Los Angeles: Day 1

Flying into Los Angeles, the city seems to go on forever.

Whenever I return to Los Angeles, I remember the times I spent sitting in traffic singing at the top of my lungs to keep from losing my mind. I remember meeting a random guy at a gas station who later stole discounted toilet paper from a super market and split the proceeds with me. I remember juggling college and full time work and extra work and volunteering and dating. (Where did all that energy go?) Now, upon my return to L.A. for a week long visit with my husband, we are most excited not about sights like beaches or tar pits or walks of fame but rather honey walnut prawns, hot dogs and huge burritos. That's right. We have officially become foodie tourists. Crazy.

After deboarding the plane, we found the rental car shuttle to pick up our reservation. The exchange with the rental guy was a real gem. I was immediately reminded of how L.A. is all about the hard sale. The billboards, the celebrities, the residents, everything all converges to sell you something. The convo went like this.

Venice Beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

"Hey are y'all Nigerian? Because my wife and I know Nigerians." How nice. He knew people from another country. I wished I had a cookie to give to him.

"Yes, we do happen to be." I am Nigerian by marriage but I didn't feel like going into detail on that with him.

"Oh wonderful. Nigerians love Louis Vutton bags." Okay, lovely stereotype, Asshole. This was him establishing a "connection" with us and also figuring aloud that we, as a people, like to spend our hard-earned money on unnecessary crap.

"Some of us do." Just like any other population of human beings who may or may not have name brand preferences in bags.

"We'll give you the week-long rental for $75 but it's going to be a real gas guzzler like a Grand Marquis or a Crown Victoria. I can switch you to a more gas efficient car for an additional $10 a day." So, he was going to be doing us a favor. Right. I swear I selected the economy class car when I made the reservation. This fool wanted us to double down to avoid driving something with a V8 (which we had not chosen) to save on gas as if the  V8 technology hasn't improved on fuel efficiency since 1912. I don't scare easy. I wanted the damn $75 deal.

"We'll take our chances with the sales deal, Sir." I used to live here. I know where the cheap gas stations are and how to avoid traffic.

"Okay, well you'll also want to get the basic insurance for $9 a day because blah, blah, blah and if the car comes back with a single scratch then you could be paying $250 a day for repairs blah, blah, blah." A scratch? Oh no! I have no faith in my own driving skills. I'm definitely going to scratch up the car. Let me give this insulting idiot and an additional $63 for fear of a scratch.

"We've got full coverage through our insurance plan. No thanks." Thank you, Geico.

After that whole  rental debacle, we got our hands on some honey
walnut prawns courtesy of Hop Woo in Chinatown.  

"But according to California law blah, blah, blah and the cost of going without this additional coverage will end up hitting you really hard." Dude didn't know he was talking to an attorney and someone who used to work in direct sales. Jerk. He was probably gunning for a sales prize because as I listened to the other rental clerks around me they were all trying to upsell from the threat of the V8 and push the basic insurance coverage. And they were not backing down from first and second refusals. Thank goodness I love saying "no" a lot.

"No, thanks."

We went out to the lot to retrieve our suppposed cop car and the only car available was an Ultima.   We did our own inspection to check for dings and scratches but upon final checkout the attendant revealed that we would only actually be liable for dents. Sigh.

Welcome to Los Angeles. Home of "I will tell you as many lies as I can muster to make a bonus on my check." Yeah, I remember that all too well. This is one of the reasons why I live in Atlanta.

A Tale of Two Open Mics

Venturing out into Atlanta nightlife has officially become an exercise in introspection. I'm not sure if its on account of me or the city itself or a combination thereof. Perhaps my going out at night always was a journey into myself. In any case, I've taken note and I believe this tango with self-awareness is the impetus for my hunt for open-mic poetry. I guess I  want to hear the inner dialogue of others  in technicolor, dolby digital and all that. I've got a thing for words. Thus I visited two different open mic nights this week. The first was on Wednesday night at Rev Coffee on Spring Street in Smyrna. The second was on Thursday night at Hodge Podge on Moreland Avenue in Atlanta.

Rev Coffee
This place was a pleasant mix of suburbia with distinct notes of metropolis. Just about everyone on the mic was an aspiring folk singer with the exception of a Bach-playing cellist and an improvising actress. What I enjoyed most about the joint was the clear energy of acceptance; a comfort in the newness of what a brave guitar-strumming expressionist may present. An appreciation for baring one's naked soul while being shrouded in song. I fed off of the energy of the youth there. Oh, they are so hopeful and confident in their ignorance. I wanted to protect them from their future selves. I found myself time-travelling back to my own college days of angry poetry and experimentation in love poetry and wondering about the world poetry. I was inspired to write in my little black notebook. I think I'll make this place a regular Wednesday night treat. I like how the place looks like a coffee-loving collegiate dorm room on steroids. Also, Rev Coffee's pineapple smoothies are the bomb.

