Some days, you just have to embrace the fact that, yeah, hey, you're going to sweat a lot, and you're not going to look cute doing it. Today was one of those days. But I'm at the uncomfortable juncture where I'm afraid to take a shower because I don't want to give my body any more moisture to sweat out later. I don't know whether the appropriate hashtag is #heatproblems or #personalhygeineproblems.
I was, however, able to channel some good out of the merciless, flesh-searing heat by using it as my own personal dryer. The back yard of this place is strung with ropes that everybody hangs their laundry on, and I fully partake. One thing I learned while in Prague is that I really love line-drying clothes. It's so much better than using a machine. A dryer is like a quarter-guzzling shrink ray bent on stealing energy and destroying the environment. When reported to the police, the composite artist produced this:
What can I say, I like getting in touch with my inner-Amish (inner-Quaker? inner-Colonial-America? I'll take everything on the menu, good sir). It is an oddly therapeutic thing to do. And in this unforgiving heat, my clothes were all dry within 15 minutes. [METAL]
While on my way to the bank today to get quarters for the washer, I passed by an ice cream truck parked outside the nearby high school. I was allured by the side of it, which read "ICE CREAM" in painted letters and featured floating heads of the Pink Panther, Tweetie Bird, and a generic cartoon of a shark. Little did I know that this was a magical ice cream truck that ACTUALLY SOLD ICE CREAM. See, where I'm from, ice cream trucks sell a million and one popsicles shaped like outdated cartoon characters' faces, maybe some sort of ice-cream-in-a-cup deal like a Sno Blizzard, and meth. But never did they have legit, scoop-that-shit-out-on-a-mother-fucking-cone ice cream. This one did. It also had banana splits, crazy nachos-- what the what?! I have been missing OUT. Needless to say, I was very happy with my cookies n' cream on the way to the bank.
Okayokayokay, so-- craziness last night that I must share with the cyber-world. This is at the risk of openly admitting to my naiive and somewhat reckless decision-making skills, but the story ends with a rainbow and Oprah gives everyone a car.
I was leaving my friend's place late from our Dogs-4-Dinner engagement, and needed to take the bus back home. Okay, first of all, some things you should probably know:
Anyway.
I was standing at this downtown bus stop at 11-something at night, waiting for a bus that my phone kept telling me would come. But then it wouldn't, and my phone would re-assess the situation, and say, "Ah, it's cool Jessica, just eleven more minutes 'til the next one." And then 11 minutes later the wrong bus would show up. Re-assess bus time, bang head on bus stop bench, repeat. Eventually I went inside the Famima the stop was located in front of to ask the guy at the counter if he could help. He tried to look up times on his phone but said the buses I wanted weren't going to be there for a long while... I could take the metro, but even if I could figure out how to do that the metro wouldn't take me nearly as far as I needed to go.
Finally, after what felt like several minutes of me saying, "No, that won't work," to all the options the kindly gentleman was giving me, he asked an electrician who was working on something in the store if he could help. Well... the guy didn't know the magical bus route that would take me home, but he offered me a ride instead!
This is the part where you go
Yes yes yes I can HEAR you all the way from my little hilltop in Chinatown. Getting in cars with strangers: bad. I know.
"BUT..."
But the guy was very nice and was legitimately being helpful. I didn't know what else to do and the bus stop was getting sketchier with every passing minute, so I took a chance on this electrician whom I had about 10 seconds to fully judge.
10 seconds was more than enough for me to assess that he had no ulterior motive and that he was trustworthy. How do I know? To be honest-- I couldn't ever know something like that. I went with my gut. And it worked out. I hitched a ride outta downtown with a Belizian electrician named Harry... like Harry Belafonte ("Well, hey, jump in the line," was my response when he made that joke). It was a short drive, but we talked for a little and he was very friendly, and not the weird kind of "very friendly." Just... friendly. It was nice. And it was not the sort of experience I ever thought I'd have in Los Angeles.
