite end of the parking lot I was 3 minutes late and had started to sweat.  Where the hell was Founder’s Hall?  I saw a few people streaming in one direction so I followed along.  Eventually I came upon Founders.  It was a beautiful old building, but my god, there were even more steps to climb.  This place was the freaking Alps! Blisters were starting to form on the backs of my feet. I entered the building.  High heels clicking along the tiled floor, I glanced at my wristwatch.  I was almost 15 minutes late.  Damn!  I found the room number but the door was already closed.  I would have to open that door. I would have to disturb the professor.  I would have to be mortified. 

Steeling my nerve, I swung the door open with a bit too much force causing it to bang against the wall.  Everyone in the room turned to look at me.  The professor stopped talking.  Sorry, I said, as I scanned the room for an empty desk.  I could feel eyes upon me and was flushed with embarrassment. I sat down and took a note pad out of my plastic Fiorucci purse.  Years later, my college boyfriend admitted to me that he had been in that room when I’d walked in late had been impressed by the oddity of my appearance.  I was a creature from the L.A. Zoo, a different kind of wild animal; something he’d never seen before and it had intrigued him.

The rest of the weekend was spent, walking around the campus, and visiting the cafeteria and common areas.  I was grateful that I had brought a pair of Keds.  My legs were sore from all of the walking.  Although I kept to myself, I found out that most of the kids at the orientation were from the Bay Area, which explained their pastiness.  More than a few were on the earthy side of the fashion spectrum.  The Grateful Dead skeleton logo emblazed many shirts.  Lots of them were in tie-dye clothing and wore Birkenstock sandals.  Birkenstocks made Ducks rainboots look like Guccis.  Seriously, they were; and still are, the most ugly shoes ever constructed and to this day I have never refuted my staunch aversion to those stinky leather excuses for foot cover.  But I digress…

Sunday graced us with more sunshine and a final event: the family picnic.  I attended though it was optional and I had no family.  I had failed to connect with anyone so I wandered the food line alone and picked up a hot dog and some chips.  I settled myself on the damp grass and after eating, leaned back, letting the warm sunshine caress my cheeks.  Eyes closed, I sighed.  At least I had the sun to warm my spirits.

“I like your nail polish” a female voice said from behind me.

I opened my eyes and turned around.  It was one of the moms.  She was pretty, with a poodle perm and a warm smile.

“Thanks.  It’s Factory Fuchsia”, I told her.

“I’m Penny”, she said.

We started talking and I learned that she was from Manhattan Beach.   She was there with her son Scott, who had just graduated from Mira Coast High School. 

A few minutes into our conversation Scott made his appearance.

“Here Mom, I couldn’t find any chocolate ones”, he said as he handed her an oatmeal cookie.

“Scott, this is Dru.  She says she goes dancing in Hollywood too”.

Scott was slight of frame, with chestnut colored hair and an adorable dimple in the middle of his chin.  He had on Levis, cuffed at the hems.  He wore a vintage 1960’s plaid shirt but more outstanding was the large smirk he wore on his face as he surveyed me.  What a jerk, I thought to myself.

“Oh yeah, which clubs?” he asked in a snotty voice.

I smirked back, lowering my Ray Bans and said, just as rudely,

“Unless I’m going to a live show, pretty much the Odyssey”.

Again Scott checked me up and down assessing my choice of dress. Narrowing his eyes he said,

“Well I go there all the time. I’ve never seen you there”

I gave him my most dramatic eye roll and shrugged,

“Well I’ve never seen you there”.

“Well maybe you will both see each other here when classes begin” offered Penny.

"Maybe" we answered in unison.

End