L.A. Nice

After years of resistance, I finally acquiesce to visiting Los Angeles.  Having always lived in Minnesota, my perception of the L.A. set results from encounters during travel, and it’s less than glowing -- impatient, selfish, overly  body-conscious.  Now I will discover the true essence by observing them in their natural habitat.  Turns out, some of the stereotypes hold true. However, my foray illuminates the true heart of Los Angeles (yes, it has one), and . . . it is L.A. nice.

I decide  to forego renting a car despite numerous recommendations to do so.  It promotes isolation while public transit encourages interactions with locals and other visitors.  My goal is to discover the “real L.A.” whatever that might be, and I need as much contact with Los Angelenos as possible.  One of my first encounters occurs just as I finish exploring the beach and pier at Santa Monica. I want to check out Venice Beach before the sun goes down, but when I arrive at the bus stop I have no idea which bus would take me there.  A man sitting nearby asks where I’m going and provides the bus number as well as landmarks to look for at my stop.  Just as he finishes explaining, the bus I need  pulls up. I thank him and go on my way, his directions right-on.  

Most people who live in L.A. moved here from somewhere else.  My friend Peter was born and raised in L.A., and even though he now lives in San Francisco, it doesn’t stop him from being somewhat of a remote tour guide for me.  Peter’s mother Dorothy gives me a driving tour while reminiscing about her days as an usherette at the El Rey Theater, good times at the Copacabana, and the kindness of a downtown cafeteria owner who fed those who couldn’t pay during the Great Depression.  She and her husband Gene reveal to me their favorite dim sum lunch place in Chinatown, one never to be found without being “in the know,” and then drop me off at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.  Their kindness melts away my preconceived notions.

The art museum’s collection is memorable, but almost as much is their open-air pavilion in the center of the various exhibition buildings.  A cafe spills outdoors and treats museum-goers with live jazz every Friday evening.  A light breeze floats through the open space along with notes from the trumpet, saxophone, and snare drum.  I realize as I take a sip of cool white wine that most waiters in L.A. are also waiting for their big break in the entertainment industry.  My waiter is especially talkative and helpful, begging the question on this lovely scene, “Why did I wait so long to come here?”

Finally it’s time for the true test:  Rodeo Drive.  As I walk along this famous stretch of real estate, I watch small dogs wearing sweaters strutting by,   very important people talking to what appears to be themselves but is actually their cell phone ear devices, and status-conscious fashionistas driving expensive SUVs.  Each shop I step into I’m greeted with icy hellos, and as I browse, the salespeople unabashedly evaluate me, starting with my shoes and working their way up.  Breakthrough is achieved at Dolce & Gabbana, of all places, where a helpful salesclerk steers me towards just the right item.  I’m left   feeling as though I’ve achieved a personal victory when he actually breaks a smile.  I fly away later that day with the sense that I’ve uncovered the real L.A., and it’s quite nice.