I Love LA?
Throughout my time living in Los Angeles, I haven’t been one to truly admire or respect the amenities it has to offer. I mean there are a lot of wonderful delights that LA has bestowed upon me, but no one day has really made me say, “I love LA.” The other day though, LA shined some cliche movie montage moments throughout my day, and although they were mishmashed with some intriguingly disturbing moments as well…the day will remain a memorable 24 hours throughout my continuing Los Angeles history.
Before I even woke up on March 14, 2010, I was already anticipating what the day had to offer; since it was to be hockey day. You see, ever since the Olympics (and teased upon earlier through my dating of a Canadian woman), I have fallen into the excitement of the sport; and enjoy that it offers me a Los Angeles sporting team that I can actually support. As it is, my San Diego upbringing condemns me from ever supporting the Dodgers (although I did have a quick childhood spell following the men in blue when Darryl Strawberry donned their uniform, but was relieved of my Dodger blue apparel when Mr. Strawberry decided to foray into the world of drugs). As far as my feelings about the Lakers are concerned, I just don’t give a damn about basketball. If I did, my team would remain the Suns, who hail from my birthright city and state. So, Sunday was to be the day that I truly got to experience a professional hockey game, and my first Los Angeles sporting event where I was not to be an outsider amongst the crowd.
Since I live extremely close to a Metro station, that was to be our mode of transport. I am one of the few people I know in Los Angeles, who actually uses it on occasion. Spending my last six years in San Francisco, I’ve got no qualms about spending some time away from my car and hopping onto some public transit. Usually, it just ends up being a cheap and simple means of travel. On Sunday though, getting to the train station my buddy and I were running a little late, since we had partaken in some early afternoon cocktails to minimize our expenditures on beverages while at the game (sorry Mom & Dad, I know you are eventually gonna’ read this…I swear I’m not an alcoholic, it was just a financially wise decision). Our buzzed nonchalant nature got us to the station later than we had anticipated, and as we got to the station we were just in time to see the train scurry away without us. As the train cruised through the tunnel in front of our eyes, we sat down upon the bench to wait out the minutes before we could get on our way to the arena. During this period, we were approached by a man who at first glance seemed normal; until his finger began frantically waving in our direction inches from our faces as he condemned us for our evil ways, continually bellowing about the dangers which will encompass us in our afterlife if we don’t find Jesus ASAP. At first, I thought he may have smelt the bourbon on our breath, but as he went from person to person in the station it was clear that he knew that it was impossible for anyone waiting for a train on Sunday morning to have been buddy-buddy with Jesus…and it was also clear, that he was crazy.
After some time to wallow in our pagan ways and wash away our eventual eternity in hell with some bourbon induced Arizona green tea, the MTA came to our rescue as the glistening silver train rumbled forth in our direction. As we entered the thoroughly occupied car we eyed seats and rushed to obtain them before the car was to jump back into motion. As I readied to sit, the train was more prepared than I, as it jolted me forward in my off balanced buzzed state towards the brink of falling face first into the young rough edged, sun glass wearing (worn underground, miles from sunlight), tattooed and likely gang associated gentleman in front of me. Luckily for me, my balance saved me inches from actually striking contact with the gentleman in his “below the belt” region. As I straightened myself into the seat, I noticed some tall lanky black spandex wearing individuals with flamboyant fluorescent wigs across from me, each of whom constantly whispered back and forth amongst themselves keeping secrets not only with their words, but also with their faces; as one kept his face shielded with a black stocking the entire time. Just as I was soaking in the wigged mystery men, a voice projected throughout the train from a man behind me trying to gain our attention.
The man who screamed upon deaf ears, struggled to open his backpack and reach for a jar hidden deep within the red JanSport. He spoke of a child who had been killed by a drunk driver, and how the family needed our help to be able to organize a funeral. The man screamed consistently in English and Spanish, until he began to sweat from his forceful pleas. Back and forth he walked asking not only for money, but at least for some respect and condolences. He touted a photo of the deceased child on the jar, and fervently leveraged it above his head. I stared at him. I hoped to convey to him my condolences, but at the same time couldn’t let myself fall completely to his words, as my skepticism continually spoke of the possibility of this all being a rouse. As I debated the honesty in his voice, the lanky wigged man whose face was shielded walked passed me to hand the man some change. I on the other hand, fell to skepticism.
