Out of town in Gardena and Hermosa Beach

An experiment with "travel" writing about my local adventures
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I always hated driving. Lately, one of the only places I can still
and focus my mind is behind the wheel. It is the music. My
snowboarding mix is serving me well on wheels. Today, I actually
looked forward to 'getting out of town,' (the phrase my friend used
later in the evening to describe her best friend visiting his cousin
in the San Fernando Valley where I live) driving all the way down to
Gardena for non-descript plans with a friend I haven't seen in over a
month. As Radiohead moaned and crooned along with me I celebrated
the traffic that would keep me in the car, lost in my music, for a
bit longer. Then, as the traffic opened on the 110, Muse's
orchestrally arranged pop/rock propelling me down the freeway, almost
missing my exit as I sang Hysteria as if trying to expel that from my
soul.

Gardena really feels like a out of town with too many cops on wide
desolate streets lines with old apartment buildings dotted with seedy
neon-signed hotels and liquor stores. There is a lack of intensity
here compared to the hustle and bustle of Hollywood and its
surrounding neighborhoods. We drive in circles, stopping at the
Peruvian restaurant to check out the salsa dancing. It feels too
much like a family restaurant with no stools at the bar as if to
discourage lounging (my friend does not dance). We drive in
circles. I enjoy the movement, the distractions.

Hermosa Beach. A place of beauty, a place to escape the LA-ness of
LA. She wants low-key, I want activity. As so often happens, I find
myself on the fringe of two worlds, belonging completely in
neither. I've never been. "It is mostly Frat Boys," she warns. We
go anyway. This is the compromise.

Suddenly we cross a bridge and are transported into what looks like a
movie set -- everything is neat and tidy, too neat and tidy, like
that Jim Carey movie where everything is fake. The sidewalks are
lined with glittery stones. Even the parking garage is decorated
with tile murals. Urban beautiful done to the point of blandness.
Much like the people there.

As we pass the Irish pub, we remember it is St. Patrick's Day. The
smell of beer wafts up the sidewalk clashing with the tidiness of the
town. Boy-men hoot and holler from inside for no apparent reason.
We continue on toward the beach. There is a bar, a bit less crowded.
We each order a Guinness, in honor of the day. There is a small
dance floor, which I never succeed in persuading my companion to
venture to, despite the occasional nostalgic 80's song.

"Are you ordering a drink," a voice from behind inquires as I wait
for my foaming Guinness to settle.

"Um, no. Have one here."

"Do you mind if I order one? . . . "

"No. . . . go right ahead," I step aside.

"But you are in my way," he smirks as begin to move.

I am perplexed, as I am moving.

"You know I'm kidding."

"Ok," I am at a loss for how to respond. How, exactly, was I
supposed to know this? I am reminded how I can really suck at this
flirting, if that is what this is. He sort of apologizes again, I
wish him well with his drinking and turn back to my friend.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day," we toast and head up the stairs.