I want to go back to college. Odd as it may sound, every few months, I dream that I am going back to college and moving into the dorm. As exciting as this prospect is, I’m always a little embarrassed because, of course, I’m considerably older than the other students. I’ve had many dreams about this, in many really weird permutations. Sometimes the dorm looks like a shopping mall, sometimes it’s more like a camp, sometimes it looks like a real dorm. The one thing these dreams have in common is that I am going back to school. I am going back to school.
My daughter is going to be a freshman at Northern Arizona University in the fall. This weekend was a two-day orientation for both students and parents. I spent two days walking around the NAU campus, eating in the dining hall and hearing about all of the wonderful programs that are available to the students. I talked with other parents and watched the kids, full of excitement, anticipating having the time of their lives enjoying their newly-won independence. I stayed at a hostel just north of campus in old downtown Flagstaff.
This experience has made me very excited for my daughter and the adventure she is about to have at NAU. I’m proud, and I’m excited. This is a wonderful time in the life of a parent, to watch your child begin to grow up, make their own decisions, and have grand adventures. I couldn’t be happier for her.
And now that I’ve successfully launched my girl to this next stage in her life, maybe it’s time that I go back and do something different. Something for me. Something big.
What if I went back to school? I did go to college. I have a degree in Spanish. But there are many other things out there that I want to know about, and others that I regret not giving my full attention when I had the opportunity. I want to study medieval music, renaissance music, ethnomusicology. Art, drawing, baking, cooking. Math, poetry. Writing. Languages. And when I’ve done that, I want to do something fabulous for work. Like, be a caterer. Own a bar. Bake bread. Sing on top of grand pianos, a la Michelle Pfeiffer.
But it seems a shame to me that people of my age don’t really have the opportunity for the same type of on-campus college experience that younger people do. Yes, many of us own homes, have families, work full-time. Many of us wouldn’t want to give everything up and live on campus for a few years...but what if there is a sizable group of forty-plus empty nesters that would like to do that? What then? Where do they go?
It seems to me that there should be some school somewhere - and maybe there is - that caters to older students. Someplace with an on-campus, communal living setup where we wouldn’t feel like fish out of water. How fabulous would it be to live with a bunch of like-minded individuals...form study groups, spend evenings debating Pachelbel vs. Beethoven vs. Tchaikovsky, solve algebraic equations just for the pure joy of it? Share the housekeeping responsibilities, cook together, share a bottle of merlot on a Friday evening?
And what if you could apply for scholarships to cover the cost of such an endeavor? What if you didn’t have to work during this time? What if you could concentrate on learning what you wanted to learn, and live a simple life, devoid of worries about insurance and transportation and running out of vacation time? I think this would be fabulous.
Many typical college students don’t know yet what they should study, just that they have to pick something. Many of them do know what they really want to do, but they don’t have the wherewithal to follow through with it. Twenty or thirty or forty years later, having presumably spent some time at one career or another, many of us now know what we want to do. And perhaps more importantly, what we don’t want to do.
How many of us, at this stage of the game, will make a new start? Who's with me? And where should we set up the commune?
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
Vacation in Nola
So the following year, since the trip to Santa Monica had worked out so well, I decided to broaden my horizons. I took what I like to refer to as a “long weekend” - about Thursday through Monday or Tuesday. I’d decided to take a trip to New Orleans. I still didn’t really know much about it, but I hadn’t been able to get it out of my mind since my evening in the Quarter years before. I found that airfare out there wasn’t too, too expensive - I got a flight from PHX to MSY for just over $200.
Still on a limited budget, I began shopping for a hotel. I knew that I wanted to be in the French Quarter. Unfortunately, the hotels I found there were a bit out of my price range. So I started looking for a place near the Quarter. I narrowed it down to two possibilities, and wound up staying at the Empress Hotel in the Treme (http://empresshotelneworleans.com/).
In hindsight, I think I probably should have gotten a clue about what type of place this would be from the reservation process. The website advertised extremely cheap rooms. They were about $30 or so, while the places in the Quarter seemed to start around $100. This was back in 2000. The website offered very limited information, and there was a number to call and a form to fill out, but there was no way to actually make a reservation through the website. I called the 800 number shown on the website. I was told that they would fax me a reservation form, which I’d have to fill out and fax back to them. When they got my return fax, which would include my credit card number, the reservation would be complete. They would not just take my credit card number over the phone and reserve a room.
