The 101
When I lived in Virginia, I-64 was a pertinent fact of life. I knew every exit on 64, east and west, between Norfolk and Williamsburg. If I had to give directions, I gave them by that interstate. “You take 64 West toward Yorktown…”
In Michigan it was I-69 that cut through my small town, and it was common to give directions beginning with, “Well, you know I-69?”.
But in L.A., for some reason, highways are prefaced with the. I don’t know why this is, but it doesn’t take newcomers long to catch on. “You take the 101.” Or rather, you don’t take the 101 if you can avoid it. Better to limp down Vermont on crutches than take the 101. It’s awful. But why are the highways here all “the 405,” and “the 110”?
What’s particularly odd is that I didn’t even notice this little quirk until I referred to the 101 as simply “avoiding 101” and my neighbor from New York, said, “Oh, you haven’t started calling it the 101 yet? You’ve been here for a year!”
Even on the local news, “the 101 is backed up from exits 6A to 3B” (again. Still.) And “if you can, take the 405.”
Maybe it’s an unconscious distancing mechanism to avoid the familiarity of naming. Or maybe it’s a statement about driving on them; our freeways aren’t a place, like “Los Feliz” or “Inglewood.” They’re an experience, like “the accident” and “the tax audit” or “the pothole that nearly broke my car’s frame on Wilshire, near 3rd,” or “the time I got arrested in Turkey.” Okay, they aren’t quite that bad. But they’re close. They’re the clogged arteries of a frantic heart.
