Wonderfilled.

 

To me, Los Angeles is wonderfilled.

Sure it's shabby, sprawling, chaotic, crowded, and often polluted, 

but if you can get beyond that, it's full of 

amazing, weird, and wonderful places and things. 

I grew up 50 miles south of LA in the sleepy little beach town of Laguna Beach. In those days Laguna was a refuge for bohemian artists and gays, a mecca for surf bums, and a home for middle and working class families. There were a few enclaves where the rich had their homes, but it wasn't necessary to have a lot of money to live there. Now, of course, Laguna is one crowded bastion of wealth; the old funky beach town has been replaced by gleaming kitsch stores and organic eateries, the thin-walled beach cottages either completely gutted and remodeled or replaced by lushly landscaped McMansions. Though there are still some legacy residents hanging on, as my mother did until she died three years ago.

In those days, Orange County was still largely orange groves, so if you wanted to go to a department store or visit an art museum, you had to drive 50 miles to the big city. We never saw that as a big deal. Southern California is the home of car culture, so when i came of age, I thought nothing of driving to LA for a movie or a concert or whatever.

So even though we were just in LA a couple days ago, when Ophelia went to visit Riverside to see her sisters, I took advantage of her absence to spend another couple days meandering about the big city.

Unlike New York or San Francisco, you can't meander through LA by foot, however. It's far too spread out for that. So I meandered by car instead, cruising up and down half-remembered streets, discovering new places, and revisiting some of the areas that were important in my life.

I started in the San Gabriel Valley. That's where my paternal grandmother used to live. Then, it was a white, middle-class neighborhood we used to visit on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Long after my grandmother died, the neighborhood became largely Latino, and more recently it has become overwhelmingly Asian. As a consequence, there are dozens of authentic Vietnamese, Chinese, and Thai restaurants there.

I was in the mood for Chinese, and LA Weekly's website had just the place for me: Chengdu Taste, number 18 on their list of LA's top 20 restaurants.

I ordered the Toothpick mutton, a Sichuan dish featuring bits of lamb marinated in a rich mix of spices (even some Indian flavors in there) then sauteed to crispy perfection and smothered with pieces of dried red chile. It was utterly delicious. And insanely hot.

 I usually eat those red peppers whole. I love the flavor and the endorphin rush. But by the end of the meal I had to shove a few of them aside lest my ears and nose start bleeding. So good!

Next stop, my Airbnb find for the night: Lucky Mansion in the heart of Koreatown.

Koreatown is on the west edge of downtown LA, just north of little Oaxaca, and it's huge. My host was Kristina Wong who, according to her blog "is a performance artist, comedian and writer who has created five solo shows and one ensemble play that have toured throughout the United States and UK."

You can catch some of her comedy stylings here:
https://www.youtube.com/user/kristinawong

Kristina recommended that I catch a show by the Upright Citizens Brigade, a comedy ensemble group like Second City. Their main show was sold out, but they had a Improv show at 5:30 for new acts to try out new material, so I booked a ticket for that.

In the meantime, I decided to wander around the neighborhood to get a feel for my surroundings. There are many great old examples of LA architecture like the Wiltern building at the corner of Wilshire and Western.

This part of LA is special to me because part of my family lived here in the early 1900s. My mother's side of the family have lived in Southern California since the 1850s and once owned a small chunk of what is now downtown LA. In fact, there's still a neighborhood north of downtown that is named Solano Canyon after my mother's great grandfather.

The World Public Library says: "The land that is now Solano Canyon was originally purchased from the City of Los Angeles by Francisco Sales de Jésus Solano and his wife, María Rosa de las Mercedes Casanova" (my mom's great grandparents), "in 1866. Natives of Costa Rica, they built an adobe and used the land to live and work. Francisco Solano was a butcher in Sonora Town (just north of the Plaza Church along Calle Principal, or Main Street), and he moved his slaughterhouse and soap factory to the Canyon, while maintaining a corral on Main Street. The land was called Solano Ravine on maps by 1876, and the place where Francisco and Rosa lived was known as Solano Cañon. Solano Canyon became a true community after 1888, when Alfredo Solano" (mom's great uncle), "by then a prominent surveyor and the son of Francisco Solano and Rosa Casanova, subdivided the southernmost, 16-acre parcel of Francisco's property into the 100 lots that exist today."

