The novella 'Coming to Los Angeles: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love This City' continues as a serial this week.

I got off the airplane at LAX, collected my bags, and eventually stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the sidewalk. Around me, frenetic travelers moved through the dry air and sunshine of America's First City of Dreamseekers.

My friend Genevieve Morgan had agreed to meet me outside the baggage claim area, but as I scanned the traffic jam of cars and taxis, I realized I couldn't remember what she looked like. She has blonde hair, I thought, looking around. So many blondes. I hoped Genevieve could identify me. I didn't have a cell phone.

I heard a light female voice calling my name. A woman who looked nothing like the Genevieve I remembered stood waving at me - her SUV stopping the inside lane of traffic. She had black hair. That couldn't be her. But she was calling my name. Tentatively, I carried my bags into traffic. Genevieve urged me to get in - amidst the sound of horns and voices.

I must not have paid attention to Genevieve's appearance - this Westside professional sitting in the driver's seat was not someone I even recognized. Was it just my lack of observation skills, or had she changed a lot? Thankfully, I did recognize her voice.

As her SUV parked itself in the permanent traffic jam called the 405, Genevieve and I made small talk. She asked me about my trip in. I told her about some of my experiences in San Francisco. It felt odd talking to her. This is a stranger, not my warm, laughing friend from Orlando.

Now, I realize what had happened. In Florida, Genevieve had been on vacation - here she was the busy chair of an English department at a private school that was young and needed to find another English teacher. Genevieve was running out of time.

When I look back to that first conversation we had on the way in from the LAX, I realize that our eventual conflicts were already visible, had I been alert. The differences in our educational philosophy were significant.

As head of the English department, Genevieve focused on keeping everyone happy: parents, administration, students, other teachers. In a school that placed a premium on collaboration, Genevieve listened closely to other people's opinions. Her evaluation meetings with me always involved the observations of my colleagues. Being a team player was crucial to Genevieve. Teachers who didn't collaborate well soon found jobs at other schools or in other careers. Genevieve helped them exit Archer in a way that made each departing teacher feel good.

Making students feel good as they learned was also critical to Genevieve. She was a highly empathetic listener, always ready with a tissue. My focus, on the other hand, lay in giving my students the best education possible - I was more concerned about challenging them than I was about keeping them happy, an objective that I felt rarely translates into real world skills. I believe self-confidence emerges from the mastery of skills and subject material. Trying to make everyone happy all the time about learning is an exercise in futility.

My focus was also split between my teaching and my work as a writer and director. I saw the work I was doing outside the classroom as an enhancement to my teaching - and I often shared stories about my outside work as teaching examples. This ran contrary to Archer's overall teaching philosophy that a good teacher's primary focus is always on the student. My actions made me a liability to Genevieve, who was my supervisor. She found my actions difficult to defend.

Perhaps I could have predicted this the day I arrived in Los Angeles - perhaps not. Would anything have turned out differently if I had known the right questions to ask?

As we moved through traffic, Genevieve told me that she had arranged for my interview on Monday morning. My lack of concern must have made Genevieve suspect that I wasn't interested in anything more than free lodging. She soon reined me in by joshing me: "Now Steven, you have to take this seriously."

I promised her I would - the more I thought about it, the more I had become interested in the job. I liked being recruited. Suddenly, things had gotten serious. I don't think this is just a scouting trip anymore.
As we pulled into the entrance of the Best Western Hotel at Venice Beach, Genevieve sketched out a basic schedule of events for my visit. She also clarified one minor detail - the school couldn't reimburse me for the one night of hotel charges until after I returned home - it was school policy.

Genevieve's SUV disappeared, leaving me on my own. I went to my room, unpacked, changed clothes. I made my way outside, walking down a side street towards the colorful world of Venice Beach. I made my way through a plaza with shops on each side. The late afternoon sun stretched towards the bright blue of the Pacific Ocean in front of me, fading into the warm glow of Magic Hour - when the world achieves a perfect blend of color and light.

