City of Angels

The last month has been a blur....one city to the next continent to another time zone to old friends from a time I remembered differently, to new ones who will be surprised when I actually call. Tonight, in Chestnut Hill, sleeping in someone's house who I do not know (perpetual housesitter), I've brought myself to write again.

Most airports are essentially the same. A bookshop with current bestsellers (i.e. an entire wall of Harry Potter), newspapers, Time magazines, french Vogue, New York Times, The Economist, Die Standard, books of books made into movies whose cover is that of the movie poster of the movie the book was made into. A shop of the local fare for slacker friends to pick up a little piece of their visit home to the loved ones who expect them to bring them something. I went to (blank) and all I got was this lousy (blank). In Toronto- maple syrup and smoked salmon. Bangkok- orchids, dried mangoes, bags of curry, tapestries with elephants woven in sequins. Cuzco - ponchos, woven bracelets, ceramic flutes. And so on.

Today, drunk from white sangria at Sara's Echo Park backyard afternoon, I roamed the shops at LAX. I was sleepy from Barry White in Michael's fabulously vintage red BMW, that gets him laid and makes even the cholos outside Los Globos look twice at him. Tip for girlfriends, always have a pedicure and white sangria party when you've ended a long overdue relationship that was over anyway. Do it over brunch at Cliff's Edge half covered in plush pillows under eucalyptus trees. Have the quiche and a bloody maria, and tell him everything you've always wanted to say. And watch him react as he always has, that is, with no reaction at all. Then, take the redeye, and get the hell out of the city, no matter how much you love it...

There are too many reasons why I love Los Angeles. All you too cool for school east coasters and eurokids, world travellers and expats, intellectuals and artistes, go ahead and purse your lips at our freeways, earthquakes, big budget movies, big budget boobies, houses on stilts, Austrian governor and drinks with twists of lemon. The reason why you don't live here is because you haven't fallen in love, at least not yet. And hell we're not gonna change the world, not today at least, so we might as well have a good laugh in the meantime, yes?

The airport shops at LAX say it all. I realized there are so many different kinds of LAs. There was a wall of the usual junk tourist crap, shot glasses, papwerweights with snowflakes, beer mugs, coffee mugs, t-shirts, tank tops, key chains. But unlike the single row of UK flags and Buckingham palace soldiers at Heathrow, there were entire sections of all accessories of each LA lifestyle. Lakers. Dodgers. USC. The surfer's LA, with a flip flop keychain and sunset silhouettes straight out of Endless Summer. The 1930's movie LA, with black and white high contrast lighting on black and white stars like Humphrey and Marilyn, glowing in front of spotlights criss-crossing the Hollywood sign. The Melrose LA, with Los Angeles in glitter script on tinted glasses and little pink wifebeaters. A t-shirt with Arnold's picture, and under it, "The Governator" (in Terminator font with black sungalsses). A row of coffee mugs made in the same way that we all know the classic black on white," I (red heart) NY" , was a new and improved, white on black: "I (pink lips) LA".

The perfect weather is obvious, and of course there are the good friends. Not to mention the total lack of humidity which is just great for everyone's hair. The best thing too is that it's the kind of city where the people living in it understand the nature of it. You can call up the pal you were supposed to meet in an hour and say, "Hey, I know I said I would come over, but there's a pool and drinks where I am at right now and I'm just good here chilling, so let's go do that movie / play / show / sushi lunch / free wine tasting / convertible mini test drive / walk on the beach / burrito in the park / Barneys sale / yoga class / dance party / cemetery screening / kite surfing / drive-in / art opening / midnight karaoke / spa day / sunset hike / Zankou Chicken / In-n-Out burger / Thai Elvis impersonator / Sunday bloody marys at the Standard thing another time, ok?....Oh you're right, there are drinks and a pool at the Standard rooftop too, hmm, how much is valet again?"

On a Friday, I was in Manila. I could barely sleep and watched every inch of the line our little plane drew on the Pacific. It had been a long time since I was so eager to get somewhere. When I finally arrived in LA, sweaty from the Immigration line, Michael picked me up and took me directly from Tom Bradley terminal 4 to the Chateau Marmont, where I was thrown in a pool under a Gucci billboard on Sunset with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot in my hand before I was even comfortable speaking pure english again. The water was warm, mist came off the lit pool and rose into the night time, and warm towels were stored in a heated closet outside. I remembered the Matara coast, the scary current, jellyfish, a slab of concrete debris hitting my chest, wondering if that was coral or bones between my toes, and a pack of fishermen watching me from the beach. And quickly, I forgot it again.

