SF Excursion

A part of me is kicking myself for traveling two weekends in a row, but what can ya do? This weekend I'm making the trek to San Francisco. I'm not sure I can put SF on my "List of Towns I Could Live In" but it's definitely on my list of favorite places to visit. Something so charming and romantic about that town. I could walk for miles and miles all night there and never get tired or bored with its quaint corners and organic eateries; its hills and the occassional trolley ride; the amazing food and wine merchants; the boutique shops and Ghiradelli sundaes. I'm meeting an old friend at the airport in Oakland and then we have dinner reservations tonight in SoMa at a restaurant recommended to me by my ultra-foodie boss. After, we'll be making the rounds at the numerous wine bars in the SoMa neighborhood, so I'm excited to explore those and mingle with the locals.

The rest of the weekend will be filled with spontaneous trouble and serendipitous discoveries. Friends are coming into the city from San Jose on Saturday. We'll be exploring, drinking, exploring, drinking....understand the pattern? I want to rent bikes in the Presidio on Sunday, we'll see how that one goes.

Lost and Found

I'm in Arizona. I'm seeing an old friend tonight, a friend that I once thought was lost.

I'm fascinated by life and the way it ebbs and flows like a river; how one year a person can be in your life and the next, they're gone and then--somewhere downstream--they return again after many years have passed, and with them they bring light and hope and peace.

This person is someone I looked up to in high school. She was a quirky writer, a story teller, a fellow dreamer. At some point in college I lost her. No need for me to go into details; it's her story to tell. But my point is: I'm grateful that she's okay and that she's been found.

I speak of our friendship as though it's something that I could have posted a flier about; nailed it to trees in random neighborhoods, as though she were a lost cat, a stray dog. I speak of it like she's something I could have donated to a goodwill store, or packed away in an old dusty box, like a yearbook or childhood artwork. But it's not that easy, not tangible.

We've got six years to catch up on. I don't even live in this state anymore!

I'm doing pilates. It hurts.

I started pilates this week. I go to a small studio in north Brentwood where the people are all neighborhood women who bike there and gossip and talk about boys (well, men) and they keep the door open so the dogs some women bring can walk in and out of the studio at leisure. Walter would appreciate this. It's small; there's only room for about eight machines and one other piece of equipment that looks like a torture device from midevil times. No air conditioning on, none needed in California; windows are kept wide open and the soft magic lighting from the day's near-end filters through, illuminating the sweat on people's foreheads as they groan in pain, groan in pain, and then occassionally swear at their instructor.

I feel strange on the foreign machine, its undercarriage sliding underneath my weight; not quite sure which way to roll my toes (to tuck or to point?), where to place my arms, when to push back from the springs. My instructor is a tiny dancer who yells at me when I breathe in the wrong way, but then places her hands on my knees and looks down at me and says, "We're going to work on this." Then she places her fist on my stomach and says my spine isn't aligned properly and I just nod politely and try to align it and then she smiles.

She had me do some advance exercises last night, and she said, "Fuck! You can curse at me if you need to, you know!" I laughed and said, "But we only just met! I need one more class to yell at you." But the next round came and before I know it, I screamed, "Jesus Christ this hurts!" and she and the other instructor exchanged a look of approval.

The woman to the left of me said, "After my first class I couldn't sit on a toilet for days. Just you see."

At the end my instructor stretched me out on an exercise ball. I sat down and she rolled the ball in such a way that I became some sort of disfigured fetal sort of blob, my ass about to fall off the ball and my head tucked down between my knees, her fists in my back, then her hands massaging my neck.

"There, all done!"

She was a proud mother duck.

Jojo Update

I've been MIA.

An old story and new thoughts. First, two Thursdays ago:

A friend and I dined at a restaurant I’ve been craving in West Hollywood. I craved it before I ate there because I just knew it was going to be awesome (awesome!). American classics updated to incorporate California fusion and Asian influences. I met my friend there and smiled proudly after I parallel parked on Melrose. No one was around to see the A++ job I did, but I knew, I knew.

Although this place was in Hollywood, it didn’t feel like it. Inside was warm and red with black furnishings over walnut floors. The people there were friendly, not snooty. A waitress laughed at me because I got caught in the door coming out of the bathroom with my big ass purse (note: the purse got caught, not I). “You can do it, you can do it,” she said. Anyway, that’s another tale. But I made it out okay.

We were seated in the corner and I had a crusty halibut-type fish over roasted squash. I can’t remember what fish it was but it was rich and flakey and I could only eat half. No worries; my friend licked my plate clean. We ate a banana-chocolate-brownie-sugar cookie parfait for dessert, sipped wine and talked about what’s on our “LA Lists” of to-do’s.