I looked around me. The vibrant community of artists who live and work in Venice sprang to life before my eyes. Sweeping past me was a young woman on roller blades, in jean cutoffs, a tank top, and mazy tattoos. She was passing a bronzed statue on a round pedestal - except now the statue's whitened face was coming down and around, his arm sweeping up again in a smooth movement as it raked the sky and froze, pointing towards a shop with racks of photos enlarged to the size of posters and skewed slightly - there's Al Pacino in The Godfather and over there the faces of Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway in Chinatown.

As I drank in the freedom and sand and wind and sun, I noticed a shop that rented roller blades. I made my way towards it. I passed a couple of colorful beatniks playing on a warm wooden kettledrum and a beat-up guitar. Nearby, a blonde-haired Jamaican man sucked on a bright red bong.

A short time later I found myself on the busy roadway running along the beach, being passed by skaters and bicyclers and walking couples and runners, with me balancing on the narrow running wheels. I found my balance. How similar this is to the ice skating I did as a child on our bishop's pond in the middle of Hartville - and then I realized what Genevieve had done, and I laughed aloud in delight.

She couldn't have found a better place to introduce Los Angeles to me. I laughed again. A skater glanced at me as she glided by, her smooth legs moving in synch to an inner rhythm I hadn't yet mastered. This has to be the most eclectic place in the city. Safe and attractive. I could live here. These are my type of people.

I had once told a girlfriend that I dreamed of living on the beach - and writing full time. Yes, I could imagine living here. I wonder how much it would cost. I looked at a tatty apartment complex I was passing. Surely it can't be that expensive. This is the life.

Monday's interview only confirmed my reactions. It was unlike any teaching interview I had ever experienced.

In the Midwest when I had applied for a teaching position, I had gone through a series of interviews, moving up the ladder from the least influential administrator to the most. They had looked at my resume, read and called my references. When I was hired, my last interview was with the superintendent, who made the final decision to recommend me. The approval of the board of education was a given.

The Archer School for Girls was different. I found out later that if I had visited during the school year, I would have taught a class of students - a polished lesson that showed off my strengths as a teacher. This would have been observed by interested faculty and key administrators. Next, I would have toured the school, ostensibly to see what the community was like. In reality, it would serve to give the teaching community a chance to see whether they wanted to do lunch with me for the next few years.

After I left, the school would have collected input from the faculty, evaluating my overall impact. A premium would have been placed on my educational pedigree - Brown, Yale, Princeton are good - and then weighed this against any awards or grants I had earned. The entire community would have participated in my hiring - with the head of school listening to the feedback.

But with me, the system had to be adjusted. There were few teachers in the building. There were no classes to teach. There could be no audition.

There was also the pressure of time. The school year was rumbling towards them, and Archer had just accepted the largest seventh-grade class in its history - before or since - and they needed to find an English teacher immediately, and ideally, she should be breathing.

I was not a typical independent schools candidate. Yes, I had gotten my MA from The Bread Loaf School of English at Middlebury College, and Archer was stealing me away from a secure job. I had been ranked among the top ten teachers in my county the previous year. But I was also a public school teacher from Ohio - not a positive, since I was used to a teacher's union. Perhaps they considered the fact that if all else failed, they could just let me go.

Until I came to Los Angeles, I didn't know what the phrase at-will contract meant. It was a shock to find out that a private school teacher has zero job security. In Ohio, if a public school system signs a contract with you, there is a process they must follow when they do anything. This gives the teacher some control.

In a private school, however, things are different. If a teacher doesn't work out, the school is perfectly within its rights to fire that teacher. There is little protection if someone with influence decides you aren't being supportive or enthusiastic enough about your job.

The wonderful thing about teaching within a tight-knit community is that everyone knows your business. This familial connectedness provides powerful support when you undergo difficulty. People genuinely care. For example, when my father was undergoing surgery, there was a flood of compassion extended to me through emails, cards, and personal comments - a touch on the arm, a listening ear, and even a note from one of Archer's founders: Dr. Diana Meehan-Goldberg and her husband Gary Goldberg.

On the other hand, the difficult thing about teaching within a tight-knit community is that everyone knows your business. The same system of information-gathering and dispersal comes to bear when things aren't going so well, and almost everyone within the community soon knows it.

