Formality and Frivolity
Los Angeles, CA
May 30, 2011
We have never had good luck at LAX.
Sixteen years ago, when we lived on Telegraph Hill, our aunt called us within a week of Thanksgiving. She wanted us to join her in Malibu for the holiday.
Being tired, and looking forward to a long weekend at home, we politely declined. A couple days later, two airline tickets arrived in the mail, courtesy of our aspiring hostess. I guess we were going after all.
The afternoon before Thanksgiving, we packed our bags, hopped BART to Oakland, and took the one-hour flight to Los Angeles. From the plane, we navigated the crowds we had hoped to avoid by staying home, grabbed our luggage, and emerged into the hordes seeking ground transportation.
We hopped in a shuttle ostensibly bound for the Santa Monica hotel where our aunt promised to meet us. From there, she would take us to Malibu. We crammed in, and orbited the terminal interminably.
With time passing, darkness settling in, and at least an hour between us and our destination, we decided to try another course. After our fourth or fifth trip around the airport, we hopped off the shuttle, and somehow found a cab.
Like a spaniel chasing a squirrel across a frozen pond, our driver weaved his way from the terminal and onto Sepulveda. I gave him the name and address of the rendez-vous hotel. He gave me a quizzical look, and a rapid response. I had no idea what he said…and quickly realized the feeling was mutual.
Fortunately, my wife did. He was speaking Russian. And, best we could tell, he could speak nothing else. I gave directional information to Rita, who translated to our driver.
The adventure continued, and hours passed. By a couple taxis, we finally arrived in Malibu, where seeing our fourteen year-old cousin and her ten year-old brother eased the ordeal of that day, and brightened the prospects for the next three. But we were ready to return to San Francisco.
This week we came enthusiastically to Los Angeles, to celebrate another cousin, over a different holiday. And we have been amply rewarded. But, with our own ten year-old and a six year-old in tow, we still had to get away from that airport.
Sailing was smooth off the flight, thru the airport, and to the rental car shuttle. Then, we arrived at the Avis facility. After enduring a line extending out the door, we were welcomed at the counter with news that they had no record of our reservation.
A manager was beckoned, and joined the first agent. They eyed our confirmation as if it were a gambling debt they’d thought long forgotten. Puzzled looks were exchanged, and calls made to an authority figure in a distant office (or to a file clerk in the back room).
As the search progressed, they assured us this would be worked out. We were offered water, and asked to wait to the side so they could thin the crowd of customers whose reservations had not been lost.
Within a half hour, ours was found. Or conjured. Either way, we had wheels, which rolled toward the Palomar Hotel on Wilshire.
When selecting a hotel online, you don’t necessarily expect the Ritz, but you do hope not to be where the Ritz hit the fan. But this brand has a good name, and this place is perfect for our purposes…clean, colorful, and with a convenient pool to occupy the boys. For one frightening moment, the pool occupied me.
With some slack in the schedule Saturday afternoon, I brought David for a swim. He is relatively adept in water, but still must be watched. In a golf shirt, pair of slacks, and leather loafers, I settled beside the pool so te could go in it. A few minutes later, I did as well.
While swimming with another kid, David somehow slipped his arm floats, began to flail, and then to sink. Noticing his struggle, I hopped from my chair, and went fully dressed into the pool. I was terrified going in, but relieved coming out.
David was fine, if a bit shaken. I was too overwhelmed to care that I was soaked. Standing drenched on the crowded elevator ride up, I ordinarily could have wringed the embarrassment from my clothes. As it was, I couldn’t have cared less.
Fortunately, I had time to change. The Palomar is convenient to the Beverly Hills Hotel where Christy and Steve were to be wed, to the wonderful rooftop party the previous night, and to the Beverly Hilton where many friends and family are camped.
It also offers easy access to a few diversions unrelated to matrimonial matters. We walked to UCLA for a glimpse of the campus and a terrific Mexican lunch at a small cantina off Westwood. Short drives the last couple days brought us to Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and Rodeo Drive.
Our sons have had a blast. We hoped to join Brett at the Dodger game a couple days ago, but the timing didn’t work. Parties and weddings filled the other evenings.