Luckily, I did have access to a fax machine, so I got the form, filled it out, and sent it back. The form seemed to put an oddly heavy emphasis on the hotel’s location in the “historic Treme neighborhood.” It seemed a little fishy, but I thought, How bad can it be?
Between the time I made the reservation and the date I was to arrive, I heard from the hotel repeatedly. They’d had a less-expensive room come available, and did I want that one instead? We repeated the fax process again...and again.
I was very excited about this trip. I was doing all kinds of research online about music in the French Quarter. This was the main thing I wanted to do, see live music. I’d found the Offbeat website and was making notes on where to go and who to see. The Famous Door looked promising. I also found maps of the Quarter online and memorized the layout of the streets. I also got a laminated map that had the Quarter on one side and the whole city on the other, just in case, and a guidebook.
I didn’t know anyone in New Orleans, so I posted a note on a message board on AOL saying that I’d be visiting for the first time, could anyone offer advice...? I met a couple of people that way. A nice guy by the name of Rick replied, and we chatted some. During one of our online chats, I told him where I’d be staying and asked about the neighborhood. He was silent for a couple of minutes, and then said, “take a cab when you go home at night.” Oh, boy. I think the best advice I got was regarding music on Bourbon Street - just walk down the street and listen for the music coming out of the bars. Then go into one where it sounds good. This is a great way to go about it.
Finally, the big day arrived. I had packed a suitcase full of my nicest clothes. Hadn’t really learned to pack light yet at that point. I was thrilled to see all the greenery on the ground as the plane approached MSY. Ah, the South. I’ve lived here in the desert all my life, so for me, having all that green around is like a miracle. I love it. The plane landed, and I gathered my things and found the counter for the shuttle.
I think it took us about an hour to get from the airport to the Empress. I was the last one dropped off. Isn’t that always what happens when you take the shuttle? I’d seen people dropped off at some very nice places around town. Pulling up in front of the Empress was kind of disappointing.
The Empress Hotel is on Ursulines, two blocks past Rampart in the Treme. I haven’t been there lately, but at that time (September of 2000), it seemed that about half of the buildings we passed in the neighborhood were about to fall down. And what a shame. The houses had clearly once been beautiful, but they’d just fallen into disrepair. The Empress itself is not a particularly striking building, but it does have a good-sized balcony in the front. If you watched the HBO series Treme, you may have seen the place. It’s the hotel where Annie stayed for a little while.
I got my suitcase, thanked the shuttle driver, and went to the front door. It was locked, so I rang the bell, and the desk clerk buzzed me in. There was no lobby, just a window with the clerk behind it. There was a sign in near the entrance informing me of several pieces of important information: I would pay for all nights at check-in. There were no refunds. No guests were allowed in the rooms. The room key must be surrendered to the desk clerk on leaving the building, and it would be returned to me when I returned. All in all, it sounded like a concerted effort to prevent prostitutes from operating out of the place. I hoped their efforts had been successful. On the plus side, they did serve free coffee on the balcony in the mornings.
The room had a door that didn’t look too sturdy, but it did lock. It was just big enough to house one double bed. There was a very small TV up near the ceiling, and the A/C was a window unit. I discovered two fascinating things the next morning: there was a hole in the ceiling over the shower, and the carpet in the room was so dirty that walking three feet on it made the bottoms of my feet black. Ick. And judging by a review of the place that I found online after the fact, the folks in the room above mine COULD see through the hole in my ceiling, just as I suspected. Nice, right?
Ah, well. I would deal with it. I hadn’t travelled all the way to New Orleans to sit in a hotel room, anyway, so I couldn’t see that it would matter much. I’d gotten a cheap room, and I was within walking distance of the Quarter. After dropping my stuff in the room, I set out on foot and headed down Ursulines toward Rampart.
There were a few people out and about in the Treme that day. Everyone said hello and seemed friendly. I crossed Rampart into the Quarter.
