I just caught my first glimpse of the
southern night sky. Somewhere down, down beneath us is the
Pacific Ocean – it's still too dark to see, but there's a decent
chance it's big and blue like the Atlantic. I can almost just use my
imagination. Apparently it's 10:00 am on Wednesday in Newfoundland,
but 9 hours into this Air Pacific flight to Fiji, I'm about as
disoriented, time-wise, as ever. If we've crossed the International
Date Line, I guess it's tomorrow by now.
When I booked my stopover in LA, I
wanted to do a whirlwind tour of the city, hitting as much of it as I
could in just over 24 hours. I like travelling with a group, but I
could never, with a clear conscience, have asked another human being
to endure what I did yesterday (two days ago? I don't know, it might
have been a month ago, I'm lost) – I woke up at 7:00 am, packed my
things, and hit the boulevard. A few hours later, I got a fruit
smoothie, and some chicken tikka masala on the go in the evening –
beyond that, I was too busy roaming to bother stopping for something
insignificant like food. A single day in, I already would have driven
any travelling buddy insane.
I strolled through some of the
neighbourhoods I'd seen the night before, just to get a glimpse of
them in the sunlight. I also had to figure out the public transit
system – now, I'm not saying I deserve a congressional medal or
anything (not for that at
least), but I'm pretty stoked that I managed to get dropped into this
huge city by myself and figured out how to navigate the bus and
underground metro routes. I wouldn't have been able to do it, just
the same, without a watch and a notepad, two things that I threw in
my bag at the eleventh hour back home.
I grabbed two buses
(not at the same time, though that would have been cool) that took me out of the heart of Hollywood
through mid-town Los Angeles, long sunny stretches of homes that had
a very carved-out-of-the-earth organic feel to them, with the
not-too-distant hills as a backdrop. It's a bit jarring, because this
world seems somewhat frozen in time, with bits and pieces that have
moved forward – it's like the Alhambra, that Moorish palace in
Spain, if it had thrived to the 1960s era of billboards, neon signs,
and burger joints, while the people themselves wore 21st
century designer clothes and talked on their iPhones.
I
arrived in Culver City, location of the Sony Studios, just around
10:00 am (strolling past the high fences of the movie lots on a
Tuesday morning, rocking that strawberry smoothie with whipped cream, I
figured I must have founded an orphanage in a previous life or
something). Right from day one, I really wanted to be in a studio
audience of some program. That seems like a thing people do, with all
these productions going on all the time, and them being free and all.
I checked out a few options online in the month leading up to my
departure (Big Bang Theory was
my first choice, but apparently getting tickets to that are like
trying to do all your Christmas shopping at Zellers on Christmas
Eve), and it turns out that Jeopardy! had
a morning taping.
So,
yeah . . . I've seen an episode or two of Jeopardy! I
may or may not own the Jeopardy! computer
game too, you wanna make something of it?
The
medium-sized crowd (probably less than a hundred) converged in the
chilly parking garage of the studio, some wearing orange visitor
bracelets, others stamped as production guests or contestant guests.
Here's where a producer gave us the rundown: we'd be occupied for a
few hours, going through the taping of three episodes. A second group
would be present for the afternoon session, where they would tape two
more episodes, getting a week's worth of shows in a single day (Alex
Trebek changes his suits in between, to give the illusion of time
passing). He explained how the bathroom breaks work (only between
episodes, and don't dawdle), when to applaud (there really are
APPLAUSE signs in the rafters that blink on cue), and to feel free to
ask Alex questions during the commercial breaks, which are the times
that the production crew ties up any loose ends and redo makeup on
set.
Like
herded cattle we went through the Sony lot, past faceless buildings
housing who knows what (we passed near to the site of where the
Yellowbrick Road once lay), onto the sound stage, brilliantly lit in
crisp fluorescent blue. The stage and audience area was a lot smaller
than I imagined from TV, and they had monitors that showed the final
production as it was happening, and so my eyes were drifting from the
stage to the screens, thinking, “There's no way that's
the same thing that's literally right in front of my eyes!” The
general audience sat on the righthand side, perpendicular to the
contestants; the invited guests, the judges, announcer Johnny
Gilbert, and the rest of the crew were assembled to the left, on the
other side of a dividing aisle.
