I spent Presidents Day weekend in a hotel room on the boardwalk in Venice Beach. I decided late that Friday afternoon that I needed to get the hell OUT and Venice has always been my kind of people. Beach + freaks + art + introspection + ferris wheels was just what I needed. The walls of my life were closing in on me and I ran before they could collapse.
I booked a room at The Cadillac Hotel where Charlie Chaplin once lived. I didn't realize it was on the boardwalk. I thought I'd be within walking distance but didn't know that walk was 20 feet. The lobby was a dusty 80s magazine cover with mosaic tiled creatures running across the floors and a glorified dumbwaiter for an elevator. My room was nondescript with two twin beds, a TV, and an unnecessarily large bathroom. The windows were screenless and had I reached my hand out one I could have touched the apartment complex view. The mirror above the sink was one foot by one foot and luckily right at my face level. I peered into the apartment complex windows wondering what it was like to call Venice home.
Saturday evening was spent in Hollywood with Caleb, partaking of some fab Italian food and wine and a strip mall theatre presentation of Romeo and Juliet, co-starring our friend Rick. They set the play in the south and the prologue was delivered by a bartender with a southern drawl. The bar and two black boxes were the only set in this tiny black box theatre. The southern location and accents really made me feel like I was there, that these really were two feuding families and a group of friends. The mother was cut out and the nurse was played by a black woman who spoke with a creole accent. Mercrutio, as always, stole the show. The Shakespearian words just poured right off his moonshined tongue, he was so at ease up there. Sadly, the leads were completely unbelievable. I didn't buy for a second that they were in love. Words came out of mouths, bodies were embraced, but the feelings, the passion, were locked somewhere far, far away, Perhaps in the nightclub downstairs. We drained the last of our convenience store bottle of wine and congratulated the cast on their performance as we headed off to more food and debauchery
Caleb and Rick and I spent the night hopefully lamenting the business of acting and commercials, agents, rent, improv, commitment, time, money, creativity, and making the waitress laugh. We ate fried plantains and cheese steak and beer. Where is it all going, what does it mean, how long are we going to do this, what's going to happen to us, will we ever get there and where is "there"? Where does it end? Does it? We snaked back through the streets of Santa Monica to Venice with a case of misery in a can and a wet behind the ears Green Day squeaking on the iPod.
Sunday morning was breakfast burritos on the beach and bus rides. The vendors and the sun and the tourists were out in full bloom. From stem to stern the boardwalk is sectioned off into numbered lots for vendors to stake out. There had to have been 7 different tarot readers and psychics, tumbling and fire breathing performance artists, the man with the upright piano, the hippie girl happily crocheting beanies for sale, the sand sculpturist carving an alligator in ridiculous detail, the would-be artists with their mixed media plywood paintings, the homeless burnouts with huge signs asking for weed, the glittering Day of the Dead skulls, the impromptu jam session musicians, and the professional artists with their credit card machines for easy access of purchase. Runners and rollerbladers, impossibly tiny dogs in sweaters, every fifth person you see carrying a massive camera with tripod looking for that perfect location, and not one sunglassless face.
I walked for miles and miles back and forth on that boardwalk. I had a peach chai latte at Sean's Cafe in Gingerbread Court, the former apartment complex rumored to have been owned by Charlie Chaplin, that now houses tiny shops overflowing with beautiful clothes. I took a nap in front of my open window on my feather pillow in the dancing ocean breeze. Back to Sean's Cafe for a cheeseburger and fries and a Diet Coke As Large As All Mankind. It's the only way I order them. I sat at a bistro table and eavesdropped on the staff and their friendships wondering what kind of people they meet every day. So many thoughts cartwheeling through my mind...about life and destiny, commitment and ambition, desire and passion, art and creativity, fate and blank notebooks. Possibilities. Choices. Acceptance. Limitations. Paths. Hope. Relinquishing. I see now how they came to be called The Doors on this beach. The perception blazed through that crack left by the setting sun.
Another trip up the dumbwaiter to my room to change and pack my purse for a trek. Trusty flip flops in place and iPod tuned up, I set off for that glittering wheel in the distance: the Santa Monica Pier. I don't know how far it was...at least a mile, maybe more. The air was warm, the path was lit and soon the wooden planks lifted me up off the beach. I had never been on the pier, sad to say. I didn't know it was a full blown carnival with games and rides and hot dogs. Buzzers and bells and kids and stuffed animals. Ice cream and souvenir stands, California name plates and your name on a grain of rice. Roger Clyne, you're always with me. I picked up an abalone shell and silver ring, and a funnel cake swimming in strawberries. One ticket for the ferris wheel where I shared a ride with a sweet 12 year old girl from East LA. High above the ocean and into the starless sky, over the screaming roller coaster and the glow of Santa Monica. With a deeply increasing ache in my ankles I headed back, past the swing sets full of laughing teenagers, along the rarely quiet and deserted pathways, to the fire escape on my second floor for late night phone calls.
Monday morning found me nearly crippled from the pain in my ankles and feet. I had to pass on the recommendation of a fabulous omelette house and opt for the crawling distance of the Fig Tree Cafe. Eggs over medium, homefries, sausage and fantastic spiced applesauce. I hobbled over to a patch of grass between the boardwalk and the beach and scribbled the midmorning away. By noon the shops started opening up. I choked back the pain and wandered up Gingerbread Court to the shop at the top that had a skirt I decided I had to have. Alas, they were closed. On the way back down, at the shop at the bottom was a top that went with the skirt perfectly. I went up and down that court about 5 times waiting and hoping that shop would open, with the other shop owners squinting at me with suspicious eyes. Just as I was about to retire the quest the shop owner decided it was a good day to make some money and I gladly handed over mine. The gauzy, lime green and pink flower confection was mine. One matching pink tank top later I was a complete outfit richer.
My tank sufficiently full of Venice mojo, it was time to mozy on up the coast back home. Out of the cramped hotel parking lot, slinking along the one way streets, gliding down the main drag to the queen of the highways, The PCH. Rolling along the ocean past the coveted neighborhoods, dream houses and landmarks. Surfers derobing roadside - a sweeter traffic hazard there never was. I pulled into Malibu Seafood round about sunset for some mahi mahi and a view I've come to the conclusion I can't live without. Home is where your heart is and mine is full of salt water and sand. I drank in that slow burn over the horizon as the highway veered away from the shore, and slowly sipped it on the winding road back home. Things are much brighter on this side of the door.
Ralph - "was a leaden stump of orange fur. I never saw Ralph move from his spot on Skinner's balcony, not once, but I never saw the same pile of feathers beside him either.
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