Hodge Podge
The vibe of Hodge Podge truly invites people to gather and spend a little time, make new acquaintances and come again soon. I found students surfing the web at cafe tables in one section, young ladies gathered in a knitting circle in another section,  and  the open mic DJ setting up his sound system in the largest room/area. The open mic  program itself was in its initial stages of development with only two brave souls singing covers of popular songs. Maybe I should have brought my poetry and spit a little something.  I ended up having this eye-opening conversation with two other ladies about myriad topics including the pros and cons of Atlanta life, love and marriage and past encounters with interesting strangers. After eating a heavenly triple-chocolate cupcake and drinking a Mandarin Orange Jarritos, I felt even more confident that I would return on the second Thursday of next month to perform. Goodness, I haven't done a poem out loud in public since I lived in Los Angeles. However, this place just inspired conversation...connection. It had the energy of being on the brink of an explosion. Anything was possible around me, within me.

*****
So, as I return to school in the fall to take this writing addiction to the next level, there is something awakening in me. Beckoning me back to the roots of my words, the well from which I draw what makes me want to go crazy with a pen and a notebook or rather a laptop. I like it. I feel like I'm being reborn. Not to say I won't go to crazy parties and sip on dirty martinis.  I admittedly need the wildness of nightlife as continued inspiration for my story-telling. I am, however,  enjoying the peace of the present while getting hyped about my future. I liken it to the feeling one gets just before uttering their first word in front of a live microphone at some quaint little coffeeshop.....

June 29th - Barcelona Atlanta @ Inman Park

A few days ago, Metro Atlanta received an official heat advisory from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I couldn't quite comprehend how the temperature could manage to get any hotter than what it already was. It's been summer since early March. We barely had a winter and there had been absolutely no spring. The trees were utterly confused. Left with no choice but to bloom bigger, stronger, greener. Fortify for the supposed armageddon in December.


Lo and behold the temperature dial read 109 degrees on the car's dash as I motored to last night's happy hour meetup. Shit. Drinking in this heat? Why? When I handed my keys to the valet at Barcelona Atlanta, the dial had inched up to 111 degrees. God help us all.

The bar/restaurant was full of people. Speaking at the top of their lungs because everyone else was speaking at the top of their lungs. There is no such thing as an "indoor voice" at a bar. I ordered a white wine sangria. No way I was gonna suck all the moisture from my face with some dry death concoction tonight. Damned adult acne. I looked around the establishment.  There was the after-work crowd with their pressed button downs and belted slacks. Their sleek, sophisticated dresses. They looked like they had been here for hours.  There was also a random group of women with a very young baby. I couldn't make up any reason in my head to explain why they were here with an infant so I turned away from them before they caught me staring. There was the wait staff playing with their phones, waiting for more people to squeeze themselves into a place which was rapidly becoming the place to be.  Everyone seemed to be drinking mojitos.


This was the second time I'd been been here and I'm sure I would return again at some later date. Whether they eventually offered a bona fide drink special or not. There was just something about the place. It had this understated sex appeal. This casual elegance. And each time I uttered its name, I would let the combo of consonants and vowels  lazily roll off of my tongue. I'm meeting some ladies at Barcelona. We're having cocktails and tapas at Barcelona. Perhaps, we should make reservations at Barcelona. (Note to self: Look up vacation destinations in Spain.)




As soon as my party of professional gals convened, we fell into an easy conversation on careers, parenting, politics and marriage. A few weeks ago, I'd scolded my husband for assuming that all women talk about are relationships. However, as I listened and contributed to the fray I had to admit that he was right. At this age, everything about life is an application of self to whatever particular relationship. In our younger days, we take our encounters with life for granted. As we grow older, we also grow into this state of double consciousness. We live our lives and we watch ourselves live our lives. Sometimes with delight. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with wonderment. Always with resolve. We recognize ourselves as others recount their tales. We often have the same reaction in tragedy or in triumph. We laugh. We order another round. We eat our tapas and sop up alioli with bread. We change the subject.



I stole away to the restroom, which I must say is one of the oddest features of Barcelona. Instead of having a men's and women's communal setup with individual stalls, there is one private restroom for a single male and two such restrooms for women. Initially, I thought this to be rather inconvenient for anyone who had a dire toilet-related emergency. However,  as I waited outside of one of the women's rooms for my turn, I couldn't help but imagine coming here one night with my husband and surreptitiously snatching him into this bathroom for an impromptu slap and tickle after trying two or three of those mojitos. As I entered the bathroom, I giggled at the picture on the wall. I think Barcelona winked at me.  


 I returned to the table, laughed as the ladies ogled some strapping  young man walk by outside, paid my check and then ventured back out into the lake of fire temperature to retrieve my car. Feeling sentimental, I held onto to the logo-stamped matches I'd grabbed while exiting. Yeah, I'd definitely go back.