The buildings were closer together in the Quarter. They started to look more like what I was expecting to see. A block or two in, I passed a woman working outside in her yard. She looked at me and said, You shouldn’t be walking around here alone. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her, exactly, but it was broad daylight and it seemed pretty quiet. But I didn’t really have much choice, anyway. I wasn’t going to take a cab everywhere, and I didn’t really even know where I was going. I was just wandering around. And that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Speaking of what I was expecting to see...I was really completely unprepared for the dilapidated craziness that is Bourbon St. Despite having been there some years earlier, I was still harboring the idea that the French Quarter would be like New Orleans Square at Disneyland. It would be clean, colorful, safe, and elegant. I’d been to Disneyland many times, and my one visit to the Quarter years earlier had been very short, and had taken place at night, and I’d gone into exactly one bar and had only a coke. So I’d packed a suitcase full of my nicest clothes. The RED Georgiou dress, a little black silk dress from Victoria’s Secret, heels, etc. For this first foray into the Quarter, I’d had the good sense to put on shorts and a t-shirt. And not to carry a purse. Everything I needed was in my pockets.
I wandered down Ursulines to Bourbon and turned right. Walked toward Canal, heading for the Famous Door, making note of places that had music that I liked along the way. I believe the band at the Famous Door was supposed to be a blues band that afternoon, but they weren’t. I stuck my head in but the music wasn’t doing much for me, so I turned around and headed back the other way, toward Esplanade. I remembered passing a place a little way back with a sign in front that said simply, R&B.
The R&B Club used to be at 617 Bourbon St, between Toulouse and St. Peter. It was in an old Creole Cottage, and it was owned by Al Harper, who also owned the Blues Club down in the 200 block. Sadly, it’s now a daiquiri bar or some such foolishness. In 2000, it was simply an amazing place to be. I saw The Rooster, Les Getrex, Pat “Mother Blues” Cohen, C.P. Love, and many others there. On this day, I walked inside and got myself a table, right in the middle of the place.
Still on a limited budget, I began shopping for a hotel. I knew that I wanted to be in the French Quarter. Unfortunately, the hotels I found there were a bit out of my price range. So I started looking for a place near the Quarter. I narrowed it down to two possibilities, and wound up staying at the Empress Hotel in the Treme (http://empresshotelneworleans.com/).
In hindsight, I think I probably should have gotten a clue about what type of place this would be from the reservation process. The website advertised extremely cheap rooms. They were about $30 or so, while the places in the Quarter seemed to start around $100. This was back in 2000. The website offered very limited information, and there was a number to call and a form to fill out, but there was no way to actually make a reservation through the website. I called the 800 number shown on the website. I was told that they would fax me a reservation form, which I’d have to fill out and fax back to them. When they got my return fax, which would include my credit card number, the reservation would be complete. They would not just take my credit card number over the phone and reserve a room.
Luckily, I did have access to a fax machine, so I got the form, filled it out, and sent it back. The form seemed to put an oddly heavy emphasis on the hotel’s location in the “historic Treme neighborhood.” It seemed a little fishy, but I thought, How bad can it be?
Between the time I made the reservation and the date I was to arrive, I heard from the hotel repeatedly. They’d had a less-expensive room come available, and did I want that one instead? We repeated the fax process again...and again.
I was very excited about this trip. I was doing all kinds of research online about music in the French Quarter. This was the main thing I wanted to do, see live music. I’d found the Offbeat website and was making notes on where to go and who to see. The Famous Door looked promising. I also found maps of the Quarter online and memorized the layout of the streets. I also got a laminated map that had the Quarter on one side and the whole city on the other, just in case, and a guidebook.
I didn’t know anyone in New Orleans, so I posted a note on a message board on AOL saying that I’d be visiting for the first time, could anyone offer advice...? I met a couple of people that way. A nice guy by the name of Rick replied, and we chatted some. During one of our online chats, I told him where I’d be staying and asked about the neighborhood. He was silent for a couple of minutes, and then said, “take a cab when you go home at night.” Oh, boy. I think the best advice I got was regarding music on Bourbon Street - just walk down the street and listen for the music coming out of the bars. Then go into one where it sounds good. This is a great way to go about it.
Finally, the big day arrived. I had packed a suitcase full of my nicest clothes. Hadn’t really learned to pack light yet at that point. I was thrilled to see all the greenery on the ground as the plane approached MSY. Ah, the South. I’ve lived here in the desert all my life, so for me, having all that green around is like a miracle. I love it. The plane landed, and I gathered my things and found the counter for the shuttle.
