Days on the Beach. Not Spent Sunbathing

“Venice Beach in a combination of the tacky, the mindless, the ironic, and the novel.”

Venice Beach day!

One of the benefits of unexpectedly making friends at CTY was having someone to go out on adventures with on our free days.   One of the things I didn’t even realize I wanted to do was to go down to Venice Beach.  It was my first Southern California beach and even without any comparison to the other beaches nearby I knew Venice was a beach with a distinct personality.   I took a bus with Elicia, Andi and Jennifer and then walked about a mile until we came upon the stretch of sand while annoying clouds rolled in across the early sunshine.  The boardwalk reminded me in some ways of the town where the cruise ships dock in St. Maarten.  There wasn’t anything really new and shiny and Americanized about it.  Instead, it was a stretch of blacktop with vendors in permanent looking fronts on one side and temporary tents along the other.  There was an array of options—jewelry, clothing, scarves, coffee, funnel cakes, and every five steps or so medical marijuana stores.  The Doctor is In signs read or The Green Doctor, Accepting New Patients with a telling green leaf across the awning and on the glass.  Along the side closer to the beach were sand castle sculptors, tarot card readers, henna artists, and street performers. 

Henna tattoo! 

People of every kind walked along on the chilly day and we spent hours perusing, and buying, the different wares.  I got my first ever henna tattoo at Jennifer’s encouragement and Elicia’s willingness to do it too. 

Manhattan Beach volleyball courts

            The next weekend we biked on the beach down part of the bike path that ran almost 25 miles from Santa Monica to Torrence Beach.  The trip confirmed what I already knew as we headed south from the middle part near the Marina del Ray to Dockweiler Beach—where RVs and campers seemed to flock-- and headed on to Manhattan Beach and its Pier.  Pre-set-up beach volleyball courts were everywhere and sports abounded on the beach.  A week after that day Mom and I visited Santa Monica Beach and Pier, north of Venice Beach, and saw the personality there—part carnival, part upper crust which was totally different from Venice.  At least until we half-snuck onto a classy rooftop bar with vertical fire stations and great (expensive) drinks and filled with dressed up people.  We looked like we had spent the day meandering on the windy breach.  Because we had. But somehow they let us onto the rooftop. We looked down the beach towards the lights and saw the Ferris Wheel of Santa Monica’s pier in the not-so-distant stretch down the beach.

Santa Monica Pier

            I was on Santa Monica’s pier two weeks later when a car purposely plowed into people crowding the Venice Beach Boardwalk, killing one and injuring dozens.  It’s not as though Venice is my hometown beach.  But I had just been there, and since we walked the entire boardwalk I had been in the exact spot where the driver had gone into the crowd.  In the exact spot just two weeks earlier.  The pier I was standing on on Saturday, August 3 was less than five miles away.  (In case you didn’t know anything about this, here’s the link about it: http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/03/us/california-venice-beach-crash ).

            I loved that day walking along Venice and I wouldn’t trade it.  But I knew its personality a bit, and so it felt more like a classmate hurting instead of just some person you’ve vaguely heard of but never met.  Maybe I’m personifying the beach too much, but it was my first Southern California beach experience with newly forged friends, and one of my favorite days of the CTY summertime.  So it hurt just a little bit to read about the death of a person I’ve never met because it happened on a beach I had met. 

The Hollywood Tour

Strip away the phony tinsel of Hollywood and you'll find the real tinsel underneath. --Oscar Levant 

One's destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.  --Henry Miller

Hollywood from a distance, through the smog

       I hadn’t always dreamed of seeing Hollywood.  It wasn’t my place of golden dreams and star-studded fantasy.  But at the same time it seemed a shame to be this close—to be living less than 20 miles from the Hollywood sign, the Walk of Fame, and the hand and footprints—and to never see it.  But LA’s public transit system is notoriously bad and would’ve involved an awful lot of time on a bus in order to see the reality in the land of illusions.  So I’m not sure I would’ve gone on my own, but it turned out that I didn’t have to, thanks to Mark Bell.