We left the train, excited to be a few blocks from the game. Walking through downtown always feels new to me, and it allows me to feel like a visitor in my own town. New buildings are sprouting around the LA Live, and the area is beginning to strike a nice balance of commerce and community. With each step closer to the Staples Center, we became merged within a continuously growing mass of Kings garbed fans. We reached the arena being mere specks in a sea of purple and black, and branched off from the masses heading into the stadium as we moseyed our way towards the Will Call window. I received my packet of tickets and as I glanced through the envelope ready to confirm that they were the $20 nose bleed seats that I ordered, the price in the upper corner struck my eyes…$62 (score!). We not only still had the food coupons from the family pack, which offered us each a free hot dog and soda, but now had seats an entire section lower. Walking to our seats the cold of the ice reached my skin, and as I glimpsed up to the very top of the arena where our seats were supposed to be; a chill swept through my veins.
With the first goal of the game, I involuntarily launched to my feet and screamed alongside the other 18,000 fans. As we cheered, the sound system began to blare “I Love LA,” and as Randy Newman’s words echoed through the arena and the pulsating rumbles of the energetic crowd shook my body, I truly felt like an Angeleno. The match-up was a true back-and-forth battle in which I waited with bated breath over every slice of a skate and each smack of the puck. Biting my fingernails through the entire game, the last buzzer slammed down like a Judge’s mallet as it declared this game a loss for the Kings. We left the game slightly more somber than if we would have won, but fulfilled nonetheless.
As we opened the doors to exit the arena, the sunlight blasted into our faces blinding our vision and warming our skin; which still felt the reminisce of a chill from our time sitting ice-side. This day epitomized the perfection of Southern California weather. Walking through Downtown there was a very sublime feel, as the normal weekly hustle and bustle was resting up for a new week; and the streets were only occupied by the casual Sunday lallygags. We stumbled upon a nice little restaurant and were able to order our meals two minutes before they were to stop serving breakfast. Sitting on the European influenced patio eating our mid-afternoon breakfast, I felt comfortable surrounded by the skyscrapers and the casual passers-by.
We left the restaurant with fulfilled bellies, and began a meandering walk through the downtown landscape to meet up with my girlfriend who had been craving a Twitter food truck for lunch. She was driving to meet us, but having just eaten a meal, we thought a stroll in her direction would be good for the body. As we walked deeper into the Downtown district and further away from the constantly developed area surrounding the LA Live, the amount of hustle and bustle on the streets by the Downtown locals grew; as the degradation of the architecture and lessened quality of the storefronts became more apparent. With each step forward, the sidewalks got busier with activity. Throughout my time living in San Francisco, I had been accustomed to occasionally walking through the shadier areas of town and feeling like an outsider among the true locals of the streets; but this was my first time doing so in Los Angeles. I was excited and intimidated at the same time, since I was definitely intrigued to see what type of people we would come across…especially after having our first interaction be with a man who stumbled directly up to me and as he looked me in the eyes he let out a mostly unintelligible scream that sounded like, “Black Mamba!” I’ve been called many things in my life, but I never believed the day would come when I could be classified under the term Black Mamba…I now feel as though my options for public ridicule or endearment through nicknames are endless.
As we walked further along the sidewalk, we came face-to-face with a man whose image will remain within my memory for years. The man coming towards us stood about three feet tall, and moved towards us at a rapid pace; barreling down the middle of the sidewalk. As I scanned the man’s stature, I was shocked to recognize that the upper body of this short person seemed to be of average adult scale; and as my eyes lowered towards his hip I noticed that his whole abdominal was covered in duct tape and there were no legs reaching towards the sidewalk. The man carried himself upon his hands, and moved similar to a gorilla. His legless lower body slammed upon the ground with every move forward, with the only padding being that of the duct tape (which also seemed to have some sort of plastic bagging beneath it). His face showed no pain or frustration. I know that to him this is just normal, and his only way to get from one place to another. For me though, I had to wonder how it’s possible for a man with this disability to not be properly equipped for everyday travel. I am assuming that this man can’t afford the proper health services to be accommodated with a wheelchair, and I may be wrong; it may be that he has chosen not to receive a wheelchair for other reasons. This is not where I go into a discussion about the state of our health care system, cause I really wouldn’t even know where to start. This is where I recognize that, this man who passed me so nonchalantly within a minutes time, left a mark on my subconscious about the overall survival strength of the human spirit. I’m sure there was a point in this man’s life where the struggle was near unbearable, but on this day when he passed me it seemed as though he was completely comfortable with his situation and the life that he is living.