But after: the best part. We ended up at a tiny intimate club off of La Brea called Room 5. Part comedy club, part music venue, the small room above an Italian restaurant couldn’t hold more than 50 people. We climbed the stairs and at the top a guy in an ugly t-shirt and dress jacket was asking for donations. We had no idea what for but threw in five bucks for the mystery cause. I thought we were there to see a comedy show so I was confused. “What am I supporting?” I asked him. “Uh, I don’t know either, man,” He replied.

We took seats in the front row. After two different comedians got up to do their thing (including the “clueless” guy at the door taking donations) I realized I wasn’t at a show but at a party. They were celebrating! They were drunk! They were roasting each other. Looking around the room we weren’t spectators but we blended into a crowd of friends and family and biggest fans.

That night, I became a biggest fan. The group was called “White Boy Comedy Club” (yes, there were some black comedians there, too) and they perform at the Improv and Room 5 and other venues. A couple members have had their lucky breaks already with signed TV contracts. We sat with glasses of wine and clinked glasses with strangers in the crowd.

It was truly a Los Angeles night. I think that’s what this city is about. So many people are here to pursue their dreams, and I like to look beyond the people that are materialistic and superficial and love to play the name game “I know this celebrity and this celebrity, yadda yadda.” It’s not about that. It’s about these guys in Room 5 on a Thursday night going nearly broke to do what they know they were meant to do: act and make people laugh. These are the humble ones, the underdogs, the ones who get up on stage in strange outfits, the guys who wear lipstick, the girl who sang a rock song with all the wrong lyrics.

But enough! Moving on: They’re about to film a movie outside my window. They’ve closed the street down and they’re setting up props. That’s all I know.

Also: This past weekend I hiked Temescal Canyon for the first time. It's only about 15 minutes from where I live, so I'll be back again soon. I would post pics but I didn’t bring my camera, but it was one of the most beautiful hikes I’ve ever taken. After about 20 minutes of uphill climb we came upon a waterfall where we stopped to rest in silence. I felt like I was on the east coast, climbing among the trees, enjoying their soft shade, sweeping their branches from my face. We hiked past yellow wildflowers and crisp white daisies and came up to a sunshine-filled spot on top, where we looked over Pacific Palisades and out to the ocean, wide and gray.

I could have there all day.

Summer Cravings

The days are getting longer and the mornings are becoming brighter. I’m sleeping wonderfully these days; my friend Insomnia seems to have gone into hiding. It’s easier to wake up now when the sunshine leaks through the blinds and fills my room with a soft yellow glow.

I have spring fever. If I could work outside in the courtyard where the waterfalls run smooth over boulders and statues of cupids and goddesses accompany me, surrounded by mounds of flowers and creeping green vines, I would be content.

Tonight I’ll be sipping wine somewhere in West Hollywood, enjoying tastes of delectable Italian dishes with old friends, the lights of cars winding through the city twinkling outside the restaurant windows, and the comforting hum and clank of silverware and buzz of conversation soothing the day away.

Found: Serenity at the Getty

Lauren, Graeme and I hit up the Getty today, the Los Angeles location purchased high on a hill bordering Brentwood, Beverly Hills and Bel Air. The museum has a Malibu location as well, but today we could spare just a few hours and since the museum is so close and is free (one of the few free things in Los Angeles!) we made the 15-minute trek anyway.

We gawked at paintings and drawings with dusty-brown washes and artists’ original sketches; models of studio workshops—les ateliers—and allegories of love depicted with blushing beauties and cupids and angels peering down from cloud-swept skies.

Beyond the art housed indoors behind thick stone walls and endless panels of crystal windows, one of the greatest things about the Getty is simply just being there, outside, sunlight gracing your face, overlooking all of Los Angeles in its complexity and chaos and sprawling energy. The “campus” is constructed on two mountain peaks, offering panoramic views of the city, complete with natural ravines and multi-levels that place you parallel to the rustic and wild surrounding landscape. Looking west on a clear day, your eyes might meet ocean waters; rolling your eyes to the east, you’ll find pristine homes and a private vineyard nestled deep within Bel Air.

The Getty’s renowned gardens and waterfall were sprinkled with families and toddlers feeling the tickle of sweet green grass to their soft toes. Couples lay on blankets in the sun as though they were spending an afternoon beachside, picnicking and napping and reading. A little girl in a pink dress sat to the west of a stream and threw off her sandals to cool her pretty feet in the trickling waters. At the garden’s edge, tall Graeme pointed out Brentwood and Westwood and downtown, while traffic flowed endlessly on the 405 freeway, churning and churning as the afternoon wore on.

We’ll be back, only next time we’ll come prepared with blankets and fruit and the Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times. The gardens and grass were too inviting to stay away for long.