I think it took us about an hour to get from the airport to the Empress. I was the last one dropped off. Isn’t that always what happens when you take the shuttle? I’d seen people dropped off at some very nice places around town. Pulling up in front of the Empress was kind of disappointing.
The Empress Hotel is on Ursulines, two blocks past Rampart in the Treme. I haven’t been there lately, but at that time (September of 2000), it seemed that about half of the buildings we passed in the neighborhood were about to fall down. And what a shame. The houses had clearly once been beautiful, but they’d just fallen into disrepair. The Empress itself is not a particularly striking building, but it does have a good-sized balcony in the front. If you watched the HBO series Treme, you may have seen the place. It’s the hotel where Annie stayed for a little while.
I got my suitcase, thanked the shuttle driver, and went to the front door. It was locked, so I rang the bell, and the desk clerk buzzed me in. There was no lobby, just a window with the clerk behind it. There was a sign in near the entrance informing me of several pieces of important information: I would pay for all nights at check-in. There were no refunds. No guests were allowed in the rooms. The room key must be surrendered to the desk clerk on leaving the building, and it would be returned to me when I returned. All in all, it sounded like a concerted effort to prevent prostitutes from operating out of the place. I hoped their efforts had been successful. On the plus side, they did serve free coffee on the balcony in the mornings.
The room had a door that didn’t look too sturdy, but it did lock. It was just big enough to house one double bed. There was a very small TV up near the ceiling, and the A/C was a window unit. I discovered two fascinating things the next morning: there was a hole in the ceiling over the shower, and the carpet in the room was so dirty that walking three feet on it made the bottoms of my feet black. Ick. And judging by a review of the place that I found online after the fact, the folks in the room above mine COULD see through the hole in my ceiling, just as I suspected. Nice, right?
Ah, well. I would deal with it. I hadn’t travelled all the way to New Orleans to sit in a hotel room, anyway, so I couldn’t see that it would matter much. I’d gotten a cheap room, and I was within walking distance of the Quarter. After dropping my stuff in the room, I set out on foot and headed down Ursulines toward Rampart.
There were a few people out and about in the Treme that day. Everyone said hello and seemed friendly. I crossed Rampart into the Quarter.
The buildings were closer together in the Quarter. They started to look more like what I was expecting to see. A block or two in, I passed a woman working outside in her yard. She looked at me and said, You shouldn’t be walking around here alone. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her, exactly, but it was broad daylight and it seemed pretty quiet. But I didn’t really have much choice, anyway. I wasn’t going to take a cab everywhere, and I didn’t really even know where I was going. I was just wandering around. And that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Speaking of what I was expecting to see...I was really completely unprepared for the dilapidated craziness that is Bourbon St. Despite having been there some years earlier, I was still harboring the idea that the French Quarter would be like New Orleans Square at Disneyland. It would be clean, colorful, safe, and elegant. I’d been to Disneyland many times, and my one visit to the Quarter years earlier had been very short, and had taken place at night, and I’d gone into exactly one bar and had only a coke. So I’d packed a suitcase full of my nicest clothes. The RED Georgiou dress, a little black silk dress from Victoria’s Secret, heels, etc. For this first foray into the Quarter, I’d had the good sense to put on shorts and a t-shirt. And not to carry a purse. Everything I needed was in my pockets.
I wandered down Ursulines to Bourbon and turned right. Walked toward Canal, heading for the Famous Door, making note of places that had music that I liked along the way. I believe the band at the Famous Door was supposed to be a blues band that afternoon, but they weren’t. I stuck my head in but the music wasn’t doing much for me, so I turned around and headed back the other way, toward Esplanade. I remembered passing a place a little way back with a sign in front that said simply, R&B.
The R&B Club used to be at 617 Bourbon St, between Toulouse and St. Peter. It was in an old Creole Cottage, and it was owned by Al Harper, who also owned the Blues Club down in the 200 block. Sadly, it’s now a daiquiri bar or some such foolishness. In 2000, it was simply an amazing place to be. I saw The Rooster, Les Getrex, Pat “Mother Blues” Cohen, C.P. Love, and many others there. On this day, I walked inside and got myself a table, right in the middle of the place.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Santa Monica
I didn’t get back to New Orleans again for eight or nine years. I was busy working, and raising kids, and I didn’t get to travel much. One year, my mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told her, “a weekend.” She agreed, and came to stay with my kids for the weekend. Testing the travel waters, I figured I’d head toward Los Angeles. I’d been aiming for something generally close to Disneyland, and I’d been checking the Hostelling International website (http://hiusa.org ) for hostels that were relatively close to it. The one in Santa Monica looked the best.
