The town we live in (pop. 87,000) is a pretty "normal" town. People on the streets are pretty "normal" people. 47% of the population is Asian, 35% is Hispanic and 13% white so that might not be quite typical of the rest of the country's demographics. But aside from the fact that most of the signs around town are written in Chinese and Spanish, the town looks fairly average middle-class American and I feel pretty much at home.
Pete had been encouraging me to come to Santa Monica some day (his office is there) and spend the day enjoying the shops, the lovely public library, the beach and (if I came on a Wednesday) the Farmer's Market. Yesterday was shaping up to be a beautiful and quiet day so late morning I hopped in the car and headed over there. It's about 25 miles there but light years in atmosphere.
SM isn't a bit like the town we live in. There are lots of lovely shops and interesting places but the people on the streets are definitely different. I strolled into the Farmer's Market minding my own business and just looking at the merchandise, not intending to buy anything because (a) I knew it would be hours before I went home and (b) I didn't want to carry anything heavy around all day. I heard someone yelling, "Hey, girlfriend!" and after a few calls, turned out of curiosity to see who was calling. To my chagrin, there was an enormous man wearing a fez, propped on a stool at a booth and he was beckoning to me! I smiled, shook my head and kept walking as I was in the middle of the street and well past the booth. He immediately started venting imprecations at me. I was mystified - what had I done to merit vilification?
On my second turn through the market I saw two men dressed in pale pink robes. They were both wearing unusual haircuts and one was handing a book to a vendor. I overheard a snatch of the conversation as I walked past: "...this is what we do: we take food, and then we prepare it with a much love as possible, and then we offer it...." My mind was already jumping into the conversation, "That sounds just like what I've done two or three times a day for the last 31 years!" Then I began to wonder about that little phrase "as much love as possible". How does one quantify how much love is possible? I don't doubt the young man's sincerity but his words somehow had an empty ring in my ears.
Later I took refuge in a good book, seated at a table in the sun-drenched courtyard of the public library. There is a small cafe' there and a lovely little stream that bisects the courtyard, making it a wonderful spot to rest and read. An older gentleman shuffled past me toward the cafe'. I glanced up and then looked again. He was wearing a brimmed canvas hat, the kind fishermen wear to stick their tackle in. Instead of tackle, he had all kinds of huge feathers of every hue sticking straight up out of the top of the hat. I was mesmerized - how had he got the feathers to stand up so straight? Would he make it through the door without knocking them off? Were the ends of the feathers poking his head inside the hat? Where did he get such a feather collection? I was tempted to open a conversation with him to ask about the hat but then I remembered Mr. Fez from the market and decided to let the gentleman just mind his own business. I don't know - maybe he would have enjoyed talking about his hat. I would have enjoyed hearing about it.
I guess the moral of the day is, next time I feel the need for a dose of the bizarre, I know where to go to find it.
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