Both nights, while we were out, the boys stayed in hotel rooms: at the Kimpton with a sitter while we were on the rooftop, and in George and Molly’s Beverly Hills Hotel suite the night of the wedding.
St Teresa of Avila once noted that the body has the defect that, the more it is provided with care and comforts, the more needs and desires it finds. I am afraid we have primed our sons for a cornucopia of craving.
We met George in the Beverly Hills Hotel lobby prior to his preparation for the 6:30 ceremony. He walked us to the suite, and the boys into heaven. They had a couple large rooms, one of which featured a widescreen TV on which the Braves were about to be shown. That, and a couple $40 room service hamburgers, kept them happy and sedated. They may never settle for a Sheraton again.
We walked back to the lobby and were startled to find Brett at…of all places…the bar! He finished his beer, gave the bartender the mortgage on his house, and we headed outside to the Crystal Garden to await the bride.
It was worth it. The scene was idyllic, and the weather was gorgeous. As was Christy. George beamed as he walked his elegant daughter toward the floral altar. On one side, Katy was the epitome of dignity and pride as Maid of Honor. On the other, tho’ he may not know what he is getting himself into by joining her family, Steve stood justifiably pleased at his approaching prize.
We’ve only met Steve once before, a few years ago at a family gathering in Tampa. That occasion, and this one, convinced us he’d fit right in. Actually, we may struggle to keep up. The first leg of the race began a few minutes later, down the hall and under the lights of the grand Ballroom.
We shared a table with Brett, my parents, and both Hughs. First came the cocktails, followed by a fine meal and pleasant conversation over agreeable music at a conducive volume.
Then came the toasts. George took the stage. In Hollywood…under the lights…he was in his element, sprinkling his usual good humor onto the inherent poignancy of a father releasing his daughter’s hand. Katy added a moving mix of wit, grace, and affection for a sister who is also a best friend.
As at any wedding, this was an assemblage of vital youth and nostalgic years. The crowd was a nice size…large, but not overwhelming. It provided energy, without being unwieldy. A good mix of formality and frivolity.
The groom launched the final phase of festivities by dancing with his bride. Her father and step-father followed with their respective turns, as did Steve’s mother with her newlywed son.
After the ceremonial dances, glasses were raised, and so was the volume. The lights dimmed and drinks flowed. Ties loosened, and semblances of solemnity subsided. The party was on.
The live band was great, the young brunette lead bouncing as she hit all the right notes to attract feet and keep them moving. I drifted on and off the floor. Mostly I marveled as my wife, mother, brother, cousins, aunts, and uncles simultaneously swayed, swiveled, and shook to the sounds of The Village People, Journey, and Lady Gaga.
I noticed the different ways men and women dance, exemplified by the placement of their hands. Most men keep theirs low, fists clenched at or below the waist, forearms firing up and down or back and forth, like pistons powering a rail cart into the bowels of a coal mine. Women extend theirs in the air, arms raised high, fingers above the shoulders, hips swiveling, jewelry flying, sparkling gowns fanning the floor. The women, as usual, are more fluid, and more fun to watch.
The arsonists behind the bar poured fuel on the fire well into the wee hours. Brett, scheduled for a pre-dawn flight to Tampa, had long since crossed the Rubicon from wanting to leave early, to deciding not to sleep at all. The early, transcontinental flight became its own rationale for partying thru the night. If he slept beforehand, it’d be harder to do so on the plane.
We were with him till George and Molly raised their white flag, which forced our surrender. We retrieved our sons from their room, and hailed a car back to ours.
After a late night with lots of booze and little sleep, I awoke this morning with some trepidation. As each eye opened, I sat up slowly, and awaited retribution. It hasn’t arrived, nor inhibited my ability to scribble these notes.
We have no plans this morning. We‘ll grab our coffee, pack our bags, maybe take a walk around Westwood, and resume our ongoing adventures to and thru the Los Angeles airport. Then, this afternoon, we will go where we always seem to go when we leave LA.
Back to San Francisco.
JD