I flew into LAX from Phoenix and stayed at the hostel, which is on Second Street in downtown Santa Monica (http://hiusa.org/santamonica). I must have been about 29 at that point. I was absolutely thrilled to be somewhere other than home, and by myself, for God’s sake. By myself. Nobody needed anything from me. I didn’t have to worry about anybody but me. I could just float around by myself and do nothing, or do stupid things. It didn’t matter. What a freeing idea, after having to spend every waking hour of every day either at my job, which I hated, or taking care of my kids. I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but having two children is tiring.
The hostel in Santa Monica is very cool. I haven’t been there for years, but I was very impressed by it at that time. It’s huge, compared to other hostels I’ve seen. I believe it’ll house 260 people or so. There’s a 24-hour desk, security door, and a huge industrial kitchen. Breakfast is served daily for a small fee, and of course, you can store and prepare your own food, too. There’s a library, a movie room, a courtyard, and notices about local tours and activities. It has a number of private rooms, which I’ve never seen, and many large bunk rooms. The hostel provides sheets and a blanket to each guest, and each bunk comes with a locker. There are about 12 bunks in a typical bunk room, and the guests are usually young people under 25, and they’re from all over the world. It’s interesting just to sit in the room and listen to all the different languages being spoken. Bathrooms are all down the hall, which is somewhat less than convenient, but for about $20 per night, the place was perfect for me.
After getting checked in, making up my bunk, and locking up my stuff, I hit the streets. The beach was just across the next street over, but I headed inland and wound up on the Third Street Promenade. It was mid afternoon. I was free, and the Promenade was enchanting. I remember smiling at everyone I passed on the street. The Promenade is mainly national chain stores, like Mill Avenue here in Tempe. But they’ve closed off a couple of blocks of 3rd St and planted trees and such in the middle. It’s a cool place to wander up and down, get a snack, peruse books at the bookstore. I did browse at the bookstore and looked around in Anthropologie, where I wound up getting this great, funky-looking silk dress. As it got toward evening, the musicians started to come out. Street musicians on the Promenade. There was a guy playing guitar and singing American Pie. There was a whole crowd gathered around him, singing along and harmonizing - everyone knows the harmony on the chorus, right? A block down, another guy with an acoustic guitar playing his own music. I don’t remember what it sounded like any more, but I remember it being delicate and sensitive, like gossamer threads being woven in the air. The very most enchanting thing, though, was the string quartet.
As I wandered back toward Broadway, I discovered that a string quartet had set up shop in front of the bookstore. They were playing one of the Brandenburg concertos, and doing quite well. They were all music students from one of the local universities. I listened to a couple of numbers. They began another, played through an intro, and then the viola player stood up. And he started to sing in this clear tenor that just made me want to cry. His name was Mario, and he was Brazilian, and he was singing “Amapola.” It was astounding. His voice was just beautiful. And I’m here to tell you, a young tenor with a viola in his hand is irresistible. I’d never seen anyone that was playing in a string quartet get up and sing with them. But really, why not? If you can do both - play an instrument and sing - do it! I loved listening to this quartet. I listened as long as I could, tipped them, and got a CD. They were the Rococo String Quarter, and I fervently hope that they are still playing together.
Later that evening, I met up with an old friend whom I’d met when I was in college. We’d decided to go to BB King’s, so I got all dressed up. Yes, believe it or not, I used to wear dresses all the time. Found it fun. I had this great a-line, sleeveless Georgiou dress with a low-cut square bodice that I’d gotten on clearance. It was short, it was made of worsted wool, and it was RED. Not just red, but RED. The a-line skirt would swish and sway nicely when I danced in it. We saw a great band at BB King’s. Blues done right. We danced, had a couple of drinks, had an argument, and he took me back to the hostel. The argument wasn’t over anything important, and it was probably my fault. Overall, it was a nice evening, though, enjoying good music with an old friend.
The next morning, I got up and walked up and down the Promenade again. I got a flattering haircut at a swanky salon on Broadway and wandered around, blissfully alone. I was looking for cigarettes by early afternoon, and I happened upon a little cigar shop on Broadway between 2nd and 3rd (http://www.lonewolfcigars.com/). I stopped in and confirmed that yes, they did have cigarettes, and not just cigars. I bought a pack, and the gentleman who was working there invited me to sit down.
