Exactly three weeks from today (Friday, that is to say), a long-bodied, tremendously empty moving truck will pull up in front of our house and a few strong people (most likely men) will step out, ring our doorbell, and get to work. When they're done, our life in Los Angeles will have evaporated, nothing left but wisps of cat fur in the corners, a few light fixtures, and some colorfully painted walls. So simple. You make a decision, you follow through, a place goes from tangible fact to memory.
Will I miss LA in the middle of February slush, wax nostalgic for my time in this hyperbolic desert mirage? I doubt I'll miss the overall of my daily life in this place, but inevitably, yes, there are places, things, and people I will miss. If there weren't, my life here would have been far too sad and solemn and utterly lacking in all things necessary to sustain life in any decent form.
Here are some I'll miss or at least remember fondly:
(click on "more" to read the list)
Mashti Malone, an Iranian ice cream parlor secreted in a scruffy Hollywood mini mall. Even lactose-intolerant me can find my bliss there, with the saffron pistachio nondairy ice cream and the fallludeh, a rosewater ice with threads of – not sure what, something mildly chewy – running through it. Dan loves the peanut butter chocolate ice cream and the strawberry cheesecake (yes, ice cream) and Damian is fond of the cookies and cream flavor.
Sushi Nozawa. The original sushi nazi. "Trust me" signs have been multiplying in the little storefront. That's how you get the freshest fish, if you trust Nozawa to make the decisions for you. So we tell Nozawa's wife, "Chef's choice, please" and get small plates of silky smooth raw fish. Baby tuna sashimi drowning in ponzu sauce, cold crabmeat wrapped up in a warm rice handroll, albacore marinated in mild vinegar. Butter on the tongue, over too soon.
Aidan's Place playground. Admittedly, Damian will miss it more than I will, but I do love the big sprawl of disability-friendly, playfully inventive play structures. When Damian was three years old and scared of heights, he ran up the ramp at Shane's Inspiration (Aidan's Place's sister site), able to gain altitude without ever realizing he'd left the ground. And I sat with him in the armchair-sized bucket swings, giving him that much-needed vestibular motion in the security of Mommy's lap. Now that he's seven and an occupational therapy whiz kid, he climbs to the top of the structure without pause, walks on the swaying mushroom pods while barely holding on, and invents his own scenarios in the shelter of the sand yard's castle.
Vroman's Bookstore. New York, last I remember, wasn't exactly a bookstore mecca. Not like Berkeley or Boston. Los Angeles is even worse, but it does have Vroman's, a gargantuan user friendly independent bookstore in Pasadena. Sometimes on a Sunday we drive east and north to Pasadena for the day, stop for brunch at Marston's (I like the salad with chicken and mandarin oranges and the bread pudding, Damian loves the blueberry pancakes, Dan likes everything) and then heading to Vroman's to wander the aisles and emerge hours later, dazed and carrying a heavy bag of new books.
Malibu Creek State Park. It's ironic, with all the easy-access hillside trails, all the untouched acreage in this huge city, but I don’t much like hiking in Los Angeles. Dry scrub canyonland doesn't feed my soul. Malibu Creek is an exception, a taste of Northern California in the south. Tall, slim oak and sycamore trees, hidden pools and of course the creek. Butterflies, wavy marsh grass, a sense of peace.
Clementine Bakery. Oh, the yeasty apricot buns! Oh, the Moravian Sugar Bread, with its buttery sugary perfect mouthfeel goodness! Oh my yes. Wonder if they ship? Wonder if shipped baked goods get stale?
Apple Pan. A total dive with zero atmosphere. No, negative atmosphere. And yet the very name makes my mouth water and my tongue curl. A shack in West LA with lines out the door, people waiting against the wall for the privilege of sitting at the U-shaped counter on high stools to eat burgers wrapped in wax paper and dripping with barbecue sauce. They apparently serve a mean apple pie but I'm always too full after the burger and fries.
