Being in LA means needing to have a distinct identity. Without it, you’d have no reason to be there, because the bedlam is worth nothing unless you can rationalize freedom and independence out of it. Leaving LA means being able to lose your identity for a while, and soak up those subtler, more delicate things in life. The way the air smells, the true color of foliage, the crispness of things untarnished by smog, and the softness and velvetiness that water used to have before it was being pumped through industrial city pipes. It was nice to step out of it for a few days and recall the many virtues of towniness.
Towniness means that other people already know who you are so you don’t have to go to laborious pains to prove it. It means that conversations are not laced with pretentiousness and subtexts. It means that kindness and courtesy do not necessarily come with a price. It means having the ability to turn small talk into meaningful conversations.
Cold weather is no big deal; it’s just a pain in the ass. Walking down 23rd Avenue in the Alphabet District, I marveled at my own shallowness in realizing that not being able to jive in cold weather actually comes from having to sacrifice fantastic strappy heels and skimpy tops. In LA, every day of the year is a good day for flip flops. And girls will dress skanky with a classic excuse at their disposal: “It’s just so hot today.” Well, as Jose has pointed out, a long flowing burqa made of yards of linen is much more practical in dry heat than skin-tight lycra.
Friday was pretty grueling, between not having any sleep and little to eat. My ride arrived in style, all dressed up in black and a sharp tie. “Well, of course, I just came from work,” Ryan informed me in his usual joking manner, lest I believe that it was actually in my honor. But I was instantly excited to be there, even with the characteristically dismal skies, which despite breeding pastey complexions, also breeds sadness and thus, good poetry. We passed by a billboard of his dad, which I couldn’t stop giggling about. It reminded me of something I had seen once driving through a Tuscan tunnel.
And then we were sitting comfortably in a Starbucks having Americanos and chatting Ian up. They are constantly on their cellies and rarely not keyed into each other’s haps and whereabouts. I teasingly termed it as a sewing circle. “But, Karen,” Ryan said to me very seriously, “None of us sew.”
A short time later I had on a skirt and boots and felt much more in my element, wearing a coat that usually sits in the back of my closet in LA. Ryan and I ran circles around the Pearl District as he was in a flux about taking the streetcar or not. We ran to the stop, ran to his car, ran around some more, and at the end of the obstacle course found Darrin and Donovan sitting placidly at the streetcar stop. Just like with Ian, it felt oddly familiar to see them. I kept asking why the streetcar was free – it just seemed like an incredible concept. Then the towniness factor kicked in some more as we ended up at a Banana Republic that I had been to before. Starbucks, Banana Republic, these are the standards of American living and as a rule of thumb, you should find yourself at one of these no matter what city you go to. Still exhausted and somewhat frazzled, I walked the long length of the Banana lobby and found myself blushing, blanching, and turning completely idiot in an unplanned-for encounter. Only in Chino.
But where was the crucial red wine that is the secret to Karen’s joie de vivre? This time, I was able to enjoy an upgrade to Syrah rather than the Carlo Rossi table wine served in a jug. I have little recollection of what I said except that I took on a new Chino BFF. It was all warm lighting and laughter.
They were in search of Spanish coffee, and I, Syrah, at Huber’s. The mood was even darker with cherry-wood tones, and I recalled the novelty of hanging your coat just nearby your stall. By now my loosey goosiness was apparent and my warden started to push the wine glass farther away, the water glass closer. There was an amusing pyrotechnic show that involved glass and liqueur, and a magician with an interesting haircut I hadn’t seen since 1992. Then we were at Gypsy, the kind of bar that I hadn’t been in since the San Diego days. All my fragile constitution could handle now was water and lots of it. I may have even threatened to dance on the tabletop again in my drunken sassiness, but luckily the warden intervened. When everybody’s battery life started to dwindle, we made fantastic promises to go dancing the next night and tear up Chino some more.
How much ibuprofen does a lucid girl make? Not too much, but it’s invaluable. In the morning we were at Starbucks again. I was contentedly chomping on a raspberry scone and reading about insurance fraud when Ian reappeared. The goal was to take me shopping, and I was a little dumbfounded because when have two guys ever suggested that to me? I wish I could have taken more advantage of the lack of sales tax, but it’s hard to find things to buy in another city when shopping is all I can possibly do to entertain myself in the City of Angels. Not that I ended up empty-handed. The pizza was also excellent.
By the late afternoon, I felt much more like myself. We were at the Rose Garden and I tried to absorb as much of the energy as possible. It was odd to feel the same kind of sheer, childlike wonder at a sporting event that I had last felt at the opera, even if I contained it to myself. Ryan pointed out that, sports aside, there were at least two things to keep me amused. There was the darling little blimp that floated around the building dropping little prizes in envelopes at people. And there was the little kid in front of us badly in need of Adderall. (“This kid has no chance at school or at life.”) I laughed a good deal at both things.
We were then at Muu Muu’s with bowls of fusion Asian in front of us. Was it Thai, was it Chinese, or was it Italian? Syrah made me a little cheeky and I was briefly admonished. (“You’re only allowed to ask about Asian girls one time per trip, OK?”) By now the rain had started to come down and the fantastic promise from the night before started to recede into everybody’s fatigued consciousness.
We ended up watching the second of the Rudolph movies, the plastic/claymation precursor to Pixar. I had never seen it and didn’t understand what Ryan meant when he said, “Baby New Year’s ears are brutal.” “What ears?” I thought, because Baby New Year was wearing a big-ass top hat. And then when the hat came off you realized that Baby New Year could probably achieve flight. At least it got that vulture off their back.
Sunday opened with a trip to the Urban Grind and free Wi-Fi. I watched with amusement at Ryan’s routine of stripping down the Sunday newspaper to substance only and then swiftly tucking it under his left arm. The cappuccino was my liquid crack, the Wi-Fi a heaven-sent luxury. Then I got a car tour of Chino, around winding, hilly roads and the chilly and balmy quiet of a town in Sunday repose. We saw rows of roses, notable real estate, the schools where legends may have been made, and a dairy compound. It was simplicity right outside the windshield and the charm of uncomplicated things.
I had crisply fried corned beef hash and eggs that Ryan pointed out were cooked fetuses. At this thought, I added some extra ketchup. The most profound statement of the weekend? “I believe that everything can be made better with cheese, bacon, or ketchup.” I knew then that my host was classy company. He also suggested that I may have eaten about 350 calories across the whole weekend. The final stop was Darrin’s digs, where I bid the BFF adieu.
I picked up some Lexapro parting gifts, and then went back on my merry way. Who knew that Chino had so much to offer?
So little time.
Try to understand that I
Try to make a move just to stay in the game,
I try to stay awake and remember my name,
Everybody’s changing, and I don’t feel the same.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 1:32 AM
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