Mapping Toluca Lake

Ten years ago, if you were lost in the city, a thick spiral-bound Thomas Guide aided you in finding your destination. Now, almost every smartphone is equipped with Google maps and GPS.

Yet, a small map and travel bookstore in Toluca Lake called Geographia, at 4000 W. Riverside Drive, still sells the original paper tools that once helped transplants and native Angelenos find their way around the confusing urban sprawl.

I noticed the map store and bookshop while walking down Riverside Drive last month, but to my disappointment it was closed for the holidays. I returned this week with high hopes of immersing myself in a world of travel euphoria. The window displayed several new travel books and a sign that said “Open.”

I turned the door knob, stepped inside, and soon found myself confronted with a raised topographical map of California. I knew I was home.

I don’t remember when I started collecting maps, or when I developed a strong penchant for vintage World’s Fair posters, but I soon ended up with a bedroom completely adorned with them.

I assume it stemmed from a geography class early in elementary school. My teachers always talked about far-off places, but we never got to go see them. It was like showing photographs of rich desserts to a group of people on a strict diet. I craved traveling to Madagascar and Paris, but I stayed in California, dutifully attending school, where every day I watched at least one teacher pull down a world map. 

When I got older and had the chance to travel to a few different countries, I appreciated my home state and city. I wanted not just maps of Paris and other chaotic European cities, but images of my own landscape, the one I was living in. To know how streets intersect, and where; to know how to get from Santa Monica to Echo Park, or Montebello to Culver City; that was a skill I considered to be above knowing how to mix a playlist on a smart phone while simultaneously following a bouncing blue GPS ball. And so, I have sought to master that skill through visual reminders in my apartment.  

I didn’t have a map of Los Angeles, and that bothered me. I spent years collecting vintage maps of faraway places while neglecting my own environment.

The first map I gravitated to at Geographia was a map of downtown Los Angeles that illustrated the neighborhood’s buildings and parks from a bird’s eye view. “An Axonometric View of the City of Angels,” the map read. I tucked it under my arm.

I then began browsing the world maps. I have a world map, albeit not a very good one, above the very desk I write at. But this year I made a promise to transform my room, and the old map, with a tear at the right corner, needed to be replaced, if only because it was so small, individual cities and countries weren’t listed.

I found a laminated map, longer than my desk, which not only listed cities and regions, but displayed the areas in brilliant primary colors. I held onto that one, and browsed the rest of the store.

I couldn’t help but browse the selection of travel books. I picked up a photo book that showed the transformation of the San Fernando Valley over the last few decades. Bob’s Big Boy, less than a mile from where I stood, looked as popular in the 40s as it is today.

I noticed the owner, who was previously answering map-related questions to customers on the telephone, was free. I inquired about the selection of Los Angeles maps. He pulled out a pink topographical map of the eastside, which included Los Feliz, Elysian Park, Glassell Park and downtown.

I moved my finger down the lines of the freeway, and followed the curves of the canyons. The map came from a shelf full of topographical maps of specific neighborhoods in California. There were many options, but this was the one I felt I still had a lot to learn from.

If public school taught me anything, a map’s primary purpose is a trusty educational device.