Travelogue: LA Blitz

Prologue: Fleeing

It was midsummer.
I was losing my mind with grief. My wife Takako’d just upped and died instantly on me at the end of February. (If you’d care to read about it, you can find it here: https://nobogasawara.substack.com/p/still-life)
Daughter Lynn, “Hey, Nob, I’m quitting my job in September. I got some vacation time. Any of your bands on tour?”
Nob: “Uh… Lemme see. Durry aren’t on tour. New Pornographers are, but they’ll come by eventually. Oh, hey, the Bleachers are on tour in California. Berkeley and a couple nights in LA around 9/20-ish.”
L: “K, we’re going. I think the Dodgers are playing in town, too.”
N: “Hai? I ain’t got no money.”
L: “I’m owed severance and commissions. I’m taking you.”
N: “What? Why? Whaffo? What’d I do to deserve this?”
L: “Just shut up, Nob. You’ve been a giver all your life. It’s okay to accept gifts.”

Yeah, I cried.

We settled on a weekend blitz: Depart Vancouver for LA on Saturday 9/21 and return Monday 9/23, cramming as much fun activities we could in addition to the Dodgers and the Bleachers.
I’m not much for planning — I like going anywhere to soak up the atmosphere — but Lynn is, so she got busy and filled up our itinerary.

The First Day
We were supposed to leave on an 0850 Air Canada flight.
But we learned it’s delayed nearly four hours before we leave Lynn’s.
We decide to go to the airport anyway to see if we can get on an “earlier” non-delayed flight.
Nope.

Rather than deal with overpriced airport food, we left for the Northern Cafe, a rickety funhouse of a greasy spoon located in a lumberyard on the Fraser River, near the Knight Street ramp. I remember going there over 40 years ago when I worked at a fish plant down the road. Then, it served enormous portions. Their seafood chowder was a feast unto itself.
It’s now been operated for over 40 years by Chinese owners.
It’s good with standard comfort food, but I remember the glory days.
The building appears unchanged. It feels as rickety and unstable as ever with the floor tilting every which way. It smells like an old boat, too. A mix of marine paint, mildew, diesel, creosote, grease. It reeks like the docks. I felt seasicky.

After breakfast, we scooted back to the airport for the obligatory military “hurry up and wait” process of travelling anywhere.
We finally got on our way around half past noon.

The flight, including taxiing and jockeying around on the ground took around three hours. Not much to say here. It’s an airport.

Since LA is designed around the car, LAX sprawls out with extensive road access.
The whole city does. There are whole infrastructures and systems designed to make car traffic flow as smoothly as possible — none of this car-hostile bike lanes sort of hippie idealism. That also makes for incredible sprawl — you have to drive (or ride share) to get anywhere. The transportation bucks rack up in a horrendous hurry.

We stayed smack in the middle of K-town, which in turn is about the center of LA.
Lynn figured it would be the easiest base of operations for getting around.
Our digs was the Hotel Normandie, a block or two north (I think) of Wilshire.
It’s an old place of fading grandeur. Smells kinda funky, like all old residential buildings. Wouldn’t be surprised to learn it has a ghost or two. (Check out the windows in my photo.) Like everywhere LA, it was expensive. At least the beds were comfortable, but you can hear people arguing through heat vents.

This is the Normandie at night. (We arrived around 4:00 p.m.)

After a bit of an adventure at a cash-only business with an ATM that wouldn’t take my RBC card (I eventually had to get Lynn to come bail me out), we made our way to the Dodgers game.

Dodger Stadium: Dodgers vs. Colorado Rockies

From the Normandie, Dodger Stadium is almost due west. I guess it was around half an hour drive? It’s located inside a treed park with a huge parking lot, though I’m not sure if it’s adequate.
Saturday night game, the first after Ohtani’s record-destroying romp (6-for-6, 10RBI, 3HR, 2SB), and an Ohtani t-shirt giveaway, so the stadium looked to be packed.
There was a nasty plume of smoke before the game. Social media reported a warehouse fire as the cause.
There was a huge contingent of Japanese tourists. Where we were, it felt like a third were Japanese. Lynn: “All you could hear in the women’s toilets was Japanese chatter.” And they weren’t shy about spending at the merch shops.

Dodgers merch is not for the fainthearted. I had no idea it would get that chilly in the evening, so I figured I’d buy myself a t-shirt or something.
Yeah, like no. $56 for a t-shirt. Over $250 for a jersey. (That’s way more than a much more elaborate and sturdy hockey jersey.) The numbers didn’t make sense at all.
I suppose “Dodgers” is a brand unto itself just like “Gucci” or “Fendi” or “LV” or whatever high brand you can think of.
Lynn bought a jersey.
I just borrowed Lynn’s long white shirt. I looked silly but it beats freezing.
I mean, once you hit your 60s, practicality and comfort trumps any fashion concerns.
Let’s not kid ourselves. Young people sure aren’t looking at us for any inspirations.