            Mark is on the Introduction to Robotics instructors at CTY and lives in the Los Angeles area.  He has several advanced degrees in science and engineering and has worked for both private corporations and public schools and now teaches at an exclusive LA private school.  He also loves Hollywood.  He adores it.  He is one of the rarest of men—a local, an insider in the movie industry who has not become disillusioned by the reality of the big screen.  He sees both the grit and the charm and allows the charm of the place to win and spill out from him as he talks about the wonder of it.  He is, in other words, the ideal tour guide.

            In addition to working in science and education, Mark’s other profession, his hobby, his true passion perhaps, is acting.  Since he lives locally he has tried his hand in both stage production—he once played the merchant in The Merchant of Venice—and in small roles on screen.  When I say small roles, I mean he’s been an extra, without lines or a name or credit, but he’s appeared in 24, The West Wing, several commercials, and House.  He has a future son-in-law who makes movie creatures including those for Avatar and other big-budget films. 

Andi and I on Rodeo Drive

            The middle-aged, tall, lanky man drove us easily through Beverly Hills and found a parking spot right on Rodeo Drive.  We stopped to take pictures and he tucked in his blue-button down shirt which had been worn by Hugh Laurie on the set of House and which Mark had bought at a sale later.  We continued on and he got us, as advertised, a Mark Bell Parking Spot right on Hollywood Boulevard—mostly because everyone else was afraid it wasn’t really a spot, but after reading the sign three times Mark was assured it was a legal parking spot and that we wouldn’t be ticketed or towed (and we weren’t).

            He walked us to Grauman’s Chinese Theater with the hand and footprints were and took a picture of me pointing to Emma Watson’s wand print (which somehow isn’t in the picture).  Mark showed us the Dolby Theater where the Red Carpet and statues of Oscar would appear once a year, and tried to tempt us into the McDonald’s across Hollywood Boulevard.

Chinese Theater

            “I mean, every time I go in there, I see someone get arrested,” he told us for the third time as he ran a hand through his longish graying hair.  “Although it hasn’t happened for the last three times, so I’m probably overselling it,” he admitted.  He took us down the path where stars recounted the crazy ways they’d broken into Hollywood—a path which ended with a ceramic bed and a tile that read, “How some of us got here,” beside it.  Mark drove past stars’ homes we couldn’t see behind hedges which effectively (and rightfully) protected Madonna, Faith Hill, and others from our gaze.  He took us down the Sunset Strip and past UCLA’s campus. 

            Throughout it all, Mark talked.  In the absence of questions, Mark answered the ones he wished we would’ve asked.  He told us Central Casting—which would cost each of us about 25 bucks—was the best place to get work as an extra.  He told us we, as young people, would likely face great competition from many aspiring stars, but the market wasn’t too flooded with –in his words—old guys.  He told us about getting fitted in full military uniform—that of a colonel—for a part on The West Wing they didn’t end up using him for.  He told us about his greatest acting regret—not buying out The Merchant of Venice the night of the 79^th Academy Awards in early 2007.  He had been offered an opportunity to wear the costume of Prince Charles as a sort of living mannequin since The Queen was nominated for an Oscar in Costume Design.  But instead Mark had to place The Merchant.  Did I mention he was The Merchant in a community production of The Merchant of Venice?

Imagine this floor red--and Mark
as a Prince Charles mannequin.

            Mark told us about the history of the places we were seeing like the El Capitan Theater—recently purchased by Disney, and the Hollywood and Highland complex—recently built and mostly for tourists.  He told us everything we could want to know and more as we stood slightly dazed by the bright lights, costumed movie character replicas—Jack Sparrow on a certain corner was always Mark’s choice for most realistic.  

Momma on Rodeo Drive

Everyone told me that Hollywood isn’t what they had expected, and they were right.  Honestly, it reminded me an awful lot of Time Square’s smaller, slightly grubbier, younger brother.  For special occasions it could shine its shoes and look good for the cameras, but on a day-to-day basis no locals would ever be there.  Except for Mark.  This was the reason that Andi and I had come—she made the point that going somewhere with a person who really loves a place, who knows it inside and out, is the only way to see something.  I have to agree.   Except for Mark, my perception of the place might be that flat, simple judgment, but his love of it gave it a sparkle, a shine, and a gossamer layer that made it look slightly better in different angles as I stood beneath the bright neon lights. 

