This past weekend, I left a jealish* Matt behind and hopped on a plane, trading Minnesota for Los Angeles. Three days in sunny and warm California with good friends (Aaron and Maria) is definitely good for the soul. Each morning, Maria, my gracious host, said that she wanted to go to the beach, but the weather just wasn't cooperating. For me, of course, the weather was cooperating just fine.
Finally, on Monday, the clouds cleared, and the sun emerged. Maria, baby Adrian, and I piled into the car and drove to Venice to eat lunch, walk the beach, people watch, and shop the street market. Venice has that strange combination of upscale and downscale, where life is just a bit more on the edge than life here in Faribault. You wouldn't know it from the Rose Cafe, a hip brunch spot with a funky little gift store --- you could picture wealthy folk munching lentils and veggie burgers here. But just a few steps away, Venice Beach was a different experience....
So let me see if I can create a snapshot or two for you. On the bike path, cyclists of all kind rode among the strollers, the rollerbladers, and the walkers: regular ten speed bikes, recumbents, bikes straight out of the Brady Bunch, tandems, and bikes chosen to catch and keep your attention. Who knew that bikes could so help us create an image for ourselves? Serious bikers scowled at us as the path was clearly marked "bikes only," but those with the hip handlebars only smiled. Along the path to the ocean side, surfers were struggling to catch a decent wave, early birds worked on their bronze, and one man set up house right along the path (complete with soap, stereo, and snacks). Along the path to the boardwalk side, children swung and slid, a young man trained his dog, and skateboarders navigated ramps. Handball courts (new to me) were empty save for one teenage boy and his onlookers. Sleeping bags, rolled and unrolled, marked the spots of those who wander. Lots of sleeping bags.
Back out on the boardwalk, we stopped to look for art and skull caps and jewels and henna tattoos. Dogs on leashes found each other, peacefully. An elderly woman cooed at Adrian, and a fortune teller cooed at me. We couldn't help but ogle the tropically tan body builder walking the streets in only tight swimming trunks (not exactly a speedo) and a bandanna on his head. We couldn't help but adore the little girl with shorn hair, her tattooed mother sitting on the steps, keeping watch. I couldn't help but wonder, as I looked at the pierced and dreadlocked teens, why they weren't in school. The street wasn't quiet by any means; the buzz and hums belonged together--there were no jarring sounds, no din.
I didn't buy much. No tin can airplanes, no salt and pepper shakers, no surfboard clocks. What caught my eye was a small piece of art, orange and simple. It was just a print of a small pup affixed to a tile, bordered in gold, labeled simply with the word joy. The artist snapped my polaroid with the pup - "for my website," he said, and I smiled.
Maria plopped Adrian down on the sidewalk to bobble his way a bit. Afraid of nothing but the sun in his eyes, he reached out to a cyclist pulling his daughter behind him as they stopped to shop, waddled after pigeons, and threw his hip little cap onto the road. After a bit, we scooped him up and headed off to the airport, and I prepared to trade this little taste of life on the edge back for khakis, dining hall coffee, and a regular Tuesday morning.
*jealish (adj.) kind of a little jealous, but not really; coined by Maria Magana, 2008.