Into the Dark Continent of the Inland Empire

My path from the oasis-like luxury of Scottsdale to the grimy sidewalks of Pasadena was rather a convoluted but fun experience.

On Sunday, Red and I went back to the Phoenix airport, where she was scheduled to take a flight back to Portland. But I didn't go back with her. Instead I got on a short Southwest flight headed westward into Southern California.

It was an awesome flight experiences. I snagged a window seat on the left side of the plane and used my maps to identify the mountain ranges, valleys, and washes as we crossed the Sonoran Desert. When we flew over the Colorado River, one could see its twists and bends all the way south into Mexico.

Then we flew right over Palm Springs where I recognized many streets from my visit last year, and then just past the top of the snowy peaks that tower over the west side of the valley. One could well have waved to someone standing at the top. I love these "real life Google Earth" experiences (always bring a map on the plane!).

After an hour in the the air we came down into the urbanized valley east of Los Angeles---the Inland Empire, and landed at Ontario Airport.

The Ontario Airport was small and cozy. It was just a short walk to leave the secure area of the terminal and find myself outside the front doors.

The Inland Empire was one of the areas of the state I had neglected on my "long trip to California" last year, so I wanted to get to know it a little bit. Given the reputation of the Inland Empire as a cultural wasteland, this probably would sound nuts to a lot of people. But I like to see everything, I guess. 

I could have taken a cab to my hotel, but it was less than a mile away, and I knew the route from my detailed trip-planning maps.  So I strapped on my gold Golite Jam backpack and, dressed in long khaki slacks and a matching long-sleeve shirt like a safari trekker, sauntered out into the afternoon sun, picking my way over the railroad tracks to make a shortcut past an old Catholic church. The late Sunday mass was being broadcast (in English) on outdoor speakers to the courtyard.

Across the street from the church was a small post office housed inside a mobile home trailer, the kind one sees frequently in rural America. A sign identified it as Guasti, California. Nearby a historic plaque informed me that it was the site of a defunct historic California vineyard.

Then I wound through some deserted office park areas, having to cross several times where the sidewalk abruptly stopped. I crossed over I-10 and quickly found my hotel, the Ontario Grand Inn and Suites, which turned out to be a nice little boutique hotel with comfortable and clean rooms.

The only drawback to staying there was the sterile office park feeling of the entire area, nicely landscaped but seemingly devoid of any kind of life. The nearby boulevard was wider than most of the highways in the Portland, yet absurdly quiet on a Sunday evening.

For dinner, there was nothing in the area that wouldn't have required me to cross such wide boulevards and pick my through hedges, so I took the suggestion of the menu on the desk in my room and ordered delivery from a sports bar a couple miles a way.

I ate the delicious burger and fries while watching Mogambo (1953) and  Red Dust (1932) on TCM. The former is a remake of the latter, both starring Clark Gable and involving a love triangle set in the jungle, but with different leading actresses. TCM was showing both as a compare and contrast.

"I'm watching a Clark Gable movie," I texted Red, during Mogambo, which takes place in East Africa. "He just shot a gorilla."

Later on the phone I explained that he didn't want to shoot it. It had charged him and caught him off guard. He was pissed about having to kill it, in order to save someone else's life.

That's the way it goes. Sometimes it turns out you have shoot the gorilla.