Stuck with the team and car on Newport

There is a place for everything, and everything has its place.

Water, something of which we are all fond, has many places. A glass,

a fish tank, an ocean, a lake -- those are all good places for water.

A busy intersection, on the other hand, is a bad place.

A week ago Friday, around noontime, an aged water main on Balboa

Peninsula decided enough was enough, sighed heavily, then broke down

completely. To its credit, it served us well, having been installed

in 1926, which was a long time ago. Unfortunately, when it finally

succumbed, it created a nice lake at Newport Boulevard and 32nd

Street and backed traffic up to somewhere between Fullerton and

Bakersfield.

Water, and lots of it, began to bubble up to the surface, causing

a very noticeable bulge in the asphalt above it, like a giant blister

about to burst, which it did. Large numbers of people called Newport

Beach City Hall and said, “Your street is leaking,” to which the city

responded, “Thanks, we’re on it,” which they were, just moments

later.

Newport Boulevard was shut down for hours, while an army of hole

diggers, pipe fixers and traffic directors dug holes, fixed pipes and

directed traffic.

The battle of the puddle had a number of deleterious, though

unavoidable, consequences. Water service was lost to some homes and

businesses in the immediate area, including City Hall, where

Porta-Potties were set up for city workers -- something I can

appreciate having had considerable experience at a city hall. It’s

very hard to explain the conditions of approval on a conditional-use

permit to someone when you have to go really, really bad.

But the big impact of the big burst was the aforementioned traffic

snarl, which had everything north of Balboa Peninsula locked up tight

-- Newport Boulevard, Superior, PCH and the Costa Mesa Freeway.

With the Arches bridge closed to southbound traffic and no access

to Via Lido, trying to get to Lido was a cross between New Year’s Eve

in Times Square and the evacuation of Saigon. At 6:30 p.m. that

Friday, I was trying to get to Lido. We were on our way to dinner at

the lovely Lido Isle home of Bob and Christine Iger, which I used to

think was lovely before Friday, and I’m sure I will again, someday,

after the post-traumatic stress wears off.

Fortunately, Christine had left a message earlier giving us a

heads-up about the traffic snarl. Being an incredibly smart,

transportation expert, highly experienced road warrior, I knew

exactly what to do. Take Placentia to Superior, which becomes Balboa

Boulevard as it crosses Coast Highway, head south of 32nd Street, a

few left turns and badabing -- Lido Isle. No worries, piece of cake,

like taking candy from a baby. Excellent idea -- which is why it

occurred to the other 1.3 million people trying to get to the

Peninsula.

I’ll spare you the gory details, save the timeline. The trip from

Adams and Placentia to Lido Isle took 1 hour and 5 minutes, including

35 minutes to travel the five blocks between Placentia and Superior

and Coast Highway, at which point we were only beginning our odyssey

down one side of the Peninsula and up the other.

Aside from the physical horror of being caught in one, being

trapped long enough in a traffic nightmare begins to play tricks on

your mind. Because you spend so much time looking at the cars and the

people around you, you get to know them, in an odd, unexplained sort

of way. You begin to think there is some connection between you and

the cars closest to you -- the Camry and the Expedition, the Jeep and

the Mercedes. They become your “team” -- and you really want your

team to do well. You hate the team in front of you because they move

way too late and much too slow. You don’t really care about the team

behind you, other than making sure they never, ever get past your

team.

Once in a while, a rogue player tries to squeeze in from one

direction or another. All the teams tense up and close ranks,

determined to not let them in. When a member of your team gives up

and disappears down a side street, for just a moment, you feel a

sense of loss. But seconds later, someone else takes their place. Now

the Lexus is on your team, and you’re almost tempted to wave “hello.”

Of course, none of it is real. You have no connection whatsoever with

the cars around you, nor they to you. It is a temporary

hallucinogenic reaction, brought on by prolonged exposure to

taillights. Very common.

And that, more or less, is how I began my Labor Day weekend. Just

one more lesson in the notebook of life: check the traffic reports,

wear your seatbelt and above all, stay with your team. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.