Today I met Sebastian Stan

Today I met Sebastian Stan. Not in the “Hi, Hello, nice to meet you.” handshake type of way. But in the, “I just moved to LA and I was standing close to him waiting for my dad to come out of the bathroom while obnoxiously holding two coffees and trying not to stare at him” way. We made eye contact. I quickly averted my eyes. He was on a business call and I was trying not to be creepy. I was so anxious standing there, in the only open space, that I panic bought espresso beans just to be out of the way. I did need them, but that isn’t the point. My father finally emerged and took his sweet sweet time grazing past the seated film star. Hovering almost on top of him trying to allow another group to walk around. I was panicked, I wanted to get away from him, but I also wanted to point him out to father - his first Hollywood star sighting and he was missing it.

We got to the bottom of the stairs, well out of the path of those steely blue eyes, and I released the recon like a fat-roll falling out of high rise jeans at the end of the day. In true father fashion he said, “Sebastian WHO?” with the volume of a bullhorn - he was blowing our cover. Once we got a firm 10 yards away and I convinced him it was not in fact a good idea to go back to “get a better look at him,” he informed me he had no idea who Sebastian “The Winter Solider” Stan even was. I know with utter certainty that Sebastian Stan will have no recollection of this interaction, of the girl with the green baseball cap and her old man blocking the walkway and hovering above his afternoon coffee. My father might not remember who Sebastian Stan is come next week, but I will never forget the day I had my first “celebrity” sighting, and it has little to do with Sebastian Stan.

Today will forever be known as the day I gave the blubbery goodbye to my father from the truck that we drove almost 4,000 miles in just to get to my first apartment in Los Angeles. From the moment I decided I would be moving to LA to pursue a dependable and stable career as an actor, I knew that I wanted to make a road trip out of the occasion with my dad. I grew up with the gun fire, horse trotting, and stern declarations of Westerns as the underscoring to my childhood. My father had been raised on them, and akin to a genetic code, so had I. The admiration for Westerns was strong enough to lend my brother’s name, Jake, from an old John Wayne movie. I knew we were going to drive and we were going to head South and West, not much else.

After piecing together and filing away my long and wonderful life in Columbus, we had the next two weeks of traveling as a mini vacation, a limbo between the previous phase in my life and my new one. With the assistance of my brother and my precious pup, Mick, we all loaded up the back of Tundra Truck with the so-named, “Hillbilly Wagon top” and my Honda Civic in tow, then headed down south. We faded from Columbus beyond the snow-packed tracks of the truck’s tires as we descended towards Nashville, Tennessee.

After a few panics that the Honda clinging onto the UHAUL dolly might not make it the full journey, we arrived in Nashville right on Broadway street. If you have never been to Broadway in Nashville, all you need to know is it’s broad. And perhaps that it’s an amusement park for bachelors and bachelorettes alike seeking to yew-haw their way through a bar crawl. After a brief stroll, a few boot stores, and fighting the lure of up-and-coming Country Music talent tempting us into their bars, we made our way towards dinner. After a quiet dinner were we received some advice for our journey over burgers with chipotle ketchup and frosty beers, we made our way out of town down through Alabama. We began the tradition of trying to find a song to play as we approached each new state. We realized later that taking a shot at each state would have been exponentially better, and later perhaps, exponentially worse. But of course, we flew across the Alabama border crooning along to a song about how a sweet home named Alabama. We keep moving before a brief sleep at a truck stop. We plowed ahead until we made our way to city of Jazz, Creole food, and many men trying to pick pocket my father. After a battle to park our locked and loaded haul of a vehicle across two parking spaces on the edge of the French Quarter we barreled in.

My father, a man who has seen and done a lot in his day, is still like a child in new places. Not in a tantrum way, but he allows himself to wander. He looks from top to bottom of every building he sees. He watches the locals and tourists alike - not out of judgement, but rather a quick study of how to fit in, where to go, what to do, how to go into the flow of the foreign territory. It is as endearing as it is a red flag to anyone who might want to take a peek into a tourist’s pocket for a thick new wallet. As we wound through historic streets, past bars and coffee shops, street painters and magicians, even poking our heads into a sex shop (Sorry again, Dad,) and lusted after those famous Cafe De Monde beignets, there wasn’t a con man on the street who didn’t have a kind word to say about my father’s shinny new boots.

One of the things I learned early on while traveling is that anyone who compliments you very closely is not someone you should talk to. More than likely, while one guy has your attention luring you into playing a game of “I can guess where your boot are from” another friend of has swiped your wallet. My dear sweet Midwestern father wasn’t quite quick to this concept and politely began engaging with these guys until I forcibly pulled him away. I thought he would be upset he was such an easy target, but he got a kick out of the idea. If you ever run into my father, tell him you like his boots and that you bet that you can guess where they came from. While he is recalling the story through fits of laughter, take his wallet - he will be too enraptured in the story to notice.