It was a nice looking place. There was wood panelling and shelving, and there were a number of leather wingback chairs, and a couple of chessboards out on the tables. The front window was open to the street. The weather was beautiful, and there was a steady stream of people walking by. One side of the room was taken up by a large walk-in humidor. I learned later that members could rent small lockers inside the humidor. They kept their cigars in there, along with any libations they enjoyed.
The people watching was fabulous. There were families coming and going from the Promenade and the mall across the street. There were all kinds of stylish young people, getting into arguments, having conversations, or just going about their business. There were a couple of men playing chess inside the shop, and a couple more just hanging out, watching the game and talking. It was a really easygoing atmosphere. No one seemed to care that I wasn’t smoking cigars, and I was comfortable, so I stayed. I was enjoying walking around Santa Monica, but my back was starting to hurt, and it was good to relax in a comfortable chair.
I watched a couple of chess games, enjoying the banter of the people hanging out there. They were very witty, and very funny, and I was enjoying having this completely unexpected experience in a cigar shop, of all places. It turns out that most of the men there were actors. If you’ve ever been in a play, and hung out in the Green Room, well, it was kind of like that. Actors can be extraordinarily entertaining when they’re just killing time. Those of you that have spent time in a Green Room know what I'm talking about. I'm not an expert on this, by any means...I can't act, but I studied classical music for years, and in fact was a music major when I started college. I sang well enough that I was cast in the chorus of a few musicals during the course of my education - Guys and Dolls (high school), Fiddler on the Roof (community production), and My Fair Lady (college, and I actually had a line).
I was eventually invited to play a game of chess. I was on the chess team in high school - yeah, I’m that cool. I only played for one year. I lost every game but the very last one. And for that one, I’d been paired up with the person I’d played for my very first game. Let me tell you, he was not pleased. I hadn’t played chess since then, so of course I lost my game in the cigar shop that day. I did get some helpful suggestions from my companions in the shop, though. But about the time I was losing that game of chess, someone went and got a bottle of port out of the humidor. Another game of chess commenced, the port was passed around, and I inquired about a cigar that might not be too strong for me. I was introduced to Al Capone Little Cigars. And by and by, the nice gentleman who worked there came by and offered me a styrofoam cup of Grand Marnier. I discovered that night that I enjoy little cigars and Grand Marnier. About the time I’d finish my drink, he’d come by with a refill, and as the evening went on, we started talking.
He was dark-skinned and had an accent that I couldn’t identify. Where was he from, I asked? “I am Armenian,” he said. After some more conversation, we discovered that he spoke Italian and I spoke Spanish, so we made a game out of speaking to each other in Italian and Spanish at the same time. It was mostly understandable and pretty amusing, particularly with the addition of more and more Grand Marnier. I wound up staying at the cigar shop for hours, a ridiculously long time. I mostly just observed and laughed with the folks sitting there, enjoying the evening. Drank some, smoked too much, and had weird multilingual conversations. When it was closing time, everyone packed their things back into their lockers and headed out.
I headed home the next day, having had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend in Santa Monica. I didn’t make it anywhere near Disneyland, but it was a great time. I got to visit Santa Monica a few more times in the next year. I always stayed at the hostel, and for the most part, it was perfect. There was just one time when I arrived there for a late-night check in and was told they didn’t have the bunk that I’d reserved. They could pay for a cab to a hostel in Venice, or I could sleep for free on the floor in the movie room. Turns out that the movie room floor was concrete...but I managed to get the loveseat in the library all to myself.
For those of you who have never stayed in a hostel, allow me to recommend trying it. It's cheaper than a hotel by far. If you're traveling alone, you'll have the opportunity to meet new people and participate in activities with them in a way that you wouldn't in a hotel. You'll meet people from all over the world. If you're into languages, and hearing different points of view, this is an amazing opportunity. Don't expect four-star accomodations; it's inexpensive for a reason. Facilities are usually pretty basic, but the best of them have a certain amount of local charm. There's no room service, and the bathroom may be down the hall. Still, in my opinion, hostelling is an adventure not to be missed.
