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.