Food prices were hilarious, too.
The much ballyhooed Dodger dogs turned out to be crappy boiled wieners in a factory white bread bun with bog-standard condiments for EIGHT BUCKS.
Lynn saw three guys buy thirty between them.
Meanwhile, street vendors were selling cheese and onion-festooned grilled smokies for five bucks outside.

The atmosphere was pretty friendly. The long rows meant vendors would have to get people to pass along their hot dogs, etc., and then the buyers would pass down their credit cards for processing. It was all very adorably trusting and restored a little faith in humanity.
As did a bunch of grandpas standing up for some veteran celebrating his 100th birthday or something. That kind of observance of hokey decorum is all very wholesome in an endearingly throwback way. May that tradition live on.

The game was kinda desultory, not surprising after Ohtani’s monster game.
It ended a meek 6-3 loss for the Dodgers against a way-out-of-the-running Colorado Rockies.
Still, when Ohtani came up to bat, the excitement and anticipation in the stands surges. That’s why people pay to see sports live. The groundswell of adrenaline is electric and enthralling.
Ohtani went 1-for-3 with a stolen base to extend his MLB record.
Mookie Betts brought him home with a 2-run homer.
Buehler struck out nine, but also gave up four runs.
The spectacle is worth it, though.

After the game, we grabbed a rideshare from the stadium. It was a pretty painless process — they have a pretty organized system that works in a somewhat chaotic manner.

We went to Quarters KBBQ, which is a couple blocks from our hotel.
It was outstanding. But they cook the meat for you all art once, so it’s rushed.
I’d much sooner cook at my leisure.

Walking in the area, I was struck by how crap the sidewalks were, all heaved up and wrecked from tree roots and the like, while the roads were wide and apparently well-serviced (maybe locals will beg to differ — it’s not like I went all over the place — my sample size is TINY).
Also, because there’s so little rain, there’s a griminess to the architecture and infrastructure, and, at least in K-town, a pervasive stink of piss.
The place could use a good hosing down.
Bit of a shame, really, K-town has a lot of good eateries.
It must’ve been near midnight by the time we finished eating.
We called it a night.
I slept surprisingly well despite being in a strange bed.

The Second Day
We woke around 830.
I can roll out of bed and be ready to go in ten minutes.
Not so Lynn. She has to assemble her face.
We eventually made our way to Bluebottle Coffee, some fancy place Lynn swore by.
Me, decades of smoking has ruined my palate.
It’s coffee, man.
It’s brown and smells like breakfast.

Freshly caffeinated, we went to the Historic Downtown Farmers Market, an every-Sunday open-air market. (Not sure if it’s seasonal.) It covered maybe ten city blocks in all, maybe more, with one long main strip intersected by two or three cross streets. Produce, baked goods, street food, fresh juices, gardening shops, artisan stuff, etc. It’s worth a look-see.

Having bought some fresh juices and pastries, we rideshared to the Getty, way to the west toward the hills of Santa Monica.

The Getty
A huge and gorgeous art museum located on a hillside due west of Beverly Hills, the Getty is a testament to the supremacy of capitalism.
The grounds are beautifully and lushly landscaped, showcasing the tastefully grandiose off-white buildings. Lots of tiles — kinda like bathroom fixtures.

Amazingly, entry is free.
We had to get advance passes for timed entry that minimizes crowding, even on a gorgeous Sunday. After completing the security check upon entry, we headed for trams that carried visitors to the main area.

Standing exhibits of European paintings, sculptures, home decor, etc., etc., divided by eras are scattered across multiple buildings. The buildings are impressively constructed with high ceilings and tall power-assisted doors. They’re also temperature and humidity controlled. They seem to be kinda randomly designed, though. There aren’t many Skinner’s maze contraptions to channel traffic.
Some corridors just end.
But it wasn’t all that crowded even on a Sunday, so there wasn’t any stupid congestion.

There were also theme exhibits like Lumen, which examined the science of light from pre-Christian days. Seeing autolabes — ancient navigational guides based entirely on empirical data — made me feel oddly elated, inspired, and emotional. This sort of rigorous engineering from long ago elevates the pursuit of science to divinity.

The standing exhibit areas were sparsely attended by visitors. It made for relaxed, unhurried viewing of their magnificent collections.

Lynn and I laughed at one painting of a young prince and his tutor.
Me: “Look at that kid, he’s got that thousand-yard stare going. He’s past caring. Don’t blame him — that text book has to be a thousand pages. And his tutor hates his life because he’s exasperated with the little prince.”
And a nearby guard piped up: “Thank you. You’re the first person in two years to get what that painting is about.”
Why, thank you, that’s a nice ego boost.
I sure needed it then.
Also: hey, man, my art appreciation and interpretation comes from decades of manga reading.

The grounds are huge, too, and beautifully groomed.
Lots of people enjoying themselves in the strong September sun.
Like, seriously, being in direct sunlight gets hot fast, but it’s cool in the shade.
With commanding views of LA’s absolutely vile smog toward the east, south, and west, it’s a great place to visit even if you have no interest in the arts.

