20/365 - Beach Life

Here, my friends, is Venice Beach, what I'm dubbing the New Orleans of California. Artists and vendors own the street hawking normal beach wares - flip-flops, sunglasses, t-shirts, and purportedly hand-painted portraits - but here in Venice Beach I was also given the option to buy stilts, an adult-sized rainbow hued hula hoop, and reggae music just for kids, blaring right from a vintage red radio flyer wagon. I saw countless dudes on rollerblades and skateboards weaving in and out of the throngs of people jogging or lolling by - while I sat at a sidewalk cafe last night, more than one guy coasted by on wheels of some sort serenading the crowd with his electric guitar and wearing an amp for a fanny pack. Music was on every corner, either piped in or played live, and when I finally tucked into bed in my beachfront hotel later that night, I could still hear laughter and the tunes of a not so lonely blues band drifting into the night.

The nightlife eventually faded into my dreams, and I awoke this morning eager to hear the students that had brought me to LA, by way of the beach. Dressed and ready for work, I made my way out onto the ocean front walk in search of a cuppa joe and some breakfast. I turned the corner and was surprised to see so many people on the street that early, but it only took a few more naive steps to realize that most of them hadn't quite gotten out of bed just yet. One man was combing his hair and a couple others were sharing a smoke, but the vast majority were still tucked into their blankets, sleeping bags, or cardboard mats all along the street. A little further down, the garbage men were disposing of a tattered mattress and pile of clothes left behind by someone who either didn't come home last night or who picked a rotten time to go take a leak. I, myself, drew quite a bit of attention clicking down the street in my open-toed black pumps, colorful skirt and ruffled top. "You look awfully nice today, ma'am," I heard from an older gentleman who was missing a good many teeth. I smiled and nodded, "Thank you." Not ten paces later, I spied a teenage girl who met my eyes as she stood from her bedroll and stretched. I smiled shyly and said, "Good morning," self-conscious about barging through her bedroom. When I passed by the girl on my way back, she called out, "I like your skirt!"

My skirt. A skirt I probably paid $3.50 for at the Salvation Army was the envy of that girl - or so I thought. When I shared the story with a friend later, he said, "Maybe she just liked your skirt."

Maybe she did.

I never did go far enough to find my morning coffee on Venice Beach. I cowardly double-backed to my hotel and called a cab - I decided to find some breakfast near the music school downtown instead. And the whole way there, I contemplated my own circumstances - far from rich but even farther from poor than I thought - and I realized how fortunate I am to have the luxury of paying $3.50 for a skirt from the Salvation Army.