I discovered how much I really enjoyed taking a trip by myself in Santa Monica. So the next year when my mom asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said “a long weekend.” And I went to New Orleans.
I flew into LAX from Phoenix and stayed at the hostel, which is on Second Street in downtown Santa Monica (http://hiusa.org/santamonica). I must have been about 29 at that point. I was absolutely thrilled to be somewhere other than home, and by myself, for God’s sake. By myself. Nobody needed anything from me. I didn’t have to worry about anybody but me. I could just float around by myself and do nothing, or do stupid things. It didn’t matter. What a freeing idea, after having to spend every waking hour of every day either at my job, which I hated, or taking care of my kids. I love my kids, don’t get me wrong, but having two children is tiring.
The hostel in Santa Monica is very cool. I haven’t been there for years, but I was very impressed by it at that time. It’s huge, compared to other hostels I’ve seen. I believe it’ll house 260 people or so. There’s a 24-hour desk, security door, and a huge industrial kitchen. Breakfast is served daily for a small fee, and of course, you can store and prepare your own food, too. There’s a library, a movie room, a courtyard, and notices about local tours and activities. It has a number of private rooms, which I’ve never seen, and many large bunk rooms. The hostel provides sheets and a blanket to each guest, and each bunk comes with a locker. There are about 12 bunks in a typical bunk room, and the guests are usually young people under 25, and they’re from all over the world. It’s interesting just to sit in the room and listen to all the different languages being spoken. Bathrooms are all down the hall, which is somewhat less than convenient, but for about $20 per night, the place was perfect for me.
After getting checked in, making up my bunk, and locking up my stuff, I hit the streets. The beach was just across the next street over, but I headed inland and wound up on the Third Street Promenade. It was mid afternoon. I was free, and the Promenade was enchanting. I remember smiling at everyone I passed on the street. The Promenade is mainly national chain stores, like Mill Avenue here in Tempe. But they’ve closed off a couple of blocks of 3rd St and planted trees and such in the middle. It’s a cool place to wander up and down, get a snack, peruse books at the bookstore. I did browse at the bookstore and looked around in Anthropologie, where I wound up getting this great, funky-looking silk dress. As it got toward evening, the musicians started to come out. Street musicians on the Promenade. There was a guy playing guitar and singing American Pie. There was a whole crowd gathered around him, singing along and harmonizing - everyone knows the harmony on the chorus, right? A block down, another guy with an acoustic guitar playing his own music. I don’t remember what it sounded like any more, but I remember it being delicate and sensitive, like gossamer threads being woven in the air. The very most enchanting thing, though, was the string quartet.
As I wandered back toward Broadway, I discovered that a string quartet had set up shop in front of the bookstore. They were playing one of the Brandenburg concertos, and doing quite well. They were all music students from one of the local universities. I listened to a couple of numbers. They began another, played through an intro, and then the viola player stood up. And he started to sing in this clear tenor that just made me want to cry. His name was Mario, and he was Brazilian, and he was singing “Amapola.” It was astounding. His voice was just beautiful. And I’m here to tell you, a young tenor with a viola in his hand is irresistible. I’d never seen anyone that was playing in a string quartet get up and sing with them. But really, why not? If you can do both - play an instrument and sing - do it! I loved listening to this quartet. I listened as long as I could, tipped them, and got a CD. They were the Rococo String Quarter, and I fervently hope that they are still playing together.
Later that evening, I met up with an old friend whom I’d met when I was in college. We’d decided to go to BB King’s, so I got all dressed up. Yes, believe it or not, I used to wear dresses all the time. Found it fun. I had this great a-line, sleeveless Georgiou dress with a low-cut square bodice that I’d gotten on clearance. It was short, it was made of worsted wool, and it was RED. Not just red, but RED. The a-line skirt would swish and sway nicely when I danced in it. We saw a great band at BB King’s. Blues done right. We danced, had a couple of drinks, had an argument, and he took me back to the hostel. The argument wasn’t over anything important, and it was probably my fault. Overall, it was a nice evening, though, enjoying good music with an old friend.
The next morning, I got up and walked up and down the Promenade again. I got a flattering haircut at a swanky salon on Broadway and wandered around, blissfully alone. I was looking for cigarettes by early afternoon, and I happened upon a little cigar shop on Broadway between 2nd and 3rd (http://www.lonewolfcigars.com/). I stopped in and confirmed that yes, they did have cigarettes, and not just cigars. I bought a pack, and the gentleman who was working there invited me to sit down.
