By L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
Copyright © August 18, 2002 L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
All Rights Reserved
There were several reasons why I wanted to go to San Pedro, California, to watch the last Shakespeare performance, which
starred Reneé O'Connor. The first reason was to be able to meet her, and hopefully, get her autograph. The second reason
was to personally thank her for sharing her acting talent with us. I have always wanted to be able to thank some of the
leading performers for the contributions they’ve made to our lives, and this, I thought, would be a perfect time to thank one of
lead stars of the show.
The start of our vacation began as any planned trip begins, which means that it started the night before with the usual
preparations for the journey. Invariably, my partner, Jessica, will always proclaim that we are going to “hit the road” by nine
am, no earlier, no later. I always reply with my standard, “anything you say, honey.” Thankfully, after our few years of living
together, Jess is well accustomed to me existing in Indian Time. For those of you not familiar with Indian Time, it’s an
affliction similar to Polynesian Paralysis that affects the indigenous people of the Polynesian Islands. Like P.P., Indian Time
tends to make us Native Americans operate on our own time frame, usually one which is much slower than other people in
this country. Understanding this affliction, which I inherited through the Lakota side of my family, Jess kept her grumbling to a
minimum and finally released a sigh of relief when we were on the road at eleven thirty in the morning, or thereabouts.
Without a California road map, and going by memory alone, my honey and I set out on Interstate 101 from Santa Clara,
California to what I call, La La Land, land of the stars, city where dreams are made, and the capital of Disneyland. Of
course, our actual destination was about 33 miles south of Los Angeles, in the seaside town of San Pedro, where the grand
finale of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, starring Renée O'Connor was to be performed. With the CD player loaded with the music
of Wind Dancers, the music of Smoke Signals and Alica Keys, we started our drive with mixed emotions. For myself, I was
excited with the prospect of finally getting to see ROC perform, Jess, was only looking forward to our visit to the famous
historical site of Olvera Street, in downtown Los Angeles.
There are two things to know about my Jessica. The first is that when it comes to Xena, the only character she truly enjoyed
was Callisto, and although she loved meeting Hudson Leick in person, she is not the type that would go out of her way to
attend anything related to the show. The second thing to know about Jess is that she is French Moroccan, born and raised in
Grenoble, France. The latter part really wouldn’t matter, except for when it comes to all things English, which to her French
upbringing means that there is hardly worth praising anything which comes from the English. This includes Shakespeare. With
a feud worthy of the Hatfields and McCoys, it seems like this mentality continues to this day regardless of the fact that the
English and French could be distant cousins. With these two pieces of information, it stands to reason that joining me on a
trip all the way to Southern California had to be worth her while, and Olvera Street was the carrot that I dangled in front of
her. Of course, she really admitted that she joined me on this trip because I asked her, and for me, having her join me on a
trip to see a former Xena actress performing Shakespeare, demonstrates her immense love for me.
With the music blaring out of the speakers, we made our way from 90 degree temperatures in the Silicon Valley, through the
arid flat lands that reached up to 110 degrees in the shade. Each time the chants of Ulali blared from the speakers, we
cranked the volume up higher and joined in the singing. When we weren’t singing along to the music, I entertained Jess with
some of my future story ideas that I was mulling around with. By the time we reached the infamous grapevine that leads into
Los Angeles, we were both ready to reach our hotel.
As my little yellow VW bug easily climbed up the high mountain, I related the various memories that the mountain recalled to
mind. I pointed out the various spots where my father’s car used to overheat. I explained, probably for the hundredth time,
how it was the chewing gum from me and my brother that sealed up the hole in the overheated radiator. She laughed with me
at the various ways that my father always seemed to work his magic on the cars that had broken down, whenever we would
come to visit family in Los Angeles. Once, he used masking tape, another time, our chewing gum, and once he even used one
of my mother’s hair nets. Each quick fix scheme held the aged car together until we reached our relatives.
