lockwood ave.

I turn left from Lockwood Avenue onto Virgil Avenue and I am immediately transported into a memory. It happened as quickly as any wafting smell of oatmeal cookies baking in the oven places me in my childhood home kitchen, licking dough off metal spoons with Mom. This memory is from the first time I walked this path alone – twenty-three, uncertain, lonely. I had just moved to Los Angeles after spending all of my life living in New York and New Jersey. I had just taken Mom – who helped me move all of my things, all of my life, into my new studio apartment on Lockwood Avenue – to the LAX airport so she could return to her life. I was completely, utterly, alone.

But I chose this adventure, and so, I set out fearlessly for my first walk to the grocery store. GPS told me it was only .4 miles away – the local Vons. A straight shot down Virgil Ave., which intersected with the end of Lockwood. Simple. There was no way I could get lost. What I wasn’t expecting, was to get lost in this new world. Everyone had prepared me – “Los Angeles is just like Manhattan” – and I believed them. But as I turned down Virgil and started walking, I was transported to a new place – something very uniquely unlike Manhattan. At first, it felt like I had drifted off this continent and landed on a foreign island.

Where were the tall skyscrapers? Everything here was stacked side-by-side, quite unlike the Manhattan-style towers that are built up, up, up. It reminded me of a long bookshelf, where each spine of the individual books is proudly displayed and honored, bearing its title and author with nothing above or below it. Squished they might be, but it’s hard to ignore any of them. I had an immediate sense of space – I could look up and see the clouds, the sun, the sky, the palm trees, with nothing obscuring my vision. Skyscrapers always reminded me of giant steel trees blocking out the good stuff. Like a fishbowl, I could look up and see space or look down and see space. It was freeing. Another thought: where was the steel and vinyl? Buildings here were all stucco and concrete. I passed a gorgeous stucco, Spanish-style house with dead grass and large succulents scattered in the yard. I felt the desert looking at the house. The air got hotter and the humidity faded. Can architecture do that to a person?

On the same sidewalk, I walked past a concrete house, with cracks running up and down its grey sides. White gates were missing bars and windows were closed off with strips of wood. Signs declaring that the building was soon to be torn down were displayed on the wooden front door. “NO TRESSPASSING” was written largely in red on all the entrances. From such exquisite architecture to such obvious poverty, I felt startled. My hometown is the spitting image of white, middle-class suburbia. I tried to remember if I had ever seen a vacant house like this before. It reminded me of episodes of Drugs, Inc. that I used to watch in college. I wonder if a drug bust led to this?

My new neighborhood was predominantly Hispanic. White church signs outside buildings squashed directly next to each other declared words in a language I had only studied in high school. I passed an elementary school yard and heard the shouts of children in a language that was vaguely familiar, but not my own. The shouts and squeals sounded akin to having a conversation while underwater – some of the words cut through, but it was hard to make out the meaning of the gurgles. My ears were hearing, but my brain couldn’t translate. Taco stands emitting deliciously overpowering smells of meat, onions, and cilantro filled my nostrils. It occurred to me that I was hungry, and a taco sounded just short of perfection, but I paused. Would I try to order in Spanish? Would they think badly of me for infiltrating their community, their culture? What exactly was pastor? Cabeza? Lengua? Would they take credit card, or cash only? I started to sweat and decided against it. My pulse quickened with each taco stand I passed – why were there so many? I felt the stares on my back – curious ones, non-threatening. Still I clutched by bag tighter – security? I didn’t need tacos, I was going to the grocery store, after all.

I passed by a shopping cart on the sidewalk that was obstructed by a few battered blankets, tires, empty bottles, trash, and other unidentifiable objects. I almost shouted when I passed by and realized there was a person sitting underneath the blanket, enjoying some shade from her makeshift tent. She had matted, tangled hair and was wearing loose rags that made me nervous I would see parts of her that I shouldn’t. I tried not to stare but realized I could have stared all I wanted because she didn’t even acknowledge me. Didn’t even notice my interruption. She was her own island on this foreign island. I thought of all of the homeless men and women that had shouted at me, got in my face, intruded my space in Manhattan. Were all homeless residents in Los Angeles this pleasant and self-removed? Cockroaches in Manhattan; ladybugs in Los Angeles.

I passed by a 7-Eleven and saw two burly Mexican men standing outside. They were wolfing down tacos and sharing a laugh. I smiled as I passed, but I don’t think they saw me. I am alone on this strange island again – perhaps if I were home, I would give a wave with a, “Howdy, neighbors!” Would this offend them here? I am jealous of their tanned skin, their ability to understand each other – not just on a lingual level, but on a shared experience level. I am jealous of their tacos. A thought passes through as I pass beneath a palm tree and I think that I am not unlike it – not exactly native, but not exactly an intruder. Will I blend in like it does eventually?

As quickly as I was transported into my memory, I am as quickly transported out of it. I have reached my desired taco stand – the one with the red roof and white walls, menu written in taped up letters. The one I will choose over the others whenever I am able. I smile as I reach the counter. “Hola! Dos al pastor tacos, por favor.” The man smiles back at me and nods. The familiar smells fill my nostrils and I can almost taste the reward of going on this walk. Now, it smells like home.