Los Angeles, Occupied

As a general rule I avoid driving after dark. My general policy while on the road is to be in my motel room or in camp by nightfall. I break this rule only when necessity demands it.

After my day in Oxnard, I had thought of staying there, but the ineffable signs seemed to indicate that I should go ahead with my plans.

So after about a half hour on 101 in the dark, I came down into the expanse of the San Fernando Valley on the edge of the contiguous metropolis of Los Angeles.

I had booked two nights at the Motel 6 in Canoga Park, a neighborhood "town" of L.A. that was about as far out in the Valley as one could get.

The motel was at the corner of DeSoto and Sherman and had good review online.

But a wrong turn just after the exit sent me in the wrong direction several miles down Ventura Avenue through Woodland Park. Then even after finding my error, I couldn't find the motel.

This was entirely due to my bad habit of not double checking the directions and exact location of my destination, and instead relying on the vague map in my memory from when I first made the reservation.

Thus it took me almost an hour of navigating the grid like thoroughfares of the west end of the Valley to find my lodgings.

But I didn't mind very much. It was still early in the evening, and it gave me a nice introduction to the Valley.

The Motel 6 in Canoga Park turned out to be a decent place, but nothing like its marvelous corporate cousin in Santa Barbara, which had all new rooms and a flat screen t.v.

I could tell the one in Canoga Park had not been a Motel 6 originally, but had been reflagged, probably from a Days Inn or a Super 8, or something similar.

I wound up parking right next to a mid-Sixties era Volkswagen bus.

After checking in and schlepping my stuff up to the room, I was ready for dinner. I decided to forgo the Indian restaurant next door that was probably owned and operated by the same family running the motel.

Instead I wandered up and down Sherman Boulevard looking for some cheap fare.

It was a disheartening experience. At the corner of DeSoto was the busiest and brightest establishment in the entire district---a 99 cents store crammed with shoppers. Out front were small crowds of teenagers in gangster-like hoodies and poses waiting for the bus, and along the front windows were a row of homeless people sleeping with blankets heaped on them. My smartphone told me there was a frost warning for the Valley that night.

Down a few of the side streets I could see clumps of tents set up right on the sidewalk, forcing any pedestrians to walk out into the street.

I guess Occupy Los Angeles is still going on, I thought to myself, remembering my experience with the Occupy camp in Boulder last New Year's Eve, and how it had simply become a homeless camp.

All I could find were fast food, pizza delivery places, and many small Mexican restaurants, crammed amidst other businesses with signs that were mostly in Spanish.

I decided to try the Mexican places, but each time I went inside one, I was repulsed by the pungent greasy smell, and quickly retreated outside.

Finally I wound up ordering tamales at the A-frame Der Weinerschnitzel, where I was surprised to find other Anglo people waiting in line in front of me.

I texted a friend of mine that L.A. felt like "a combination of Tijuana and Blade Runner."

But how I could complain after those two weeks in Santa Barbara?

After all, I did want to experience the variety of the Golden State, after all, didn't I?

I slept well that night. The room was comfortable and clean, and well heated.

The temperature reached thirty three degrees, almost to freezing. I was grateful to be indoors, and moreover to have the means to know that I would be indoors the next night, and the one after, and so on.

It doesn't take much to feel rich in L.A., it seems.