Summer in the City

I accompanied my husband to a screening last night--a rare occurrence since few films meet my criteria of no violence, no suspense and no slapstick.

But "(500) Days of Summer" was a romantic comedy, and had good buzz. Turns out the flick was charming and inventive, and both of us enjoyed it.

But there was one character in the movie touted as beautiful and charismatic that I knew really wasn't: Downtown Los Angeles.

The filmmakers even offer on the "(500) Days" website a video extolling their incorporation of the setting into the plot, as an underappreciated but praiseworthy locale.

Los Angeles is my hometown--in fact I'm the fifth generation born and raised there--and I love it for many things, almost all made by God and not man. When I worked downtown (as a writer at the Los Angeles Times) many years ago, I'd stroll during my lunch hour to Grand Central Market, where the produce was cheap, but the proprietors put the bruised pieces from behind the counter into your brown paper bag. I'd walk to the Bradbury Building and eat lunch in its lovely central plaza. Then I'd fast-walk back to the office, past little clothes stores where everyone spoke Spanish and seemed to have a ruffley and poufy sense of style. Downtown LA is colorful in the mornings, shut tight by 6 pm, and just not all that nice for browsing.

I also worked for a bit writing editorials at the Herald Examiner, RIP, and its historic building, as I've blogged before, had a distinctive Spanish style, a sweeping entry staircase, a grand cupola...and rats. Not much was nearby, though about six or eight blocks away, some clothes factories and stores clustered in dark, scary older buildings, where you could hear the churn of sewing machines and sometimes get a great deal; other times get ripped off.

In "(500) Days," aside from one hillisde location where the lovers perch overlooking a panorama where two of the prominent buildings are identified as parking lots, and one nice scene in the Bradbury Building, LA is just a blink. Even being in love--or not--can't color the brown that dominates the entire region, but that's irrelevant since there's not much of the region in this movie.

LA's attraction is its weather, its beaches, and the creativity and vitality of its people. Only tourists walk around Hollywood; many attempts to revitalize its skuzziness have failed. In fact, I just took a virtual look-see down Hollywood Blvd. on googlemaps' "street view," and no, it hasn't changed since I moved to the Northwest a dozen years ago. Too bad.

I'm still attached to my beloved hometown, and when the sky up here is socked-in gray, the ground saturated and moldy, and the short, cold days of winter yield to mostly night, I yearn for Santa Monica beach, for palm trees and sidewalk cafes, for the ever-blooming hydrangea and bouganvilla in our yard.

But don't tell me downtown LA has special magic. This time of year especially, I'll take the vibrance of downtown Seattle, where locals and tourists walk the sidewalks carrying white-wrapped armfuls of dahlias and peonies from Pike Place Market; where sparkling Eliott Bay moves with ferries and sailboats, where the golden light glints off panes in the Olympic Sculpture Garden. And where there's no better view than cerulean Lake Washington and snow-topped Mt. Rainier from right where I live. I only wish that summer in Seattle could last 500 days...

Summertime--and the Liberals are Easy

Finally it's summer and I'm almost nervous about being this giddy. When the sun pours into my kitchen, and I can wear flip flops instead of boots, I'm already cheery, but these last few luxious days have been the best. Lying outside reading, listening to my favorite talk-radio show, a home-made cherry Italian soda by my side, is deliciously decadent.

The weekly fairs and festivals tumble one after the other (I blogged about many of them last year) and this weekend is our community's homey celebration, complete with a parade, boat rides around our island, and fireworks, none of which I (ever) get to enjoy, as they're on Shabbat. But on Sunday I look forward to once again greeting my fave artisans, in their white plastic booths lining a closed-off street in our little "downtown," and strolling among the polished Chevys on the car show's row. Then I'll head over to another neighborhood for their even funkier festival.

And tonight, with my son, I enjoyed another summer tradition: Shakespeare in the park. The outdoor stage nestled in a ravine allows for hillside seating on the lawn, and this year the Wooden O Theatre group put on Romeo and Juliet. Like many such productions around the country, the classic dialog comes with a twist--mod costumes, innovative sets, unexpected effects.