It turns out that
my taping (which will air in February, the 13-15) was part of the
annual Tournament of Champions. That probably isn't that cool to most
people, but it's kind of like ordering 6 McNuggets and getting 7 by
mistake. I even recognized one of the returning contestants in the
second episode. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Alex came onto the
stage, the applause lights lit up, and the game began. On the breaks,
it turns out he's just an average dude – charismatic as they come,
but funny and down to earth. “We're from Calgary, Canada,” one
couple said. “So what?” He teased. “Nice to have you here, I'm
from Canada too, as you know.”
During the game
though, he's on the top of his game. But he does make
mistakes. During the first game, he called something wrong (the
answer was “Jackson” in a category on presidential annexations,
watch it on February 13), and the judges all shouted out, “No!
That's right!”
“He didn't phrase
it as a question.”
“Yes he did!”
Alex
turned to the contestant. “Did you
phrase it as a question?”
So,
they replayed the tape (“Ok, well now I
hear it!”) and so they did an overdub; they replayed the five
seconds leading into when Alex said “No,” and started filming
again when he corrected, “Yes. Pick again.” Another secret:
because they show the clue on TV, and not Alex reading it, if he
makes a mistake in pronouncing anything (which he doesn't do often),
they just re-record the audio at the end of the episode.
With only short
breaks between the episodes, the three tapings went by quickly. The
weird thing was, the high tension that you sometimes get on TV (the
first game had all three contestants neck and neck with serious cash
for Final Jeopardy) was totally not here on the set, at least not in
the audience (the contestants were in the quarter-finals of a
tournament worth $250,000, so they were probably a bit nervous). The
contestants were all joking together, chatting with the crew, and at
the end of their taping they all sat together in the audience. I
don't even really remember who won, because it wasn't all that
important.
I got to check off
a few things on my list though. One girl made it a true daily double,
one guy ran a full category, and I got to ask Alex what he's got on
that desk he's always sitting at (all the show material on paper and
cue cards, where he makes notes when it comes time for editing, and a
small computer screen that displays the clue he's reading). Three
episodes were enough for me, but Alex played the host well throughout
the day, never losing stride and keeping things entertaining. I can't
imagine being able to still be into it by the last taping of the day,
but I guess that's why I was just in the audience.
After
Jeopardy!, I took the
bus back to Hollywood, and as I was walking up the Walk of Fame, I
came across one of these open mini-van type tour buses and stopped.
Checking my watch, I asked the ticket agent (which sounds too formal
for this dude – let's call him something between that and a
scalper) what the tour was all about. It was a two-hour deal, through
some of the main sites in Hollywood; I didn't have that time, not
really, but as I was about to walk on he offered me a spot in an
ongoing tour that was just coming back from the Hollywood Sign,
slicing about 45 minutes off the trip (and half the price –
win-win, they call this). So, I very quickly grabbed that second bit
of food for the day, and joined two couples in the back of the car,
being a fifth wheel and not all that concerned about it.
Taking
the Sunset Boulevard past some of the major LA clubs (The Roxy, The Viper Room –
other than Dan Akryod's House of Blues, none of them were much to
look at on the outside), we hit Beverly Hills, going past Steven
Spielberg’s house at the top of the hill, and some other famous
mansions, tucked away behind high shrubbery and security gates –
Adam Sandler's home is on a cul-de-sac, Dr. Seuss lived in a spot
right out of Who-ville, and Tom Cruise's house is apparently pretty
cool, although we only saw his chimney through the trees (and a
fluttering flag – like the Queen of England, that's how he lets
people know he's home, which he apparently was). A few other
notables: Russell Crowe, Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, Larry King, and
Steve Carrell.
