Arteries of Memory: Lincoln Boulevard

THERE is a straight line of pavement that links the first intersection north of LAX to San Vicente, the quite and homey street, lined with softly curving trees looming tenderly down the median. It’s the vessel by which the Westside travels north and south and identifies east and west. This is Lincoln Boulevard, the main artery of the west side, pulsing with life as dictated by the clock, littered with cafes and shops, used car lots and tattoo parlors.

But this street is LA; this street is where I began to understand Los Angles and the first landmarks remain secure in my mind. Like an old friend Lincoln introduced me to new places, frustrated me, made me late and yet remains the marker that triggers an odd sense of relief - that “I’m home” feeling. Whether a day of work or weeks apart, when I drive down the hot pavement, I know I’m back.

When I first took the wheel, Lincoln was the front sidewalk where I gathered enough courage to venture further. First it was to the Third Street promenade. “Just say on Lincoln and look out for signs after Pico,” they told me. And I did; and there were. On the way back I saw a scandalous sex store, a pet shop and a blockbuster. On my first Halloween here that scandalous store served my friends and I well; when I got my first pet goldfish, it was this little pet store and on my first trip to Blockbuster this was were I came. Of course, the trip was memorable because, being a good 20 minutes out of the way, I should have looked closer.

These days, small cafes and even the Whole Foods holds special meaning to me. I’ve taken most small veins that trickle west and a few that help me hightail it east. Always though, when I arrive back on Lincoln after trip to Hollywood or even Westwood, a sense of calm takes over as I see the swinging street sign and make out the lettering: “Lincoln”. I’m almost home.

Perhaps the greatest excitement of being back comes after weeks or months away and returning to the LAX airport. From above I look for the In & Out. Maneuvering through lanes out of the airport the glowing pillars tell me I’m home in LA. But my stomach starts squirming with the excitement of truly returning as I drive down the small slope and past LMU and past Figi Way.

It’s not a glamorous road; in fact it’s downright dirty. I will rarely announce my love for the road. It’s littered, crowded with cars and I’ve narrowly missed a few homeless men and shopping carts at night. It’s the railroad track that separates the east west side from the true west; it shows. But I don’t care. Like I said, this is that familiar face who gets on every last nerves but, at the end of the day, remains constant.

When under construction for two years I found the new stoplights between Jefferson and LMU offensive. The light put in place where the road to the 90 carefully jumps over Lincoln disturbed me as well. “Why on earth do they need that?” I wondered. I was slightly reproachful about the new traffic causing bulbs and the changing landscape of the road. Often I considered that the change shouldn’t bother me so much. After all the wide-open space I once knew was now a massive new community. When the trucks disappeared and the smooth road opened up, I found the installations easier to appreciate. I can accept those changes now, but they will always remain just that, “changes”. Perhaps it should come as no surprise that in a town where the landscape is regularly reinvented, but this street, this thirteen miles of urban highway needs to remain - I can't imagine the Westside without such a "landmark".