Alongside the dusty remnants of old Los Angeles, the new Koreatown is thriving.

Wonderfilled, indeed.

 Everybody loves Young Dong!

The comedy show was entertaining. Two sets of as-yet-undiscovered skit performers tested their material on us. Some of the skits were better than others. A couple were hilarious, but there was nothing really groundbreaking. I was impressed, however, by how professional the performers were. I'm sure I'll see them on TV in the near future.

The next day I explored a bit downtown, then headed to the beach, determined to take Pacific Coast Highway south at least to Laguna.

After walking around Santa Monica for a while, I headed for South Central LA for what LA Weekly assured me was the best southern fried chicken in LA: Jim Dandy.

Set on a rundown section of Manchester Ave near the corner of Western, about five miles east of LAX, Jim Dandy has the ambiance you'd expect for a palace of southern fried cooking.

The cashiers and cooks are protected by bulletproof glass, with a secure airlock for exchanging money and food, so you know it's good.

That's what I'm talking about. Non-greasy, perfectly crispy, juicy, and delicious chicken, well-stewed greens with lots of red chile, and tasty corn fritters dusted with powdered sugar. Yum.

With my tastebuds singing with delight, it was time for the beach. It was one of those few crystal clear days that grace LA once in a while. I had forgotten how much I miss the beach. I practically lived on the beach for the first 30 years of my life and the smell of warm sand and cool salt water still brings me an instant rush of peace.

Rather than follow PCH, I decided to circumnavigate the Palos Verdes Peninsula. The views were stunning. To the west, Catalina Island looked close enough to touch. As I rounded the peninsula to San Pedro and LA Harbor, I could clearly see the mountains that ring LA from Mt. Baldy all the way to Saddleback Mountain in Orange County.

Less spectacular was the drive from San Pedro to Long Beach, through the stink of oil refineries and docks and decaying industrial areas. My dad worked here in Wilmington all the time I was growing up, commuting everyday from the paradise of Laguna to this noisy, smelly wasteland.

And speaking of paradise: here's Laguna, the water as clear as the air. I climbed all over these rocks as a child.

A fitting end to a day of nostalgic bliss: a superb mojito at Las Brisas on the bluff above Laguna's Main Beach. O and I used to come here with friends after work to smoke cigarettes and flirt.

P.

We Are The Meanderthals.

One of the best things about being retired is that we are on a very relaxed schedule. So we've been meandering through some of our favorite spots in California on our way to see our daughter and her family in Escondido.

Adjusting to slow time.

We visited the Bay Area, spending time with family and friends, eating, drinking, and laughing to the edge of excess (nothing exceeds like excess in my book) and sometimes beyond.

Ophelia the drone commander surveils Napa from treetop level.

We then meandered down highway 99 (an old favorite of ours), stopping in Fresno for a short, but lovely visit with Ophelia's sister Rose and her family.

Next stop, LA.

We have decided to try Airbnb as a way of keeping lodging costs low and also meeting local people wherever we go. Our first experience was a three-day stay with a punk rocker couple in central LA.

They were extremely hospitable (he’s a writer and makes films) and their house was very nice with a small, tranquil backyard.

I may adopt this as my motto:

How punk rock are they? They designed their pool in the shape of the Black Flag logo:

 

For those who may not be up on their punk rock history:

They even made a video of the pool-building process and posted it on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3yylPvsBCs

We strolled through the calm beauty of Descanso Gardens.

Meandering gives you time to watch bees going about their beesness.

And discovered nearly-forgotten bits of LA history like this semi-restored mural, Tropical America, by the great Mexican painter Siquieros just off the tourist-infested Olvera Street.

The mural, made of cement rather than the traditional plaster, was completed on October 9, 1932. The central visual and symbolic focus of the piece is an Indian peon, representing oppression by U.S. imperialism, is crucified on a double cross capped by an American eagle. A Mayan pyramid in the background is overrun by vegetation, while an armed Peruvian peasant and a Mexican campesino (farmer) sit on a wall in the upper right corner, ready to defend themselves.