After more steps then my father and his boots could handle, we grabbed a bite to eat and made our way to City Park. This is my New Orlean’s travel tip that was given to my by some sweet regulars at my last job: skip Cafe De Monde in the French Quarter. Take yourself on a short drive through a quaint neighborhood and stroll through the gorgeous landscape of the City Park to the Cafe De Monde in the middle of the park. No lines, just hot, messy, and delicious beignets to be dunked in rich coffee. After we were drenched in powdered sugar and got a bag for the road we continued on our journey to the next destination, the country between the US and Mexico, Texas.

They say everything is bigger in Texas, but what they don’t get across is simply the mass that is Texas. I do finally see why they want to be their own country, and I am half tempted to just let them. But with fried dough in our bellies and a caffeine kick running though our brains we blazed ahead to the next, very special stop on our journey, Houston. One of the most terrifying parts of growing up is releasing the tight grasp you have to your friends as they plant their seeds in new places to blossom far away from you. But the golden age of technology has proved useful to watch your friends from afar, and If you are lucky like me, you might find your way to them. My father was gracious enough to occupy himself with tacos and churros while I met up with two of the loveliest and brightest women of my acquaintance, Katie and Phoebe. It is such a joy to reunite with friends and not feel the ware of time, but catch up on new journeys while reminiscing on precious memories. Part of the journey to a new city is the reminder that I am never severing an old life from a new one, but growing the characters and locations that exist in the story of my life - an expansion of a once little life, growing every day.

As quick as we came and reconnected, we once again had to move on to the next great city on our journey, San Antonio. My father had two things in mind when we got to Texas: barbecue and boots. San Antonio, was the barbecue. Following a tumultuous journey the wrong way on a one way in downtown San Antonio, we made it minutes after a Cincinnati Bengal’s win into an almost empty barbecue joint. There were Christmas mornings in which my father has displayed as much joy as he did sipping his beer with a plate of brisket and greens hovering into his mouth as the sun shined against his back. It was a true warm welcome after finally escaping the chill of the North. You can’t go to San Antonio without seeing the Alamo, so we loaded up the hillbilly wagon and headed where our GPS pointed.

Two things to note here, first is that our beautiful truck-uhaul-car configuration made the most unsettling clashing sound of metal thwacking against metal with every bump we made. So, having the windows down was few and far between. Second, the Alamo, the famous Alamo, the old defender of the state of Texas, is somehow in the center of the city. You know where it is impossible to go with a truck-uhaul-car situation? The center of a city. But nevertheless, we followed where my GPS led, crashing and clanging across every bump of the San Antonio city center in search of the non-existent parking to go see the Alamo. After some unkind words were exchanged (Sorry again, Dad), we agreed to leave it on the side of the street with our hazards flashing and run up to the front of the Alamo. Turns out, it is a lot smaller than we envisioned. I am not saying don’t meet your heroes, but be prepared that they will be much smaller than you believed, just like Sebastian Stan.

After a photo op and a speedy walk back to the car, we made our way back on the road again toward El Paso. We were finally free of the city feeling ready to power through the rest of Texas that very night as we got the gut punch of a GPS direction, “Keep left for 569 miles.” We made it a whopping 50 before we got a hotel room for the night.

After a good night’s sleep and a full continental breakfast, we hopped back on the road towards El Paso. Remember what I said about barbecue and boots? Well, we stopped for barbecue at a strip mall. Texas has such a good barbecue scene that some of the top rated places hide tucked away between hair salons and office supply chains. After a full belly we made our way to the Boot Barn. Allegedly, the best bargain with the best selection you will find this side of the border. Dad found himself a Stetson hat to protect his fair skin from accruing more melanoma, and I strutted away, as Nancy Sinatra would say, “with boots made for walking.” Or black cowgirl boots meant for a light stroll to the local bar.

After the boot bust on my father’s end, we skidded across New Mexico through cactus and tumbleweed lined highways toward Tucson, Arizona. It feels important to disclose that while I don’t need to recount every mile we drug our haul going West, we drove for ages at a time, only running out of gas once on a highway. As me went we pointed out to one another anything we found to be cool; my father any oil-related items and me, anything that looked like a clip from Thelma and Louise, which was most things. While driving to LA was a long and laborious journey with its fair share of crossing bland mile markers, we saw some unbelievable scenery I never would have otherwise seen. Old rock formations, grand mountains, and flat flat desert, each new terrain we passed was marked with it’s own natural majesty to appreciate. As cliche as it is, it was made more meaningful to be sharing these new and old views with my father.