My phone rang in my pocket, and I picked it up to the voice of my girlfriend who was telling us she was nearby. As we turned the corner, we met her midway down the block. With a hug and a kiss we were on our way to the Calbi Korean taco truck. The Twitter trucks have been all the rage in the Los Angeles area, and my girlfriend and I are on the bandwagon ready to eat up all the trucks have to offer. Within the past couple months, this has been one of our favorite things about living in Los Angeles. So as we reached the truck, my stomach was content with my mid-afternoon breakfast, but my eyes and nose were jealous of the meal she was about to have. Watching her fulfill her mad craving, I was pleased to see her content.
Of all the Twitter trucks, one has remained elusive to my girlfriend and I. The tasty treats of the CoolHaus ice cream truck have always been just beyond our grasp, and after finishing her burrito we decided today was the day we were going to get to savor the masterful ice cream sandwiches. We were ready to travel wherever it was in the city, but my friend had other plans…so first we drove him home. After an hour of sitting in the car staring at a variety of license plates while sitting in the ever present Los Angeles traffic, we reached the opposite end of town. Distressed from our time in traffic and the reality that we were now on the opposite side of town from the ice cream truck, our truck hunting spirits were slightly distraught. We were not going to give up though, as we got back on our way towards Santa Monica, where the truck was to be sitting beach-side with sun flaring off of its’ silver exterior as it sat waiting for us beside the pier. The conquering image of finally holding one of those ice cream sandwiches in my hand and sitting on the beach enjoying it, continuously ran through my head on an endless loop.
As we neared Santa Monica, we meandered towards the beach and down the Pacific Coast Highway towards the pier. Reaching the parking lot, the silver shine of the mini-truck was not instantaneously visible. We drove through the packed lot, meandering past the half-paced beach-goers. We knew the truck was serving a beach soccer tournament, and at the perimeter of the lot we could see tents set up which seemed likely to be associated with the tournament. As we neared the tents, there was no crowd or soccer ready youngsters around. It was all uncomfortably quiet as we approached the tents and we still had seen no evidence of the truck being nearby. Getting close enough to see what was happening around the tents, we understood that everything was being packed up and the tournament had already finished . We had gotten there too late. As the reality of our failure seeped in, our stomachs grumbled with disappointment. I skimmed the Twitter feeds hoping that it had moved onto another location that we could venture towards; but all was silent.
Our stomachs still craved sweetness, so we accommodated them with some local frozen yogurt. We had lost the battle with CoolHaus, but eventually we will win the war. As we finished our yogurts, we realized that we had to take advantage of our time being in Santa Monica. Driving through the area we had no desire to shop or cruise down the bustling pier, but we did notice that the sun was about to set. Since we both live in Hollywood, it is rare that we get a chance to watch the ocean sunset. We rushed towards the beach, as the sun continued its path behind the buildings and ever closer to the horizon. We were determined to make it to a comfortable place on the beach in time.
We pulled into the beach-side parking lot as the orange glare streamed through the windshield, and the sun hovered slightly above the calmed waves of the Pacific Ocean. We sat side-by-side letting the last rays of sun soak in, and feeling fortunate that we could experience this moment together. After a day that encompassed so much, these few minutes of pure beauty and calmness settled the senses. To imagine that this sunset happens everyday, no matter where I am or what I am doing, is comforting. The daily struggles we encounter are temporary, this natural beauty is permanent.
As this day ended, I felt a complete sense of joy in the overall variety of the day. After living in the city for almost two years, in this one day I felt as though I had really experienced the overall Los Angeles landscape as a local. I’m not ready to go running down the streets screaming of a love for LA, but there is much that I truly do love about it. I have much more to experience here, and I understand that with an open mind to the opportunities this town has to offer, I can continually be enlightened. I also can’t wait to chomp down on one of those ice cream sandwiches…they will be mine, oh yes, they will be mine.
-B
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