california
To my left sits a lawyer, telling his friends that he is being
sued but that he will always have a Porsche in his garage. To my right
is a punk rocker, drinking a beer rapidly as he watches the LA Kings Ice
Hockey match on his cell phone. Before me, a cool Mexican guy nearly
blows us all up as he torches the Orange whilst preparing an Old
Fashioned for me. Outside, the kids ride motorized scooters along Ocean
Drive and Santa Monica pier. It all fits into this image that I have
always had of California, even as a child. For instance, my Lyft driver
picked me up at the airport and was listening to a punk rock mix. So,
inevitably, we spoke about punk rock as we made our way to the hotel at
which I was staying. When I arrived there was a party underway and I
jokingly thanked the hotel for arranging a party for my arrival. They
told me that ‘shooting finished today and this is the wrap party.’ I
didn’t have the energy to ask which film it was.
Sleep is impossible. At the best of times it eludes me, but with this time zone change, I try to go to sleep late and, inevitably, I awake in East Coast time (early East Coast time). And so I go searching for coffee, find a cup, and sit up reading a book, waiting for the light of the sun that will enable me to see the Pacific ocean from my hotel window. It’s not been a good week for Los Angeles. Yesterday there was a shooting in Thousand Oaks and this morning, as I watched the weather channel prior to sunrise, I discovered that there is a raging forest fire, in a similar area to the shooting, that is causing people to lose their homes and be evacuated. It’s a tragedy and yet it somehow fits in with the whole Californian cliché of crazy living on the edge. It’s an unforgiving place where one can easily lose one’s soul. The homeless almost outnumber the tourists and a walk along the ocean front at 7am can be a very dangerous thing. It seems the homeless are fighting each other en masse at this time in the morning, perhaps it is when they are hungover or coming down after a tremendous high. They shout at each other and fight and if there is no one to shout at or fight with they shout out to themselves and charge at anyone they happen to see whom they suspect of something, such as looking at them.
I find a Mediterranean restaurant, one of the simplest things I have seen… and it is beautiful. I think of France and Spain and England and all of the writers and artists that came before us and I am grateful for the fact that I am happy right where I am… in this time. I was a teenager prior to the internet and now benefit from modern technology whilst being in touch with the period before. I love literature of the different ages; Mark Twain, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Bukowski… and from my side of the Atlantic; William Shakespeare, Thomas hardy, George Orwell… and so many more, but I am grateful to live in my own time and to read of those experiences past. I digress. I ask for a beer. They do not serve alcohol. Lunch is delicious but brief and I move on. I walk to Santa Monica Pier and walk into an extremely American bar. I am so thirsty that I order a Heineken. The Barman tells me that there is a local IPA on tap – Angel City – so I try that and it is delicious. I am hooked. A conversation begins between me, the bar tenders, and several of the customers. Whilst we are laughing at an event, two tattooed ladies enter the bar and sit to my right. They speak in French and then in broken English they ask the barman if they can charge their phones. He tells them that the chargers don’t work where they are and asks them to sit directly beside me. I feel embarrassed and sit in silence for a moment. I order another drink and the lady directly next to me asks me where I am from. Same old story… England. I ask which part of France she is from and she says ‘Quebec, Canada.’ I feel ashamed but interested as I have never met anyone from Quebec before. We continue to drink and talk and the night starts to fade into a blur. The fires rage on the other side of the hills. I am struck by guilt… we drink and laugh as Malibu burns. It is symbolic of life… so many of us are happy and having fun and so many of us are suffering and struggling to survive. We do what we can to help but there is only so much we can do.
The night fades into fragmented moments. The ladies depart for the airport. I leave and stumble in the direction of my hotel.
This story may continue…
Sleep is impossible. At the best of times it eludes me, but with this time zone change, I try to go to sleep late and, inevitably, I awake in East Coast time (early East Coast time). And so I go searching for coffee, find a cup, and sit up reading a book, waiting for the light of the sun that will enable me to see the Pacific ocean from my hotel window. It’s not been a good week for Los Angeles. Yesterday there was a shooting in Thousand Oaks and this morning, as I watched the weather channel prior to sunrise, I discovered that there is a raging forest fire, in a similar area to the shooting, that is causing people to lose their homes and be evacuated. It’s a tragedy and yet it somehow fits in with the whole Californian cliché of crazy living on the edge. It’s an unforgiving place where one can easily lose one’s soul. The homeless almost outnumber the tourists and a walk along the ocean front at 7am can be a very dangerous thing. It seems the homeless are fighting each other en masse at this time in the morning, perhaps it is when they are hungover or coming down after a tremendous high. They shout at each other and fight and if there is no one to shout at or fight with they shout out to themselves and charge at anyone they happen to see whom they suspect of something, such as looking at them.
I find a Mediterranean restaurant, one of the simplest things I have seen… and it is beautiful. I think of France and Spain and England and all of the writers and artists that came before us and I am grateful for the fact that I am happy right where I am… in this time. I was a teenager prior to the internet and now benefit from modern technology whilst being in touch with the period before. I love literature of the different ages; Mark Twain, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Bukowski… and from my side of the Atlantic; William Shakespeare, Thomas hardy, George Orwell… and so many more, but I am grateful to live in my own time and to read of those experiences past. I digress. I ask for a beer. They do not serve alcohol. Lunch is delicious but brief and I move on. I walk to Santa Monica Pier and walk into an extremely American bar. I am so thirsty that I order a Heineken. The Barman tells me that there is a local IPA on tap – Angel City – so I try that and it is delicious. I am hooked. A conversation begins between me, the bar tenders, and several of the customers. Whilst we are laughing at an event, two tattooed ladies enter the bar and sit to my right. They speak in French and then in broken English they ask the barman if they can charge their phones. He tells them that the chargers don’t work where they are and asks them to sit directly beside me. I feel embarrassed and sit in silence for a moment. I order another drink and the lady directly next to me asks me where I am from. Same old story… England. I ask which part of France she is from and she says ‘Quebec, Canada.’ I feel ashamed but interested as I have never met anyone from Quebec before. We continue to drink and talk and the night starts to fade into a blur. The fires rage on the other side of the hills. I am struck by guilt… we drink and laugh as Malibu burns. It is symbolic of life… so many of us are happy and having fun and so many of us are suffering and struggling to survive. We do what we can to help but there is only so much we can do.
The night fades into fragmented moments. The ladies depart for the airport. I leave and stumble in the direction of my hotel.
This story may continue…
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