I came across Vincent van Gogh’s “Irises,” and everything changed.

I felt thunderstruck.
It stole the air out of my lungs.
I couldn’t speak.
I barely managed to keep from crying.
I could only stand there and take big hitching breaths.
I never expected to see a VvG painting like this in person.
Not even behind plexiglass.
It was an epiphany.
This is what I’d been denying myself over the dozen years I spent caring for my wife.
And now I have the means of financing a new lifestyle of irresponsibility and self-indulgence.

H O L Y S H I T

My brain felt like it was on fire and my heart was pounding.
My new course’d been set in maybe thirty seconds.
Didn’t expect seeing a van Gogh’d be that transformative but here we are.
Since I’m not getting any younger, I’d better get on with it, too.

We spent around four hours at the Getty, and then returned to the hotel for a pre-concert bowl of seafood noodles at Hangari Kalguksu. Bit pricey, but delicious and big portions.

See what I mean about big portions?
I grew back my belly temporarily.

Anyway, after eating, we rideshared again this time due north to Griffith Observatory, which is located in the expansive Griffith Park. An idiotic detour cost us over half an hour, so we ended up missing sunset from the Observatory.

The Observatory gave us commanding views of LA’s incredible sprawl and the awful smog. The sunset sky was pretty, though. Small mercies.

We made our way down from the overcrowded Observatory to the Greek Theatre, which was around a 15-minute walk. This proved to be somewhat challenging — the city’s not built for walking at all. We ended having to precariously walk through a roadway tunnel as part of our trek down. I guess people just don’t walk there.

The open-air venue is wonderful. Seats are sloped and spaced to minimize blockage. The wide center section is flanked by two raised, pizza-slice balconies with seats smartly arranged for optimal sightlines. Capacity is around 6000? The forested setting is gorgeous, too.
Too bad about the $15 water, but you can bring in your own.

Opening for the Bleachers was Katie Gavin, a folksy indie singer who played solo a bit, and then had a bassist and The Japanese House (a lady guitarist; she’s on the right in my photo) join for a couple more songs in a breezy, friendly half-an-hour set. Nothing pretentious and quite charming.
She’s only got three songs on Spotify with an album coming in early October.
I added them.

Promptly at nine the Bleachers came on. They’re a six-piece fronted by Jack Antonoff, who’s won Grammys and such for his production and co-writing efforts on behalf of top artists like Taylor Swift, P!nk, Lana Del Rey, Lorde, St. Vincent, and Clairo. Their sound is distinctly East Coast with incredibly passionate presence and verb.
With dual saxophones and double drummers often in the mix, they present an intoxicatingly powerful sound of celebratory joy and defiance.

They evoke nostalgia for a time and place you’ve never been.

I’d just discovered them this summer.
They were the trigger that brought my grief on full-bore.
I heard their reworking of “Wild Heart” and found it a great song.
I wanted to tell my wife about it, and I couldn’t. Not it, or anything else.
Never again.
That crushed me.
I spiraled.

I started exploring their output and discovered many of their songs deal with trauma, loss, grief, depression…all those fun things that were amplified by the soul-draining awfulness of the COVID quarantine.
But their songs aren’t about falling into grief.
They try to rise above and rally those in pain.
Their songs rebel magnificently against sadness.

You bet I ugly cried a lot.
The audience was rapturous and enthralled.
What a cleansing, uplifting night.
It brought me full circle.
Discovering them brought on the real grief.
Seeing them live capped the most transformative day ever — one in which I found a sense of purpose, direction, and the confidence to do it.

You can easily find live performances by the Bleachers on streaming services and YouTube. Even full shows from the same tour, like Berkeley just three nights before we saw them.
Check them out — they’re electric. Plus you’ll get a much better idea of what they’re all about than my wholly inadequate words.
Also look for “Tiny Moves” — the video features actress Margaret Qualley dancing alone in a magically enchanting style and ends in a loving embrace of her husband Jack.

We rideshared out of there and walked from the hotel to a streetcorner taco stand.
Imagine it was unlicensed but hey, grilled food, not likely to cause food poisoning, right? We got five and fries for $18. Deal.

And that was the second and final night in LA.

The Last Day
We got rolling around 9. We just went to Cassell’s, a diner on the ground floor of the hotel.

Somewhat pricey, I guess, but big portions. Wish cellphone cam wouldn’t produce a fish-eye effect that makes my head look huge for my suddenly scrawny body.

And that was pretty much it.
We grabbed some more Bluebottle coffee, rideshared to LAX, and we were back in Vancouver by 5:00 p.m.

Since my time was so darn short, it was hard to read the atmosphere of the city.
I guess there was a sort of breezy casualness mixed with a bit of wariness in certain parts of town. It sure wasn’t the brittle edginess of 1996, I guess after the riots.
Can’t say I really like or dislike the place yet, either.
There’s so much I haven’t seen.
I’d like to go back again for a lot longer, but then there are so many other places I want to explore.

Let me get on with it already.