By the time we passed the town of Santa Clarita, I smiled, knowing that we were closer to our destination. As we entered
the tendrils of the Los Angeles County line, my little bug shook from the numerous pot holes and cracks in the road. It
appears that unlike the San Francisco bay area, the site of Cal Train road workers leaning against their warning pole flags as
they drink their Starbucks coffee is not a common occurrence, otherwise the roads of Southern California would have been
as nicely paved as the freeways in the South Bay of San Francisco. Although I’ve never actually witnessed any Cal Train
workers actually fixing the roads, the fact that our roads were void of pot holes was enough to keep me satisfied with their
mysterious ways of keeping our roads smooth. With the jarring of the car, I teased Jess and asked if she found herself
homesick for the potholes of her beloved New York City, which only brought a snorting laugh as she weaved her way in and
out of city traffic.
For those who are not familiar with California, one thing to realize is that like the old feud between the French and English, or
the Northern States and Southern States, the politics of California have caused a form of sibling rivalry between Northerners
and Southerners. Back in the eighties when a politician jokingly suggested that the state be split in half to create two separate
states, there was some debate as to who would take Los Angeles. Those of us in the North argued that as they were in the
south, the south is where they should stay. However, the other cities surrounding the LA vicinity wanted nothing to do with
the city. I remember at the time that a friend from Fresno jokingly suggested that we give LA to Alaska as a gift, with hopes
that by the time Alaska realized the gift, it would be too late, the city would already be permanently frozen to the state and
would therefore, have to remain as part of Alaska. Although it seemed to make perfect sense after a few Heinekens, much to
our chagrin, it was a concept that was never seriously considered amongst the politicos of Sacramento.
So like a typical northerner, every time Jess complained about the roads, or the confusing tangles of interstates and freeways,
or even the fact that at seven-thirty in the evening, we were stuck in rush hour traffic, I always reminded her of all the things I
was grateful for in the North. Our pristine freeways were not only void of pot holes, but our rush hour traffic ended by six-
thirty in the evenings, and although we had many connecting freeways and expressways, everything was laid out in a logical
pattern as opposed to the haphazard patterns in Los Angeles. This only brought silence to my honey, who has, since the time
she arrived in Santa Clara, always mentioned a desire to someday move to La La land.
What should have only taken a half hour, ended up taking an hour and half. By the time we arrived at the San Pedro hotel,
we were grateful to have a warm shower, and comfortable bed at our disposal. Although usually a night owl, I found myself
falling asleep before Jay Leno’s monologue, which is a rarity for me!
I awoke at five am the next morning. The familiar sounds of a keyboard clicking away, combined with the occasional voice of
Jess on her cell phone issuing orders, pulled me from my dreams. At one point, I heard her whispered curses as she tried to
coax her laptop to connect to her office at a speed greater than an ailing snail, which resulted in me grabbing the covers and
pulling it back over my head in hope that I could disappear back into my dreams. Ever since the day that we’ve gotten
together, there has never been a time when she was allowed to simply have a day off during a working day. For her, a
working vacation is just that – it’s spent working. This was no different throughout the whole day.
To start out the day, we drove to the nearby location of where the Queen Mary was docked. The Queen Mary is not only a
historical ship, but it is larger than the Titanic. I know this because of Jess’ enthusiasm to share one of her passions, which are
sunken ships and especially the Titanic. She explained more than I thought was possible about the similarities and difference
between the Queen Mary and the Titanic. Once she was finished taking all of her pictures, her trusty cell phone rang and
before I knew it, she hopped out of the car and was removing her lap top from the trunk of the car. As she conducted her
day’s business while standing in the parking lot, I silently prayed that her boss would end his calls by four pm, when we
planned on going to the park to save ourselves some seats for the night’s performance. Thankfully, this was the last time that
she had to conduct business, while on our vacation.
I had decided long before we arrived that I would do everything possible to control my habit of Indian Time, even if it meant
tricking myself. So rather than wait until the show was ready to start, we arrived at the park by four pm, and promptly saved
our seats. There is a funny thing about human nature that I’ve found consistent within all groups and that is, when an
opportunity exists to take advantage of a situation, there are some people who will do just that. The fans who were attending
the event were no different because it was at this time that I learned that some local fans had arrived at midnight and placed
their notes on the front row seats, thereby leaving the rest of us to the back benches.
As we waited the few hours until the performance began, I enjoyed myself by watching the interactions of the people around
us. From as far back as I can remember, I’ve always been a people watcher. I can remember being a child and sitting next
to my father at the local mall as we watched the people moving around us. My father taught me how to blend in, to become
