Cojones son burros
I arrive, jetlagged, squashed and bearing the brunt of a harsh battle. Leaving the baggage area is smooth - not much to comment on... taxi to the hotel which is in Silver Lake, but I can't see the lake and the only silver is coming from the gleaming chrome bumpers of the drive-by cars.
I'm reminded of the film 'Colors' as I am in a very hispanic area of L.A. - lots of shaven heads, big moustaches and prison tattoos (not such a long way from Oxford st after all). Except these boys aren't wearing hot-pants.
I get to reception to hear that I have 3 hrs to check-in... not happy. I leave my bags behind reception and head out to the main drives of L.A. with my life in a laptop case, suit jacket and shoes - trek 3k to a 7eleven and ask directions at several latino spray painting workshops. I'm getting strange looks every direction. It could be that I have a suit instead of a belt chain, it could be that I have a laptop bag in a street that the only other bags are plastic and hung from rusted shopping trolleys. Or it could be that my limited spanish from school affords that I could either a) tell them my birthday, b) ask for directions or c) mumble a sentence that (roughly translated), compares my testicles to that of a donkeys... I choose my words carefully.
Every thinks my name is 'hesay', if I choose to say 'G'day' they ask where in England I am from, and if I switch to 'allo guvnor' they tell me how wonderful the opera house is... I am dazed and confused - and at the last garage I ordered a coke whilst falling asleep at the counter.. I try my luck back at the hotel.
I get back, sweaty, disorientated, and met by a jackhammer that is building a new school across from the hotel. I look left and swear I could see Karen cartwheeling past? To be fair, she has literally done EVERYTHING to do with this trip. I have about my person - a wallet from Karen with print outs of every single detail to do with the trip - dates, events, maps to events, phone numbers, references, photocopies of I.D. - its like a witness protection file, I am sure if I dig deep enough there will be a recipe for fudge brownies... I check in - sleep and... sleep
I'm reminded of the film 'Colors' as I am in a very hispanic area of L.A. - lots of shaven heads, big moustaches and prison tattoos (not such a long way from Oxford st after all). Except these boys aren't wearing hot-pants.
I get to reception to hear that I have 3 hrs to check-in... not happy. I leave my bags behind reception and head out to the main drives of L.A. with my life in a laptop case, suit jacket and shoes - trek 3k to a 7eleven and ask directions at several latino spray painting workshops. I'm getting strange looks every direction. It could be that I have a suit instead of a belt chain, it could be that I have a laptop bag in a street that the only other bags are plastic and hung from rusted shopping trolleys. Or it could be that my limited spanish from school affords that I could either a) tell them my birthday, b) ask for directions or c) mumble a sentence that (roughly translated), compares my testicles to that of a donkeys... I choose my words carefully.
Every thinks my name is 'hesay', if I choose to say 'G'day' they ask where in England I am from, and if I switch to 'allo guvnor' they tell me how wonderful the opera house is... I am dazed and confused - and at the last garage I ordered a coke whilst falling asleep at the counter.. I try my luck back at the hotel.
I get back, sweaty, disorientated, and met by a jackhammer that is building a new school across from the hotel. I look left and swear I could see Karen cartwheeling past? To be fair, she has literally done EVERYTHING to do with this trip. I have about my person - a wallet from Karen with print outs of every single detail to do with the trip - dates, events, maps to events, phone numbers, references, photocopies of I.D. - its like a witness protection file, I am sure if I dig deep enough there will be a recipe for fudge brownies... I check in - sleep and... sleep
posted by brother | 12:17 AM
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