It was a nice looking place. There was wood panelling and shelving, and there were a number of leather wingback chairs, and a couple of chessboards out on the tables. The front window was open to the street. The weather was beautiful, and there was a steady stream of people walking by. One side of the room was taken up by a large walk-in humidor. I learned later that members could rent small lockers inside the humidor. They kept their cigars in there, along with any libations they enjoyed.
The people watching was fabulous. There were families coming and going from the Promenade and the mall across the street. There were all kinds of stylish young people, getting into arguments, having conversations, or just going about their business. There were a couple of men playing chess inside the shop, and a couple more just hanging out, watching the game and talking. It was a really easygoing atmosphere. No one seemed to care that I wasn’t smoking cigars, and I was comfortable, so I stayed. I was enjoying walking around Santa Monica, but my back was starting to hurt, and it was good to relax in a comfortable chair.
I watched a couple of chess games, enjoying the banter of the people hanging out there. They were very witty, and very funny, and I was enjoying having this completely unexpected experience in a cigar shop, of all places. It turns out that most of the men there were actors. If you’ve ever been in a play, and hung out in the Green Room, well, it was kind of like that. Actors can be extraordinarily entertaining when they’re just killing time. Those of you that have spent time in a Green Room know what I'm talking about. I'm not an expert on this, by any means...I can't act, but I studied classical music for years, and in fact was a music major when I started college. I sang well enough that I was cast in the chorus of a few musicals during the course of my education - Guys and Dolls (high school), Fiddler on the Roof (community production), and My Fair Lady (college, and I actually had a line).
I was eventually invited to play a game of chess. I was on the chess team in high school - yeah, I’m that cool. I only played for one year. I lost every game but the very last one. And for that one, I’d been paired up with the person I’d played for my very first game. Let me tell you, he was not pleased. I hadn’t played chess since then, so of course I lost my game in the cigar shop that day. I did get some helpful suggestions from my companions in the shop, though. But about the time I was losing that game of chess, someone went and got a bottle of port out of the humidor. Another game of chess commenced, the port was passed around, and I inquired about a cigar that might not be too strong for me. I was introduced to Al Capone Little Cigars. And by and by, the nice gentleman who worked there came by and offered me a styrofoam cup of Grand Marnier. I discovered that night that I enjoy little cigars and Grand Marnier. About the time I’d finish my drink, he’d come by with a refill, and as the evening went on, we started talking.
He was dark-skinned and had an accent that I couldn’t identify. Where was he from, I asked? “I am Armenian,” he said. After some more conversation, we discovered that he spoke Italian and I spoke Spanish, so we made a game out of speaking to each other in Italian and Spanish at the same time. It was mostly understandable and pretty amusing, particularly with the addition of more and more Grand Marnier. I wound up staying at the cigar shop for hours, a ridiculously long time. I mostly just observed and laughed with the folks sitting there, enjoying the evening. Drank some, smoked too much, and had weird multilingual conversations. When it was closing time, everyone packed their things back into their lockers and headed out.
I headed home the next day, having had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend in Santa Monica. I didn’t make it anywhere near Disneyland, but it was a great time. I got to visit Santa Monica a few more times in the next year. I always stayed at the hostel, and for the most part, it was perfect. There was just one time when I arrived there for a late-night check in and was told they didn’t have the bunk that I’d reserved. They could pay for a cab to a hostel in Venice, or I could sleep for free on the floor in the movie room. Turns out that the movie room floor was concrete...but I managed to get the loveseat in the library all to myself.
For those of you who have never stayed in a hostel, allow me to recommend trying it. It's cheaper than a hotel by far. If you're traveling alone, you'll have the opportunity to meet new people and participate in activities with them in a way that you wouldn't in a hotel. You'll meet people from all over the world. If you're into languages, and hearing different points of view, this is an amazing opportunity. Don't expect four-star accomodations; it's inexpensive for a reason. Facilities are usually pretty basic, but the best of them have a certain amount of local charm. There's no room service, and the bathroom may be down the hall. Still, in my opinion, hostelling is an adventure not to be missed.
I discovered how much I really enjoyed taking a trip by myself in Santa Monica. So the next year when my mom asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said “a long weekend.” And I went to New Orleans.
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