Here’s some nonsense from the intern log I had to write for NYU:
I have sand in my car. In the cup holders and the back seat. I have sand in my sheets, though I just washed them. I have sand on my bedroom floor and in my backpack. The ports of my computer are jammed with sand. There is sand in all of the pockets, of all of my clothes. In my ears, in my eyes. I’m sure there’s sand in my sinuses.
I arrived at LAX for the first time on a Sunday, around lunchtime. I procured my criminally overpriced rental car and managed to find my way to the 405 South: what seems to be, upon initial inspection, the most unstable freeway in the continental United States. The weird, grated concrete feels a lot less safe when driving a borrowed Ford Focus between hurried Californians hurtling along at completely unreasonable speeds.
With a sigh of relief, I pulled off the freeway into San Clemente. There were literally surfboards everywhere. I saw an old Porsche with a board strapped to the roof and fell in love a little bit.