And over the years, I began to realize that in many ways I had found my way back to the tight-knit community of my childhood, a warm, supportive community with a complex system of unwritten rules about how one should interact with other.

I felt the departures of people I had learned to care about in the years that followed - a teacher or staff member who suddenly decided that the job wasn't working out, and quietly left, sometimes in the middle of the academic year. This is the way of independent schools, I was told, not just at Archer. Turnover is high.

There is a reason for this - an independent school itself must remain light on its feet in order to survive. The administration must be able to change rapidly to confront challenges.

In private education, the head of school must be a rainmaker. Financial support comes primarily from the parents and alumni and private donors. They need to be kept happy - nothing is for free. Thus, an administrator must sometimes embrace compromise. It's the reality any politician faces - if you don't like the heat, stay in the classroom.

Thus, an educational decision may be influenced as much by a parent's potential as a future donor as by what's best for the child's future - especially when it comes to making tough decisions regarding discipline and admission.

But what is the alternative?

In public schools, bureaucracy exists to ensure that decisions are based on the district's education mission. Teachers are responsible to the administration, which is responsible to the state legislature. Therefore, the parents have much less of a voice. And once a teacher earns tenure, it takes time and criminal behavior to get rid of him.

Of course, with such security comes less freedom - teachers are bound by a state-mandated curriculum. Frequent, mandatory testing required by No Child Left Behind steals time that could be spent teaching - teachers face daily frustration over this.

I've enjoyed 23 years of teaching - over half of them in private education, and the remainder in public schools. Each has its strengths and weaknesses.

But of course, I had yet to understand the challenges of teaching at an independent school on the Westside when I arrived for my interview at Archer back in August 2001.

What to wear for my upcoming interview? I had only casual clothes since I had made no plans to interview for a job when I left Ohio. Genevieve suggested that I might not want to wear the tee shirt from Orlando - the one with the words BITE ME superimposed over an alligator's gaping mouth. Perhaps just a plain tee shirt, beach shorts, sandals? After I arrived at the interview, I realized that my clothes really weren't critical. Everyone else was dressed California Casual - a term that means informal with a dash of prep.

The interview was a rolling one. Deirdre Gainor, the assistant head of school, was warm, empathetic - she drove the interview, which turned out to be more of a conversation. I wasn't the only one who talked. Everyone else around the table did too, and that sometimes included all six teachers sitting around the table at once. I realized that Archer teachers liked each other, and they wanted to get to know me. Other teachers and administrators kept dropping in, being introduced, joining the conversation, asking questions, and then leaving.

After lunch, I toured the school. I was impressed with the friendliness of the faculty and students who happened to be on campus that day. I learned later that a school like this only survives because its teachers and students are constantly "selling it." Always "on." After I joined the faculty, I became part of the sales pitch.

Of course, it was easy to do since I had fallen in love with Archer the moment I arrived. Even with the front area torn up by construction, the sight of the expansive courtyards in the building, the well-watered lawns, all made me feel like I was on a college campus. There was even a Starbucks across the street.

It was clear that they wanted me. It felt good to be wanted.

After my tour of the school, Gainor met with me again and asked what it would take to get me to Archer. I told her what my salary was in Ohio, what I would need if I were to accept the job. I requested that Archer pay for my moving expenses.

Gainor told me she'd get back to me. She needed to call the head of school, Arlene Hogan, who was currently in New York City.

I had a good shot at the job - if I wanted it. I needed to think, so I went back to my hotel room. I needed to talk through the choice I was considering.

One of those I called was Pam McCarthy, the chair of my English department back at Hoover. We talked for a long time. Pam had always been straight with me, a loyal friend.

Over my seven years at Hoover, I had gotten more day-to-day mentoring from Pam than anyone else. Our classrooms were separated by a publications lab with windows on either side. Thus, I had watched her teach countless classes, and vice-versa. During critical times, Pam had defended me to the administration. She was a superb teacher, and her department loved her.