As we went from the Hills to Bel-Air (the mansion from Fresh
Prince? Yup, it's there), the price tag on the homes skyrocketed,
and so did the security. I sat through it, cynicism growing in me –
I'm really glad I got to go through these spots, if only for the
reason that I figured out how much this glorification of celebrity
unnerves me, especially here in the literal epicentre. Our little
tour was one of dozens, probably hundreds, creeping through these
streets. We parked outside of homes and took pictures, and that on
its own is creepy. It was at Michael Jackson's old abode that things
kicked up a notch: “See that room up there, on the balcony? That's
where they found his body.” A little further on, just around the
bend, we came to the house's garage gate, which is probably as famous
as any movie scene because that's where the ambulances took his body
from, and you couldn't turn on a TV that month without seeing that
image. While we were there, a car pulled out of a neighbouring house,
and our guide actually stopped the car mid-turn, held up traffic for
a minute, and told us to see if we could recognize who was in it;
she's been trying to figure out who lives there for a long time.
There are so many people in this city whose real life is a fixation
on emulating real life. The spots are beautiful, but they're behind
locked gates, past security booths, and still surrounded by ruthless
paparazzi and tour buses like the one I sat in, die-hards making
pilgrimages from all over the globe to get that one picture of a
garden that some exalted celebrity paid someone to tend.
Or maybe I'm just upset that we didn't stop longer at the Playboy
Mansion. At any rate, as the sun set on Tinseltown and we returned
via the outlandish luxury of Rodeo Drive, I felt more dragged out
than I have in a long time, but also that I saw everything I set out
to see (and then some) and actually gained some perspective to help
ground me on the rest of this adventure. Los Angeles was a city
unlike anything else on earth, a mix of advertisements the size of
skyscrapers and people putting on a show for the rest of the world
and everyone else trying to capitalize on it – I'm happy I saw it,
but that time was enough for me.
I collected my bags at the hostel and crammed onto the subway and
then the FlyAway LAX bus. I wasn't entirely sure of where to go from
there, because my itinerary muddled things by listing both American
Airlines and Air Pacific as my chariot to New Zealand – I counted
at least a dozen planes lighting up the sky as we drove across the
city, so it turns out there are a few terminal buildings, and more
different airline counters lined up than I've ever seen before. I
told the bus driver American Airlines, but something didn't seem
right, so I jumped out at terminal B, which houses Air Pacific,
amongst other international airlines. Something still didn't seem
right; my flight was scheduled for 10:30, but the only one leaving
via Air Pacific that night was at 9:30.
“There's only one flight to Fiji tonight,” the woman behind me in
the lineup assured me (I've got a four hour stopover there).
Let's
imagine a couple of unfortunate scenarios, saying first that I gave
them my passport at the counter and got both my boarding passes with
no hassle, made it through security, and had time to compose myself
before getting into the queue (something like a Disneyworld lineup,
weaving through a narrow column that twists and turns, and the sounds
of the engine increase as you get closer. I was expecting some
animatronic Brer Rabbit to pop up at some point). But what if I took
that 2-hour tour after all, or delayed my time on Hollywood Boulevard, or ended up at the
ticket terminal for American Airlines, found out I was in the wrong
spot, and had to trek God knows how far to get where I was supposed
to be? Well, I'd probably be writing this from the airport floor at
LAX, because even though my itinerary said 10:30, we sure were off
the ground shortly after 9:30.
Then
I'd
be cynical.
But, here we are, in some weird time outside of time, 30,000 feet
over the Pacific Ocean. Counting the rows, there are about 600 people
on this flight. That's right – that's like being in elementary
school during the Christmas concert, when everyone and their parents
and the scattered Nan comes out, and Mr. O'Riley gets up on stage and
says: “Thank you for coming. There's a seatbelt under your plastic
chair – we're all going to go up in the sky together for 11 hours.”
I mean, there's an upstairs on this plane. An upstairs! I hate that
moment of frustrated waiting (after you've landed, just as the doors
open and even though everyone was standing up, no one actually got
their bags) on a dash 8; I feel like this one will take a bit longer
to disembark.
That's the next thing though. Disembarking, stepping out of this
thing, on my own, somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere. And, 11 hours
later, every minute getting farther away from home than ever before,
being still not quite there. Los Angeles might have exhausted my body
and soul, but I'm pretty sure I just found the second wind that's
going to carry me for the next 7 months.
Cheers,
rb
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