We certainly didn't expect the twisted message that my 15-year-old son found distractingly embedded in this rendering of the Bard's drama: that the US and Iraq are two needlessly feuding "families" whose enmity, like the Montagues' and the Capulets', ends in tragedy. The Montagues wore camouflage with "UN" armbands, blue berets and bayonets. The Capulets, in my son's words, wore "traditional Arab robes" and carried knives. The story began and ended with air raid sirens reminiscent of World War II newsreels. Other than that, we got the familiar soliloquies, poisonings, stabbings and what-have-you. I found the acting superb, the experience on the lawn glorious, and the message a reminder that we live, after all, in waaay liberal Seattle.

Okay, I'll conclude with another quick anecdote. The other day, a chipper college-age young woman with a clipboard rang my doorbell. As I opened, she smiled: "I'm here for change! We all want our country to be better and I'm collecting for Barack Obama!" I chuckled.

"Sorry, but I'm not for Barack Obama!" I smiled back.

Her face fell. "What?" she asked, clearly never having confronted such a response.

"I'm not for Barack Obama," I repeated, still grinning amiably.

"You mean--" she puzzled, "You mean," she stammered. "You mean--you're a Republican?"

"Yes," I replied.

Her eyes still wide with incredulity, she stood there a beat. "Well, then," she pondered aloud, "I'm sorry." And she turned and walked away. No attempt to engage me; no literature left at my feet. And now I'm sure our house is marked on her list of addresses with a scarlet "R."

Have a great summer!

Bye-Bye, Summer of Love...

It's back-to-school time, and, like millions of students across the country, I'm sad. Not just because last Saturday night, my darling oldest daughter departed for school across the breadth of our country,an "out of towner" living for her third year in midtown Manhattan. My second daughter is poised to move into her sorority this week-end, and my son began his school year today with the discovery that a new student in his school shares much of his background.

For each of my children, as the others who contemplate the new school year with a mix of anticipation, curiosity and dread, there's the upside of that exciting first week, when tough assignments aren't yet due and exploring new classrooms, meeting new teachers, and collecting this year's school supplies--those newly-sharpened pencils, fresh binders, crisp-bound textbooks--allows them the hope of possibility, the clean-slate start toward success.

For me, left behind, there's the departure of summer.

Summer has always been my favorite season, largely because I'm a sunshine girl. The feel of that warmth on my skin is indescribably delightful, and brings joy to my soul while gilding my face and boosting that healthy vitamin D. I know the dangers of those nasty rays, and I've heard the warnings of hastened wrinkles (that I suppose I ought to heed at this point) but the very essence of summer, which permeates my very body through that caressing sunshine, is complete happiness and satisfaction with life.

Nature shares my ecstasy in the summertime. Dawn comes early and bright, pouring yellow magic through my window. There's a reason why all those furniture ads show rooms with morning rays entering--that sunshine conveys leisurely moments together with loved ones at home; happy Sunday pancake breakfasts, reading the newspaper, lingering over coffee and laughter without the rush to depart. Summer sunshine is not just bright with possibility, but it's lush and golden, and we on the west coast needn't dread humidity or stifling temperatures, but merely the sauntering sunshine through hours of options for reward. The trees are heavy with intense green leaves, and in the long hours seem to grow more verdant and more full as we watch. Vegetables blossom and grow into succulent prizes to harvest and enjoy. Summer fruit, the juicy peaches and drippy-sweet plums, are the bounty only a season of plenty can produce.

And the nights, that begin late and seem ever-early, are warm enough to stay barefoot, and sleep light and free. Friends are more easy, life is less intense, and best of all is having everyone home, a family complete and safe and relaxed.

I'd made some colorful signs, one of my habits, to celebrate that we were together. One of them welcomed my daughter to "the summer of love," a reference to forty years ago, the infamous 1967 summer, two years before Woodstock, but already deep into the liberation mentality. Another sign touted my happiness that our family was united. A third simply cheered each of my children as integral to our summery atmosphere.

So, here's to flip-flops. Here's to t-shirts and sleeping late and lying in the sunshine. To vacations and swimming in the lake and hanging wet towels on a clothesline to dry. To not wearing makeup, and walking on a trail dappled with sunshine. I hope your summer was as wonderful as mine was. And maybe, with a little luck, that luxious warmth can last a few more days...