As much as we loved our mountains and desert, we enjoyed exploring, even briefly, new cities. Tucson, was definitely one of our favorites. A little hippie city in the heart of the desert. However, our search for boots landed us at Stewart’s Boot Factory. We envisioned a grand store with locally made boots towering over us on high shelves with shiny new boxes and ten store associates ready to help us find the best fit. What we found was an old beaten down building on side street off the main drag, with a sign on the front door informing us we are encouraged to carry a gun in with us and to call Vic if we wanted to come in. For some reason, we trusted and we called Vic. He told me he would be right up to let us in. He led us into a dusty and dark front room littered with old torn boots, random scraps of leather, new’s articles highlighting the former prominence of this old-school shop. Vic directed us in and asked what we were looking for, before we knew it we were sat down my father with his shoes off and vic tracing his feet to get a more accurate size. In what feels like a day dream we began picking out leather colors and stitching styles - Vic was going to custom make dad a pair of boots. His boots. Boots that fit him perfectly. That he had been the architect of creating. That day we left with the promise of boots being made and delivered to my Father at home in a few months. In one of the few times in my life I was able to be more generous to my father than he is to me, I purchased him those boots. The price is more than I ever imagined I would spend on boots. But, there are fewer moments in life that I derive more pleasure than, then giving someone I love something that they will love, and never would have given themselves. My father, is a hardworking and deeply generous person by nature. The kind of man who would drive his daughter cross country with the pain of a pinched nerve awaiting surgery, just to make her happy. Money, in all its enticing importance, is nothing without being able to - on rare occasion - spend it on these meaningful gestures. My only regret is not being there when he first puts them on.

After the mirage of Stewart’s boots and the quirks of Vic wore off, we found our way to a spot for lunch and coffee where we picked up some souvenirs and got some info on where I could find some turquoise. We heard about a gem show a short while away. After arriving and paying ten dollars to park, we went inside only to realize it was a ticketed event for large retail buyers and the cost of the ticket was more than we were willing to spend, just to maybe purchase a turquoise ring. As soon as we came, we left. We made our way back to the car just in time for my father to realize our U-Haul dolly had a bad tire. We count our blessings we noticed before we made it to the highway where it surely would have torn. After a short drive to the closest U-Haul, we were told we would needed to call roadside service because standard stores weren’t allowed to help. So while we waited, we made the decision we had been dancing around all week: to go to the Grand Canyon or head toward Los Angeles.

The thought of trudging up towards the Grand Canyon with our massive load in the middle of winter was intimidating. We feared car trouble and ice riddled roads. We also knew it would add at least a day to our journey. But sitting in that car with the advice and opinions from family and friends rattling in my brain, I pulled up my map. I made 2 plans and picked the one I wanted before I proposed them to my Father. We were quick to agree. We would grab coffee before we hit the road, I would drive us all the way from Tucson to Flagstaff where we would find a hotel for the night. The next day we would ascend to the Grand Canyon and take in its majesty before flooring it down to Los Angeles. All went according to plan. But there are some things I didn’t anticipate.

1. How white knuckled I would be driving up the elk-filled twisting mountains to Flagstaff.

2. How exhausted my brain and body would become from intensely focusing through the dark.

3. How idiotic I would feel after seeing the Grand Canyon for even contemplating missing it.

4. How viscerally breathtaking the Grand Canyon would be.

5. How my father found me the perfect turquoise ring at a shop just outside of the park.

With new jewelry and the glow of the Canyon fueling us, we began our decent towards Los Angeles. While we trudged through the Mojave desert, every dusty mile behind us, the excitement for my new life grew mixing with the impending fear of our little road trip coming to an end. Every mile that brought us closer to LA tore me further and further apart from my family, friends, and comfort zone. My wonderful old, and new roommate in LA frequently references her “radius,” or the area where she feels comfortable. I had left my radius and was pushing ahead with the protection of a vacation feeling. After literal highway robbery at the Route 66 Gas station outside of LA where we paid 6.89 a gallon, we continued the stressful drive through LA traffic to my new home on Melrose Hill.

Driving in, I could see the worry on my father’s face as we panicked through tight streets and never-changing lights. We passed a wall of the homeless seeking refuge in their tents against graffiti painted roads. Eventually we turned into a quiet neighborhood, with people out and about walking their pets. We unloaded my car from the U-Haul and backed the truck with the dolly in tow into my new gated parking lot. My tiny tiny parking lot. Between the dolly and the truck, we were way larger than my assigned space, but it was too late to return the dolly, so we left it for tomorrow’s agenda. We decided to leave everything packed until we made it inside the apartment. It was smaller than I pictured, but otherwise - perfect. The rose garden out front with a patio view of a fountain. The spanish-style bungalow with a tiny living room, a functional kitchen, and two tiny bedrooms with their own bath. It was all I needed.

