He said, waving his hands over his head. His partner, a look of confusion and incredulity, her big, brown eyes wide open. I stared at her to acknowledge my tourist faux pas. A sense of slight relief drew over her face as I backed up for a three point turn. Tires crunchy under sand and pavement as I inched toward my entrance, the dead end of W. Washington Blvd., Venice Beach. A restaurant worker for Brabu threw water in front of me on the ocean front pedestrian walk for “good riddance”, his smirk an exclamation mark!
A typical Friday on the beach of Venice: surfers pedaling coaster bikes to and fro their destinations, joggers, a few tourists this mid-morning, mostly locals and vendors setting up for another, cloudless day. My parking stall across from him, an older, black homeless man wheelchair bound, wrapped in dark blankets stared at people as they passed by, mumbling a few incoherent words.
My memory is hazy when I last meandered Venice Beach, probably at least 30 years+. During my shuttle to Thrifty car rental from LAX, I engage the driver, a talkative Mexicano who lives near the airport. A wry grin greets me as I walk up to the counter. “PSG,” he nods in a slight mexican accent. Miguel opens his top button revealing a PSG logo. “Tres Cool!”
Feeling a bit lethargic after the plane ride and drive to Venice Beach, I grab my backpack with my computer for a walk north on the aforementioned boardwalk. Within tjhe first 10 minutes, the ocean’s scented breeze clears my mind and body. The waves are summer small as I edge toward the shoreline. The skate park piqued me with its smooth undulations as I pretend to “ride” quick-shuffling up and down. Loud paddle slaps echo with shouts of exaltations or moans. The courts are crowded today as other players impatiently wait their turn.
In K-Town (Koreatown) later that evening, another older, homeless, wheelchair bound latino man blurted out as I passed by, “Tienes un cigarillo,” mimicking a drag of a cigarette, his pants nearly mid-thigh exposing his bare backside. Walking toward Wilshire Blvd after stopping for a couple essentials at Walgreen’s and later din din at BCD, a young black man threw his paper straw wrapper indignantly into the street, jabbed his straw like a knife into his plastic cup of sugar and solace as I walked by.
K-town is a working class neighborhood, a mix of latinos, asians, southeast asians and african-americans, and tall Palm trees strewn throughout. (photo)
Leaving the Starbucks on my two day K-town routine, a millennial couple approach the entry. A last sip of drink for her. Her partner, tall and broadly buffed in a tank top, inserts the empty container cup into a former, dark green newspaper rack. A bludgeoned spherical hole serves conveniently as a trash bin. On 3rd St, another denizen of the streets, a barely clothed, homeless black man, lies prone on the sidewalk, a blanket his only cover in Little Bangladesh, a designated area of K-town.
As I’ve cycled from all directions from my temporary home base of K-town, a distinctive social-economic milieu emerged. Riding along the roadway that encircles Griffin Park-Silver Lake, I intermittently ride the sidewalk to avoid any close calls by passing motorists, a personal axiom since I first rode the streets of San Francisco. A millennial blonde male approaches my left. As if struck by an imaginary right hook, his head turns markedly away from my gaze. Later that Sunday afternoon, I ride across the street at N. Highland Ave. and Hollywood Blvd, oncoming cars turning right, a black male motorist quickly approaches the corner, assesses then with disdainful nod of “I don’t care,” barrels through the corner.
Got Hollywood Bowl Saturday!?
Then there’s Narek Grigoryan. Well. I’ll get back to him in a bit.. A routine quickly established itself: out the door by 8, found a nearby Starbucks within a 10 minute walk, researched the day’s potential activities, worked on this blog, and rent a bike from Metro Bike Share LA, a five minute walk from my K-town airbnb.
Renting a Metro LA bike is easy through the app, but their bikes are HEAVY! Just lifting one to the curb was a concerted effort. Pre-LA trip, I mapped a few bike routes knowing I’d modify as I put rubber to the streets. Through KCRW, a public radio station in Santa Monica, I learned about all things Los Angeles, meaning LA proper and the expansive LA basin. Earlier this year, the Hollywood Bowl announced their re-opening. I perused the upcoming months music schedule. Brittany Howard’s marquee highlighted Saturday September 17, the lead singer and guitar player for Alabama Shakes (on hiatus).
Fall Equinox Wednesday September 22, 2021 at the Del Coronado Beach across from the striking, named hotel, Nancy from Indianapolis stares at the declaration of Autumn beginning imprinted in sandy mound. “It’s my birthday today!,” she exhorts. “Congratulations!’ “Where are you from?” “San Francisco.” ” Oh, you poor thing.” A declarative.
“Get rid of it. It’s not my problem” attitude. No sense of community or respect. No matter what city, it always makes me sad and mad incredulous!
LA Dodgers caps abound. John, a downtown local, buys pupusas across the street from Angel City brewery, a former suspension cable manufacturer that created cables for the Golden Gate Bridge among many other uses, talks up Clayton Kershaw’s pitching performance as we wait for our pupusas.
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