            I took Mom there, at her request, one week later, and I took her to almost the exact same places that Mark took us.  The only differences were that we caught a glimpse of LL Cool J on Rodeo Drive and, since it was day time, we could see the Hollywood sign which isn’t illuminated at night. But I’m not sure I captured the sparkle like Mark did.  Actually, since I knew I never could, I didn’t really try.  The Mark Bell Tour is the one you wish you could have gone on.  It’s a tour I wish I could give.

Do you see the Hollywood sign? 

            I don’t just wish I could give a Mark Bell tour of Hollywood, but of anywhere—to love a place enough to just have stories pouring out of me about every aspect of the place.  The past, the present, the crime and the glitz of somewhere.  I’m a pretty good tour guide of a lot of places, but I don’t have my one spot that I could give you the Meghan Short Tour.  I guess I’m trying to give you that tour of my recent trip, and I’m going to do my best, but I’m also going to give this disclaimer: just as the pictures won’t do any of the places justice, neither will my stories.  But words are really all I have, so I’m going to do the best I can.  Welcome aboard this West Coast Tour. 

On Airports--Waiting to Head Home

Waiting game at LAX.

All human life can be found at the airport. --David Walliams

There’s something charming about airports.  Not charming in the way that our hostels were charming or an outdoor movie in DC is charming.  But there is something about airports.  In some ways they’re the great equalizer—it doesn’t matter if you’re a well-known celebrity, if you’re flying first class or got the lowest rate of economy possible—if your flight is delayed, it’s delayed.  You have to take off your shoes at security.  You have to go to the gate they want you to go to and have to board when you’re supposed to board.

Airports bring out strong emotions in us all—stress that we won’t make our flight, fear of the plane crashing, boredom that we’re stuck waiting, excitement in our destination.  I’ve been at airports ridiculously early in the past several months and it’s interesting to see them wake up around me.  I got to Reagan just before 4 am four weeks ago and was checked in by 4:15.  I made my way down towards security there and stood in line.  The woman in front of me sighed and told the anxious older man beside both of us that security at this airport doesn’t open until 4:30am.  He could not settle though.  He walked up and down the line, asked every official looking person he saw what was happening and decided there must be another security checkpoint somewhere that he was missing. 

            “This is Mickey Mouse security,” he said at least a half dozen times in his impatience.  He paced up and down the line and I wished he could understand that the movements by official TSA people were moving towards opening.

            I also wished I could tell him this was the security option.  Reagan is not a large airport—it’s not an international airport, it’s the smaller DC option.  Dulles is a much larger, though farther from my house, and lately, more expensive, option.  But my anxious friend would not admit defeat and changed from worrying about the Mickey Mouse security to saying, “Something is wrong.  This feels wrong,” as he resumed his pacing up the line that didn’t move.  “I’m telling you, this feels wrong,” he claimed to no one in particular on his return.

            There was nothing wrong—TSA was about two minutes behind schedule and looking ready to open any second.  But, I was worried about him—I had a feeling they would flag him at security if he couldn’t just stand in line.

            By contrast, LAX is the largest airport I’ve ever been to.  Almost everything about it is open 24 hours a day and when I dropped Mom off at the US Airways gate around 5:30am, we got stuck in some traffic.  The great thing about checking in via phone the night before was that it saved me quite a bit of time standing in line this morning.  Each airline also has its own security area, so I barely waited in line for that stage at all.  That was vastly preferable to any other airport check in process I’ve ever had. 

            The food options in LAX left something to be desired though. I wanted Starbucks, partly because I wanted the LA mug that I now had room for in my backpack. (My suitcase only weighed 45.5 pounds! Whoo hoo!) But in the entire LAX complex, there’s only one Starbucks not under construction.  And that one is in Terminal 1-probably a mile walk from my location in Terminal 7.