That tour gave us the motivation to unload. I think being stuck in the car all day made us crave movement. My father, ever the innovator, got the idea of opening my bedroom window that overlooked my parking space to move all of my things through. After half an hour of unloading the truck and car, we had everything in and still no where to sit expect a bench I had refurnished that I insisted I bring with me. Mahala, my new and old roommate, joined us with beer and tacos from a truck up the street and we had our very first night in the apartment.

True to form, I was so anxious, I couldn’t sleep. In fact, last night was the first night I didn’t wake up every hour with my thoughts racing too quickly to rest. The next few days were a blur of moving furniture and Facebook Marketplace meetups. Living off of takeout, and many trips to Target and local thrift shops for supplies. My father drove us everywhere with his truck to pick up furniture with my navigation. He is from the Midwestern country, LA’s congested streets are the furthest thing from his comfort zone and yet he went without complaint everywhere we asked.

I tried to pay him back with fun tourist excursions in which I, in my tiny Honda Civic, far more equipped for LA streets, drove him around. We did all the classics: Beverly Hills house searching, The Walk of Fame, Santa Monica Pier, the Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu & all the tacos we could find. We drove down all the streets we had heard referenced in film and TV til we couldn’t stand the traffic. We ate Out or Inn Burger from our cars and from the shop. We also drank all the coffee we could find. We even went to a comedy show at the Laugh Factory and hid in the back to laugh in peace without fear of being picked on.

In four days we assembled the beginnings of a new life. I had drawers to put my clothes in, a nightstand and bed frame assembled, and a full living room set up. I had everything I needed to start living the next phase of my life in LA. My father was still here. He was sleeping in my room, while I took the couch. It was more than fair, but by day four, I knew it was time. In order for me to emotionally process the move and get started building a life here, I knew he would have to leave. I was stuck in limbo. My vacation mode was coming to an end, the reality of working and hustling, and paying rent was hitting. He knew it too. We silently without discussion knew he would be leaving today. As much as I wanted him out of my room I couldn’t bare having him out of my life - leaving my limbo. Suddenly I was a 5 year-old getting dropped off at kindergarten terrified the teacher would be mean and the other kids wouldn’t like me. My four years at Ohio State meant I wasn’t more than half an hours drive from my Dad. If i needed him, he was there. I can’t exactly have him drive from Columbus to LA every time I have an issue with my car.

Saying goodbye to was going to be the far more bitter than sweet. So we spent the morning together. He christened our house with fried bacon and eggs for breakfast. We got dressed and headed to fix his watch. We drove around to two different Whole Foods to find the vitamins he had run out of. We went to a spot for lunch and up the street to a coffee shop where we saw aforementioned famous actor. We laughed about seeing the actor at a Goodwill searching for more pieces for the apartment. We returned to the apartment to gather the last of his things to reload the truck before he departed. We both sat on the couch tip toeing around the inevitable. I wanted to know his plans on where he was going when he left, how he was getting home, where he planned on stopping, everything. In a final gesture of reaming in limbo, he suggested we go to the Griffith Observatory for a final top view of LA before he goes. It was a short drive and worth every minute of it. We stood overlooking a bright and busy LA not saying all the things we wanted to say. We silently wanted one last good memory together. He suggested we hike to the Hollywood sign, I told him it was time. He agreed and we made our way back to the apartment.

We sat in front of my building, the engine still running, and a fountain of tears streaming. I knew I would cry, I am crier. It was inevitable. For my sake, and perhaps his own, he made it quick. We had to rip the bandaid. We gave me a hug and I gave him one last interrogation about his plans. He told me he was fine and that he loved me. I got out and sobbed all the way to my car that I would move into the spot his truck had occupied the last four days.

Today is the day I said goodbye to Father and left limbo.

I am terrified of what my new life holds. I worry about the financial aspect of LA. I worry about making friends. I worry for my safety, and for the safety of Mahala, my wonderful roommate. I worry I will regret all my choices. I worry I will never love LA. I worry, I worry, I worry. I have a head full of worry.

However, today I said goodbye to my father. I said goodbye to a man who is hardworking and generous. I said goodbye to man who is kind and cares deeply for others. I said goodbye to a man who faces adversity and charges tenaciously ahead. I said goodbye to a man who is covertly creative and witty. I said goodbye to a man, inclusive of his faults, I am proud to call my father.

Today I said goodbye to the man who raised me to be all of the best things about him. He realized me to be: hardworking, kind, tenacious, witty, and generous. In addition to the last week of driving, moving and emotional support, he gave me 24 years of love and lessons. He raised me to be the woman he can leave in Los Angeles knowing that she can achieve what she puts her mind too, because he raised her to do just that.

Today I might have seen Sebastian Stand, but today I will remember saying goodbye to the man who put the training wheels on my bike and today metaphorically took them off and said in not so many words, “My work here is done, you can take it from here.”

Today I said goodbye to my Father, but I am so thankful the man is only a phone call away.