Time Travel Agency Pty Ltd CUSTOMER SATISFACTION REPORT Place and date visited: LA, 1956 Agent who assisted you: Can''t remember his name. Joon? Young guy. Long hair. Any comments on your agent? Good value. We had a laugh. He stayed in character, though--never stopped acting like it was "time travel." Had you visited the Time Travel Agency before? If so, how many times? No. Why did you choose to visit the Time Travel Agency today? My girlfriend got me a gift certificate for here for my 40th.
(I once mentioned that the 1950s would''ve been cool--the cars, I meant--and I guess she grabbed a hold of that statement.) Please provide an account of your journey. Include any thoughts on the cleanliness, comfort, etc. of the booth and any symptoms of time lag you may now be experiencing. Booth was fine. I didn''t really look at it. I sit down and next thing I was "in the 1950s." There wasn''t any transition.
You might think about adding that, e.g., make it a car-riage on a track, carriage moves slowly uphill--zzzzzzip downhill and sudden stop. "Welcome to the 1950s! Enjoy your visit!" And then the customer gets out and walks around. As it is, it''s kind of an anticlimax. I''m in the booth-- 5, 4, 3, 2 . --and I''m there. I got to see a street, some old cars, people dressed up.
Including a bunch of girls wearing crop tops. (Did they show their stomachs back then?? Doubt it.) One girl had a ponytail which was better for the era. Weird lipstick and eyebrows all around. The sounds were good--honking horns, engines, birds, voices talking with American accents. I saw a hot dog stand and lined up to try "1950s food," then remembered my gift certificate didn''t include the currency option. So I got out of the line. That wasted a bit of time.
The production value and effects were excellent. It felt like I was properly there. Sun burning the back of my neck, and some-body brushed right by me. (An older woman with brown hair--did not look 1950s, by the way. She was the only one you didn''t get right-- except for those crop tops, but keep them.) There was even a bit where my shoe got stuck to melting tar. The colors really popped, and the old ads and billboards were good. I could see the Hollywood sign in the hills, and that looked fake.
Plus I saw in a documentary that it said Hollywoodland back then, not just Hollywood. The trip lasted around 15-20 minutes. Plenty. I''d had enough.No "time lag," lol. Maybe a headache, but that''s another issue. On a scale of 1 to 10, how likely are you to visit the Time Travel Agency again? 0. No offense, just it''s fairly pricey for what you get.
Also, I''ve done it now so it''s . done. 10/10 for effort, though. And I''ll be careful what I mention around my girlfriend in the future, lol. If I''d mentioned the state-oftheart bar fridge that I want (and that costs about the same as this one trip), instead of freaking 1950s cars, my life might''ve taken a whole other direction. As it is, well, here we are. 1. Anna A woman in a red coat was walking up a flight of concrete steps.
It was a Thursday, early June 2025, a crisp Sydney winter''s day, and the woman was hurrying. At the top of the stairs, she paused and unbuttoned her coat. She did not wish to remove the coat altogether, only to open it. It was a new coat, and very smart, with large silver buttons. In addition to being a woman in a red coat, this was a woman in a lemon-yellow shirt, black jeans, and black ankle boots. A navy blue beret sat upon her head. This had been knitted for her by her sister, Monique, who was crafty and practi- Oh look, I can''t keep this up. All I''m doing is describing the colors of my clothes.
The woman was me. Anna Salone. Pleased to meet you. My idea had been to write this narrative in close third person, like a clear and tender voice at my own shoulder, following me around through my days. Pausing for moments of quiet reflection-as I ducked my head into the linen closet, say, or scrubbed dried egg from a plate. But I haven''t even made it past the opening. (Also, to clarify: When I say that my sister Monique is "crafty," I don''t mean she''s wily and cunning. Just good at craft.
) (The navy blue beret is beautiful and well made. I feel elegant when I wear it. Also, I feel ridiculous. People stare, their expressions inscrutable. Frank admiration or suppressed hilarity? Could be either.) The reason I was hurrying up the steps was that I was late for work. And the reason I was late was that I''d driven my thirteen-year-old daughter, Nicola, to the bus stop, whereas usually she walks there. I''d been applying lipstick in the bathroom, believing Nicola to be packing her lunchbox in the kitchen.