I get that the odds were slim. By no means am I urging everyone to rush into the streets at midnight and get in strangers' vans, nor do I particularly plan on making it a habit. But it was so incredible to know that I could have this kind of faith in strangers in a place where I least expected it. L.A. as a whole I am still pretty guarded about, and in downtown that feeling is double-fold... you just don't know who you're going to run into. The people are unpredictable. But I guess the joke's on me, because I could never have predicted that someone would be so genuinely kind.
Aaaaaaaand cue
I was, however, able to channel some good out of the merciless, flesh-searing heat by using it as my own personal dryer. The back yard of this place is strung with ropes that everybody hangs their laundry on, and I fully partake. One thing I learned while in Prague is that I really love line-drying clothes. It's so much better than using a machine. A dryer is like a quarter-guzzling shrink ray bent on stealing energy and destroying the environment. When reported to the police, the composite artist produced this:
 |
| ...The composite artist may have been an anti-Semite. |
While on my way to the bank today to get quarters for the washer, I passed by an ice cream truck parked outside the nearby high school. I was allured by the side of it, which read "ICE CREAM" in painted letters and featured floating heads of the Pink Panther, Tweetie Bird, and a generic cartoon of a shark. Little did I know that this was a magical ice cream truck that ACTUALLY SOLD ICE CREAM. See, where I'm from, ice cream trucks sell a million and one popsicles shaped like outdated cartoon characters' faces, maybe some sort of ice-cream-in-a-cup deal like a Sno Blizzard, and meth. But never did they have legit, scoop-that-shit-out-on-a-mother-fucking-cone ice cream. This one did. It also had banana splits, crazy nachos-- what the what?! I have been missing OUT. Needless to say, I was very happy with my cookies n' cream on the way to the bank.
 |
| Magic knows. |
I was leaving my friend's place late from our Dogs-4-Dinner engagement, and needed to take the bus back home. Okay, first of all, some things you should probably know:
- I don't get public transportation
- Public transportation doesn't get me
- My sense of direction is akin to that of a wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man
Anyway.
I was standing at this downtown bus stop at 11-something at night, waiting for a bus that my phone kept telling me would come. But then it wouldn't, and my phone would re-assess the situation, and say, "Ah, it's cool Jessica, just eleven more minutes 'til the next one." And then 11 minutes later the wrong bus would show up. Re-assess bus time, bang head on bus stop bench, repeat. Eventually I went inside the Famima the stop was located in front of to ask the guy at the counter if he could help. He tried to look up times on his phone but said the buses I wanted weren't going to be there for a long while... I could take the metro, but even if I could figure out how to do that the metro wouldn't take me nearly as far as I needed to go.
Finally, after what felt like several minutes of me saying, "No, that won't work," to all the options the kindly gentleman was giving me, he asked an electrician who was working on something in the store if he could help. Well... the guy didn't know the magical bus route that would take me home, but he offered me a ride instead!
This is the part where you go
Yes yes yes I can HEAR you all the way from my little hilltop in Chinatown. Getting in cars with strangers: bad. I know.
"BUT..."
But the guy was very nice and was legitimately being helpful. I didn't know what else to do and the bus stop was getting sketchier with every passing minute, so I took a chance on this electrician whom I had about 10 seconds to fully judge.
10 seconds was more than enough for me to assess that he had no ulterior motive and that he was trustworthy. How do I know? To be honest-- I couldn't ever know something like that. I went with my gut. And it worked out. I hitched a ride outta downtown with a Belizian electrician named Harry... like Harry Belafonte ("Well, hey, jump in the line," was my response when he made that joke). It was a short drive, but we talked for a little and he was very friendly, and not the weird kind of "very friendly." Just... friendly. It was nice. And it was not the sort of experience I ever thought I'd have in Los Angeles.
I get that the odds were slim. By no means am I urging everyone to rush into the streets at midnight and get in strangers' vans, nor do I particularly plan on making it a habit. But it was so incredible to know that I could have this kind of faith in strangers in a place where I least expected it. L.A. as a whole I am still pretty guarded about, and in downtown that feeling is double-fold... you just don't know who you're going to run into. The people are unpredictable. But I guess the joke's on me, because I could never have predicted that someone would be so genuinely kind.
Aaaaaaaand cue
 |
| "You get a ride! You get a ride! You get a ride!" |
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