Pam knew of my dreams and had seen my development on Hoover's stage. She told me that Hoover would lose a fine teacher, but she also recognized the opportunity I was being offered - to move to the city of my choice. She was excited for me. She understood my worries, she told me, but she reminded me how much I had grown as a teacher and how ready I was for a new challenge.

"Look at you," she said. "You've got no wife or children. No dependents. This is exactly the opportunity you've been looking for. What are you waiting for?"

I didn't call my family. They saw Los Angeles as a place where movie stars misbehaved. I don't need their influence now. They distrust me. I'll only distrust myself more by the time I'm done talking to them. The West was also where my sister Marjorie had fled - California didn't have a great track record in my family's collective mind.

Already, I doubted whether I could make it on my own financially. I had stayed close to home because it was my safety net, I realized - if I failed at teaching, I had told myself, I could always go back to concrete work, the trade I had learned in my teens.

The next day was Tuesday. No news from Archer. So I went rollerblading on the runway along the beach between Venice and Santa Monica. I did some shopping, bought a couple of shirts, even purchased my own pair of rollerblades - why waste my money on rental fees?

Late that morning, Genevieve called me. She had an idea. She had found my resume. Why didn't we copy it off and drop it in the mailbox of each administrator involved in making the hiring decision. Then we could go to the beach. Her daughters - both in elementary school - could come with us. Nick was at the office.

Genevieve's SUV picked me up at the hotel, and we went to the school. At mid-afternoon the school was deserted. Genevieve made copies of my resume, and we put them in the appropriate boxes.

On Wednesday morning, promptly at 9 AM, I got three calls from the school. None of the three seemed aware that the others had called.

The new academic dean, John Wands, wanted to interview me. Nancy Goglia, the middle school director, also wanted to see me. And Gainor wanted to talk to me again.

When I met with Wands, he grilled me - but we ended up connecting. We talked for quite awhile.
Goglia seemed positive and upbeat and professional - very organized. Her assistant, Ogreita Lawson, seemed motherly and straight-up in her approach to life.

Finally, I met with Gainor. She said she had talked to Archer's head of school Arlene Hogan, who was in New York City. They were officially offering me a teaching position.
They wanted me. They were willing to meet all of my requests.

I was still unsure. I told her that I would think about it and let them know by the weekend. Then I added a stipulation. I was flying out the next morning for Ohio. Could they have a contract in my hands before I left? I needed the offer on paper.

No problem. I could pick it up in the morning.

That evening, Genevieve and her husband Nick - tall, kind eyes, a lawyer - took me out to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. We talked about the position. Genevieve warned me of the politics I would face. But she was also excited about what I could bring to Archer.

That evening, I also called Rick Campbell, my principal. I told him about Archer's offer, letting him know I was considering it. He was not happy, but he was also reasonable. He didn't want to stand in the way of my success.

Rick urged me to think through what I was doing carefully before leaving.

As I sat in my hotel room, I thought about Rick's point of view. He had been a fine principal who played by the rules. We had had our clashes across the years - as a faculty leader, I was bound to disagree with any principal, and I had - but Rick always played honest, straightforward.

I also knew by then that I was not the easiest teacher to manage. Over my years at North Canton, I had become a risk-taker, independent - often coming up with new ideas. Yes, he appreciated the results, but it was sometimes a difficult process getting there with me.

As we talked about my job offer, I felt his tension. With virtually no notice, he would have to hire two other teachers to run the drama club and teach my English classes. He had already given me exactly what I had asked for by hiring someone to take over the yearbook staff at the end of the past year.

Of course, I knew replacing me was easier than it looked. North Canton is one of the best school districts in the State of Ohio, and excellent candidates would line up to take my place.

But I did want to be respectful to him. He deserved that much. So I promised him I would think seriously about what he had said.

After I hung up, I contemplated the risks I was taking. I would be leaving a secure job for an insecure position in a city far from anyone I knew. It had taken years to build a teaching career in Ohio, and if I failed in California and decided to return home, I doubted I could find a position as strong as the one I enjoyed at North Canton.

It took me a long time to fall asleep that night.

To be continued . . .

NEXT WEEK - Chapter 5: Sacrament of Fear