On Saturday I was in LA. I was happy to be reunited with my car again, my dear Cream Puff, a convertible money pit with ridiculous custom rims, and a cell phone antenna that's useless and cheesy, but I love her anyway. I drove aimlessly, pretending I had a real destination, just soaking in the tunes and the ride, how big and smooth the roads were, with an entire lane for people to do nothing but turn left in, my big old city, a long way from a scooter dodging potholes in Bombay.

On Sunday we drove up to San Jose to see Nora get married. Mike, Molly, and Adir were great company after so long without my friends, yapping nonstop, it was like a group therapy session on wheels really. It's funny how good people get dicked around so much. Assholes Anonymous. Great fun. If it weren't for that accident on the 101 we would have made it to the country club a little earlier than the echo of applause we heard while racing across the golf course, sweating in our fancy digs, straight into the bride and groom walking away picture. Though we did make it in time for the group photo, dinner, cake, first dance, Sorry Ms. Jackson, and so on. She looked beautifully happy and we agreed it was the best wedding we ever missed. The juicy part is that it was like their ninth date or something. Perhaps love is somewhere still? Nah. That's just in the movies, and this is my second run matinee.

On Monday in San Francisco, Miye and I had soup, cake, and hot toddies in the Castro. The bartender was round and overweight, in lipstick, low waisted jeans and a halfshirt, and absolutely beautiful, singing and dancing to Abba behind the bar. This was his / her musical. It was windy, and I couldn't remember the last time I felt cold. Miye and I had met once before, and were happy to run into each other at Nora's wedding. We ended up chatting the whole time, spending the day together, and she even drove me to the airport. We joked about it, like I can totally say "Oh my gosh so I met someone at the wedding, and we spent the entire day together! We had met once before, but this time we totally hit it off..."

On Tuesday I flew to Boston, an old home I barely remember but am finding I never forgot.
On Thursday I took the Fung Wah Bus to New York City after class. I arrived at 1.30 AM, and Megan and I went to Moe's in Fort Greene to catch up on long lost times and long lost drinks. After a fabulously Brooklyned weekend complete with museum and dance party and picnic in the park, I returned to Boston for class on Monday. On Tuesday night I flew to LA for the benefit.

In five LA days, I went to our event at the Standard (Dr. Dre came with white bitches), stole Joe's new BMW for 5 minutes (he really did get quite worried), got my old BMW detailed, got an akasuri body scrub and honey milk massage at the Korean Spa, ate at Alegria twice, visited my old office, had a beach day in Malibu, had a tuna burger at Malibu Seafood, did a market downtown with monkbags, made a lunch with leftovers and a dinner from scratch, saw my therapist, went to the rooftop beer garden at the New Otani in Little Tokyo, the Golden Gopher, the Broadway Bar, Jeffrey's house, Johnny's, Myas. Had a pedi with Sara at our old place, had an uncomfortable welcome home / breakup brunch (with my sweetheart whose picture I kept in my jacket pocket while I was away at war) and made white sangrias afterwards. Yes, yes, a brilliant success.

Now, back in New England again, I'm happy to lay down my tired little head in some books in the park, on the train, in the library. After Sri Lanka, this is like an enchanted paradise of cold stone ice creams, steaming hot chicken parmigiana subs, willow trees, flower gardens and brick lined streets with 24 hour cannoli shops. I still thank God for every hot shower and clean bathroom, and have gotten used to showering bare footed again, and taking my time.

It's been many many journeys this month, not all easy, but good all in all. There's alot of exciting things ahead of me, almost too many. But something happened when I got to see my home again. I longed for it. I missed LA while being in it. Somehow she changed without me, which was bound to happen. People move on, people move in, people move away. Big condos get built where the taco truck used to park, and all the girls are wearing the pants you bought when you left. The 7-11 carries stuff you used to only be able to get at Trader Joes for a dollar more. Your favorite staple shirt doesn't quite fit like it used to. There is something lonesome about it, like getting home at the end of summer camp, or how hazy it is when you rush to the beach, and you're cold, sitting like a dumbass, shivering in a designer bikini reading a Flaunt pretending it's all good until it finally burns off.

I know I have an amazing life. Travel the world, save the children, blah blah. But honestly, I'm sick of spending it alone, forever moving, and without the simple things. I would kill for a closet or a mailbox, or the sound of a set of keys to somewhere jiggling in my pocket, to stare into at a fridge and make no decision, hear familiar footsteps come in when I'm asleep, or to tell you what our specials are today. Perhaps it's starting to catch up with me, the minimum three different beds per week, or living out of a bag on the floor, or the open arms he didn't have when I got home. Or maybe I'm getting old and tired. Whatever. All I know is I love LA, and saving the children is great for healthy denial and not saving myself. And I'll figure it out when I get there, where "there" is I'm not really sure. But hey, they don't call me Wanna "Silverlining" Camcam for nothing. There is out there somewhere, but here is just fine for now. In fact, it's fucking brilliant.