The past few days have been pretty hectic.
Tuesday morning I set off for Los Angeles, specifically Torrance, California. Actually, specifically Redondo Beach, California. This was my second time in the Los Angeles area, and I still don’t understand where LA begins and/or ends. Anyway, its pretty absurdly nice in Southern California, where everybody’s attitude basically boil down to this: Career? Family? Security? Who needs any of that…I can bartend three nights a week and just hang out in the gorgeous weather the rest of the time and be totally content. Its great. I was there, though, for ambitious reasons: to interview for a real job that could necessitate a REAL move. It went fine, we’ll see what happens. I’ll probably be finding out next week.
The real attraction, though, was seeing the area to see if I could stand living there (which I think I could), and also the drive back up to Davis along the coast, which was quite a trip and probably another entry (with pictures if I can figure out how to do it). The entire “South Bay” area was nice, comprised of the beach towns and some inland towns south of Los Angeles. Redondo, Hermosa, and Manhattan Beaches, Torrance, El Segundo, etc. I was staying right on the water and enjoyed it pretty thoroughly.
Best/worst part of the whole time down there: After my interview, I went back to the hotel, changed, and wandered out to find a bar to wind down, get something to eat, and watch the first game of the World Series. This was around 4 or 4:30 in the afternoon. I walk into this place that was largely empty, which was fine with me, to find a woman holding an Irish coffee glass, talking slurredly with the bartender. I’m not sure what motivated her to be drinking a hot drink on an 80 degree day, but she evidently was motivated to drink about 12 of them. To the point that she began talking to herself in her reflection in the brass of the beer tree coming out of the bar. The bartender and I shared a quiet side conversation about how she “didn’t give a shit how crazy she was because she tipped well”, and then proceeded to watch her further deteriorate.
Now after I’d be there for a while enjoying food, bar conversation, and several (Draft!) Pacificos, out walks one of the cooks who is now off duty and apparently determined to get drunk. His name was Carlos (I think), and had come to LA from Mexico City about 10 years ago (I think). Now, I love Mexican people, and I have a rudimentary knowledge of Spanish (especially after some beers), but I could barely understand anything this man was saying, I’m pretty sure he didn’t understand me, and yet he kept trying to talk to me, and kept literally making me take shots of tequila with him. I’m pretty certain he was trying to get me drunk, and it was really starting to creep me out, so I left muy rapido (see? Spanish!). Looking back, this was funny, and I guess it was a little bit at the time, but the bar had certainly served its purpose, and I went back to my hotel and passed out happily. At about 9:30pm.
No comments:
Post a Comment