I''d even heard the thud of her dropping a yogurt pouch onto the floor. Oh, Nicola, I''d thought fondly. Always dropping things. Then, passing Nicola''s bedroom, I''d caught a glimpse of tangled hair and pink pajamas. What''s that child doing in my daughter''s bed?! That was my first reaction: indignation. Quickly, it occurred to me that it was more likely that Nicola was oversleeping-and that the dropped yogurt pouch had been a car door slamming out in the street-than that a strange child in pink pajamas had climbed into my daughter''s empty bed. The oversleeping hypothesis proved true. I hustled Nicola out of bed and followed her around like a close third-person narrator, only less tender, shouting instructions.
"Hurry! You''re going to miss the bus!" and "No need to brush your teeth for two whole minutes, no, seriously, don''t set the timer, Nicola! Leave it! Yes, I know the dentist said, but the dentist isn''t going to miss the bus!" Then I tossed her a banana for her breakfast and zoomed her up the hill to the bus stop. After that, I drove back home, parked the car in the garage, and set off to walk to work. I miscalculated how long it took to walk. (That''s a fancy way of saying I knew perfectly well that it took me twenty minutes to walk to work and yet, that day, I decided I could do it in three.) Having reached the top of the stairs, I rushed past the tennis club, the playground, and a pair of art deco apartment blocks, my new coat flapping like a malfunctioning burrito. In my head I was rehearsing excuses. I couldn''t blame Nicola for my lateness because Trisha, the manager, holds strong views on "enabling children in habits of carelessness." Trisha has three sons, two at university and one in high school.
All three "learned quick smart" that Trisha was "not at their beck and call." Let''s say one of Trisha''s sons was at a pool party, realized he''d forgotten his swimsuit, and called her up seeking help? She, Trisha, would not come running with the swimsuit! No, sirree! Her son would have to face the consequences. "And you know what, Anna?" Trisha liked to say. "What?" "They never forget that swimsuit again!" "Seriously?" "Seriously. You know why? Because they''ve suffered the ." "Consequences," I would fill in obediently. I myself have suffered the consequences of my own forgetfulness, or carelessness, plenty of times in my life and yet I carry on forgetting and careless-ing. I mentioned this to Trisha once, and she flashed me the look she used to give me, the one that meant she suspected there was something not quite right about me-a bit off-color even-before turning back to weighing the dry-roasted almonds.
(I worked for Trisha at the Nut Bar.) So I couldn''t mention having driven Nicola to the bus stop. Anyway, the real issue was that I''d then driven home instead of continuing on to work. (I had to. My Fitbit requires the steps. So really this whole thing is the fault of a needy Fitbit.) I decided to invent an excuse. I''m sorry I''m late, I rehearsed.
I spilled coffee on my shirt at breakfast! I had to change! How long did it take to change a shirt? I''m so sorry I''m late. I got halfway to work and realized I''d spilled coffee on my shirt at breakfast! Why had I not noticed the stain when I spilled the coffee in the first place? I''m so sorry, I began, crossing Yeo Street, and that''s when the car hit me. It felt very personal, as these things do. I landed in the gutter with a shriek of outrage. Next I realized that, of course, it must have been a car, not a hostile stranger rushing up to give me a good shove. The rage dissipated. A car, like a falling tree branch, is inanimate. I must have walked right in front of it.
The car had been in its own territory, the road, and I''d strayed into that territory. These were the . "Consequences," I whispered. I lay in the gutter, embarrassed. Footsteps ran toward me. They reminded me of the time when my family went to Universal Studios and watched a demonstration of how sound effects were added to a scene. These footsteps had the same self-importance. These are running footsteps, they said.
Tap, tap, tap. The footsteps scuffed up beside me and became heavy breathing. This is heavy breathing. A deep intake of breath and a man''s voice asked, "Are you okay?" Am I okay?! I was affronted. "I got hit by a car!" I expostulated, sitting up quickly. Was I okay?! Of course I was not okay! Although my head had felt fine when I sat up quickly just now-it often spins when I do that, even when I haven''t been hit by a car.