            So Peet’s Coffee, without a mug, it was, but I poked around, looking for some pizza that I could get for lunch since I’d been craving it the last few days.  Nothing.  It looked like a sandwich was the only thing I could perhaps grab.  The Charlotte airport where Mom and Dad and I got stuck recently was much better.  Vastly better.

            But those were options were the same for me and for Jennifer Aniston—if she happened to come through LAX on United Airlines.  We’re all in this airport because we’re trying to get somewhere—often times somewhere we’re excited about going.  When I got to LA in July I was waiting for an unknown shuttle driver and I saw two couples embrace in a way that defied gravity and oxygen needs.  I knew I wouldn’t have this kind of greeting waiting for me.  I did give my Mom a huge hug when she got here last week and I picked her up at the airport.  When Meg picks me up today I suspect there will be a lot of joy and excitement—though the kind that doesn’t involve saliva or tongues. 

            We’re all at the airport because we’re trying to get somewhere.  Or because we’ve gotten where we need to go.  Usually there’s a lot of good feeling connected with it, though sometimes it’s for a less pleasant reason.  But everywhere you look in airports, there’s emotion.  Today’s for me is eagerness—it’s time to be home.  

Shifting Back to Real Life

Those who know, do.  Those that understand, teach. --Aristotle 

My heroes, reading their hard work!

You haven’t really lived until you’ve danced with 12 year olds to “Gangham Style,” many of whom are Korean, and not only know all the words, but also know what all the words mean.

It was the last dance of the session, the last night of CTY, and unlike the first dance where I just watched, this time I went out on the grassy dance floor and jumped around to “Call Me Maybe.” It was a telling moment, trying to convince eleven year olds to dance awkwardly rather than stand around awkwardly.  I’ve never danced with my students before, but then they also aren’t usually allowed to call me Meghan, a privilege which my CTY kids have enjoyed for three weeks.

I’m not Ms. Short here—I teach in shorts most days, eat lunch with all the kids, and don’t try to be a strong discipline force with them.  But I’m certainly also not Meghan, not really.  I’m still their teacher.

The same way that the dance was one of the strangest things ever—it included a moment where we tried to figure out how to dance to “I’ll Make a Man Out of You,” from Mulan. (It was also the moment I realized that I’ve gotten used to making up motions to songs for kids in MetrOrange on Sunday mornings.)  The dance was a bunch of twenty and thirty-somethings bopping around and being a little crazy and trying to convince the kids to be just as crazy.

The whole experience of CTY has been a little crazy.  It’s 11 year olds I’ve been discussing Sir Gawain with and talking about deep messages in fairy tales.  Senior high level material and analysis, essay writing, all coming out of fifth and sixth graders.  They’ve also said things like, “When we were younger, we might’ve thought life was like a Disney movie, but now we’re old enough to know how the world really works.” Andi—the best TA I could’ve asked for—have watched them try to their hand at flirting a little bit in the last week—pushing and teasing each other the way only middle schoolers do.   But they also cried, “Eeeewwww” anytime a film clip we showed—cartoon or real live action—included kissing.  We did almost a semester’s worth of material, a semester of bonding and socializing and crammed it into only three weeks. 

And now it’s over, when it barely seems to have begun.  It’s been an intense three weeks—seven hours of teaching the same kids for fifteen days.  It should’ve been long enough to identify my teacher persona—somewhere in between the Ms. Short I am at the public school and the Meg I am the rest of the time.  So maybe Meghan is the middle ground—maybe Meghan is who I was to those kids and that sort of solves any issue I’m kind having.  And it’s not as though this whole thing is keeping me up at night, but at this point my teacher persona is something I’m usually pretty comfortable with and sure about.  There was a moment though last Thursday night that I realized it had slid away a little bit.  Maybe while I was doing the Macarena with the kids or dancing and singing to “If You Wanna Be My Lover,” and trying to encourage them to do the same. 

No matter who I was to them for those three weeks they’re on their way home now.  I hope some of them will finish their hero stories and send them to me, once we’ve all gone back to real life where kids mostly just know Ms. Short.