Needless to say, Siqueiros’ allegorical depiction of the struggle against imperialism wasn’t a comfortable topic for the Downtown L.A. business and political establishment. This was ten years before the infamous Zoot suit riots, and anti-Mexican prejudice was rampant.

A little known fact of American history: over a million people of Mexican descent were deported from the LA area in the 1930s. 60% of them were American citizens.

The mural's radical message was also an uncomfortable topic for societal matron Christine Sterling, Olvera Street’s leading promoter, possibly because it did not conform to her image of Olvera Street as a docile and tranquil Mexican village. Unfortunately for the artists, the conservative politics of the era triumphed over artistic expression, and within six months a section of the mural visible from Olvera Street was painted out. Within a year, the work was completely whitewashed.

In a superbly ironic turn of events, the mural was rediscovered in the late 1960s when the whitewash began to peel off, revealing Siqueiros’ hidden yet still powerful statement.

I do love a good metaphor.

Next: the meanderthal age continues!

P.

Opening Ourselves To The Open Road.

Today we started our journey.

Frank and Gigi are traveling with us.

This time it's a journey on many levels, not just another exotic vacation. It's a leap of faith, putting out to the universe what we want the rest of our lives to look like and opening ourselves to the abundant reply.

It's a journey into retirement, a fundamental change from working a steady job, something I've done since I was 16, except for a few years when I worked part-time in college.A whole new way to be in the world.

It's also a step into the unknown as far as traveling is concerned. Other than the year we lived in Vietnam, we only traveled in short bursts--a week here, three weeks there. We've seen a lot of places, sure, but we haven't had the time to really explore anyplace other than Vietnam in depth.

And since we've never been in South America before, we have no real idea what it will be like. Can we do the 25-mile, four-day hike to Machu Picchu at altitudes as high as 14,000 feet? How strenuous is a week of diving in the cool, fast currents around the Galapagos Islands in the dead of winter surrounded by schools of hammerhead sharks?

How will it be to live away from family and friends and our comfortable home for months at a time?

So that first step out the door this morning came with a lot of trepidation and well as excitement.

It was a crystal clear, sunny day, but with a cold, biting wind. In the cocoon of the car, though, it was quite warm. The landscape, greening rapidly to spring, was gorgeous as we sped though valleys past snow-capped mountains on our way to Reno. We always break up our road trips to the Bay Area by overnighting in Reno. The hotels are incredibly cheap, and six hours is far more doable than ten.

So we found ourselves at the Nugget too tired to leave the hotel for dinner. Dragging ourselves through the surreal cacophony of the casino floor, we scoped out the dubious dining choices available. We settled on the steakhouse, figuring we could have a couple appetizers and call it a night.

The food (other than the prawn cocktail, do not order fresh seafood in Reno) was better than we'd feared. We were ready to call for the check when the waiter offered us creme brulee. Now good creme brulee is a weakness of ours, so we were tempted. However, we're purists and the creme brulee was a dual presentation, half classic and half mocha.

Ordinarily, we would have taken this as a sign we weren't meant to have dessert, but we were moved to ask if we could just order the classic half. The waiter said he would ask the chef. Many minutes passed and suddenly the chef, an impressively tall man in full regalia, appeared at our table. He couldn't give us just half the order because then he'd be stuck with the other half, he explained. He talked for a while about how delicious the mocha brulee was, and just as we were about to succumb, he offered to make us a Marsala sabayon instead.

Now we used to frequent a neighborhood restaurant in SF that made a stellar sabayon with fresh berries. Unfortunately, they imploded one night and we've never had good sabayon since. So we accepted his suggestion with great joy.

And we were wise to do so. He served us a big bowl of berries smothered in delicious, warm sauce, accompanied by a complimentary glass of Sandeman port. It was abundance beyond what we had imagined possible.

And the moral of the story is: ask and you will receive, in more ways than you can conceive.

P.