Ocean Avenue Seafood. Sit on the patio and look out across Ocean Avenue to the promenade and the ocean. Get a dozen oysters, Hama Hama or something exotic, doesn't matter. Briney, slippery, sometimes surprisingly sweet. Eat halibut wrapped in potato and prosciutto. Order chocolate bread pudding for dessert, walk through the restaurant and gaze at big fish tanks against the back wall. Head down to the promenade overlooking the Santa Monica bay and watch the sun set over the ocean. It's not that it's the best seafood restaurant ever (though it is good), but the ritual of it means something more than the sum of its parts.
The beach, up in Malibu, and the drive along PCH (Pacific Coast Highway). There are beaches on the east coast, I won't go without, but there's something about that blue and the near-white sand, the rocky hills jutting out of the water. Something about the Pacific Ocean on a warm winter day.
Cost Plus. Yes, I know. It's a Pier One type of chain store, so what? But I like their furniture. And I like that they have lots and lots of small rubber frogs for a certain young person who happens to be very fond of such creatures. I guess now we'll have to get our frog fix at the Museum of Natural History (they too sell small rubber frogs).
Bay Cities Deli. Of course, what I like about this place is how New York it is. And Jersey, in particular, is Italian food heaven. So I guess I won't miss it that much after all. But they do have good, crusty house-made bread and they do have a yummy avocado spread for their roast beef and they do have a heartburn-inducing intense meatball sandwich and they do have astonishing crowds surging forward to order lunch en masse.
The new Disney Hall. Frank Gehry gave downtown LA a bit more personality. Silverly sheen, curvilinear multifaceted geometric bits and pieces that jut up here and sweep around there, like a child's unexpected take on building a playhouse. Inside the lobby, soaring ceilings, tree trunk-like pillars branching out. And inside the auditorium, a cathedral of sound, hushed and clear, with a tall, majestic organ at the back of the stage. I like.
The drive up Laurel Canyon, up and over the Hollywood Hills into the Valley. Twisty turns, Moorish rooftops, rows of slim cypress. Fountain grass growing wild by the side of the road. Feels almost like Italy. Feels almost like somewhere I'd like to live. (Except for, you know, the lack of back yard space and the danger of landslides. And the fact that it's still LA.)
Bougainvillea. Didn't know the flowers were actually leaves. Didn't know it came in yellow and orange and pink, not just magenta. Didn't know it grew in such profusion, draping itself over walls and transforming the mundane with its extravagance.
The Hollywood Farmer's Market. Food, yes. Oh, yes. You can get great strawberries, peaches, English peas and white corn on the east coast. Maybe even better. But Fuerte avocados? Fuyu persimmons? Fresh navel oranges straight from the field in February? I'll also miss the sellers I've gotten to know and the sense of community I always feel there, albeit from the outside, as if people belong to clubs I've never known to join.
Santa Monica Seafood. The freshest fish. Glistening rows of fish. So fresh. Too far from our house. But worth the drive. (Mostly because everything closer sucks, but still. Is good.)
Dr. Jay. Damian's pediatrician. Funny and warm and respectful of a child's personhood. Also very good at the whole doctor part. And after our visit this week, Damian has begun trying vegetables. The man's worth his weight in gold.
Lazy afternoons in Tiny Coconut's peaceful terraced backyard. Talking, lolling, watching the kids, talking some more. Not enough of those, actually.
Lunch at Cheebo with my friend Michele. A regular ritual while Damian was in school this year. Meet at my house, walk up to Sunset to a small restaurant with bright orange walls and high ceilings and good food. And good conversation. At least at our table.
California Craftsman architecture. Like this very house. Also Spanish-style architecture. I got sick of it for a while but I'm over that. I like it. I'll probably even be nostalgic for it. (Not enough to come back, though.) I hate the low-slung boxy bland architecture on the main boulevards, yawn at the prevalence of ranch houses everywhere, but I do like the Craftsmans and the Spanish style houses. That I do.
There may be more. Maybe not. It's enough of a list to leave with. Enough to come back and visit, perhaps.
Posted by Tamar at August 12, 2005 12:08 AM | TrackBack