99 CENTS STORE

Today I talked to Ricky.

For the first time ever, I enter the 99 Cents Store on Sunset Blvd. Here, you can find everything for less than a dollar. Canned food, tomato soup, chicken noodle, Vienna sausages, pork & beans, incredible Hulk candies, and Halloween costumes. It is the American Dream in a supermarket.

Families, couples, friends are roaming around the store. They are hunting for any object that might be useful to them. The shopping carts are moving to a mellow country song that plays in the background. I am looking at the Halloween costumes when a tiny girl stops next to me. She talks with a lisp: "This is Halloween," she says. "It's not today cause I'm scared." Then she points at a skeleton head. "Look, it has only one eye." And she disappears as fast as she came. 

On my way to the cash register, a teenage girl wearing a purple t-shirt and a lot of eyeliner is seating on a miniature plastic chair. She laughs with her girlfriend. Then she grabs a pack of tortillas. "Green cactus tortilla!" She turns to me: "Have you ever tried that?" I tell her I never did and we share a few words about the strange food around us.

I pay for a pack of cellulose sponge scrubbers, a Virgen de Guadalupe candle, and two Pez candy dispensers. My total is $4.19 - tax included. The place does keep its promises.

At the front door, I meet Ricky. He has a Diet Coke and two dozen eggs in his cart. "The eggs are just for the whites," he says. Ricky is from London and works as a bouncer in a pub. He wears a brown flat-cap on a shaved head and a short leather string with a silver star around his neck. "To do this job, you need to be good at public relations and have communications skills. You should talk kindly and if it's not enough, you just tell them to fuck off," he says laughing. The other night, a group of girls asked him if diner was still being served. "You're awfully a bit late, aren't you?" Ricky told them. But the girls didn't understand. "People don't get it when you speak politely. And they don't understand my accent neither," he says, and he smiles. I ask him what is the meaning of the Hebrew letter tattooed on his neck. "Life and beyond," he says. "I was dating a Jewish girl and she loved me very much. One day she said: You're a man and I want you to have this tattoo." I ask him why they are not together anymore. "She died," he just says. I feel awful, and tell Ricky I'm sorry to have asked. "Don't be. If you don't ask questions, you'll never get any answers." His eyes are full of kindness and pain. 

Then Ricky tells me that he is a super light middleweight boxer. When he boxes, he "hits the bag with all his might", he says. And he makes an imitation of Stallone in Rocky but I mistake it for De Niro in Raging Bull. Ricky's idols are Stallone, The Pope, and Richard Branson. He is a catholic-Jew from Indian, Italian and British origins. When he goes to mass, he finds it so powerful that "it is like being on steroids," he says. He asks me if we can hug. I accept. So we shake hands and kiss each other on the cheeks. "It's a good European hug," I tell him. We both smile and go our separate ways.

CRISTINE

Today I talked to Cristine.

I am looking for a gift for a friend who just moved to a new house out of town. I enter Atmosphere, a store in Los Feliz. It has clothes for men and women, shoes, hats, jewelry and all kind of design objects. There is only one client in the back of the store, so I take my time to hang around and scrutinize every object: the glasses flash-drive, painted sake cups, funky bags, and Stetson straw hats.

Cristine is organizing clothes on the shelves. I ask her the price of a necklace, and she hears my accent. "Last time I went to France I was fifteen. We were going to south of France every summer. I've applied to transfer to France to study international relations - politics," she says. Cristine is 23 years old. She works at the shop every weekend in order "to make a break in her studies," she says. "Studying all the time is hard. After a while your brain is like on auto-pilot, and you don't process anything anymore." Cristine's professional goal is to work in diplomacy or foreign relations. She is looking forward studying in France. "I've got two cousins in Paris. One is a singer. I could maybe stay with them for a while," she adds.

I ask her why she has decided to study abroad. "I feel that, for the last ten years, people are more disconnected. Maybe it's only L.A., but I like the European lifestyle better. It's slower. I love America and I've always lived here, but there're many things I don't like." Cristine is the first person I have met here who does not drive a car. When I ask her why - I am probably the hundred and fortieth today - Cristine seems slightly annoyed. "I don't drive because I love to walk, ride my bike, and take the bus. Not driving comes with a hard price cause when I've got to run an errand, I have to walk to the bus stop and change the bus four times. It takes me the whole day," she says. A beam of orange sunlight enters the shop and lights up Cristine's face. Her freckles sparkle.

While we talk, the store is getting crowded. "Look, you brought all that business!" she says. We suspend our conversation when a stylish tall woman, wearing a jeans skirt and black suede platform boots, drops a large amount of clothes on the counter. Cristine starts folding, checking and packing the clothes. In the shoe section, a woman with bleached hair and dark roots, tries on every pair of shoes she can possibly find around her. A couple of Asian tourists advise each other on the clothes they see and seem to have a hard time figuring out their sizes. 

I come across a funny bronze monkey-shaped bottle opener and a pair of black and golden earrings for my friend. I walk back to the counter. The stylish woman pays for her shopping and grabs her last bag. "Thanks for the hustle, dear!" she says to Cristine, and bursts out.

Cristine and I continue to talk. "I don't want to contribute to the car culture. And I think it's healthier for people and for society to be interacting, walking, moving," she says. We talk about my blog and my approach that is similar to hers in many ways. Cristine says she is happy with the way she lives "because it is simpler. It's hard sometimes to live in a society that values other things that you value though. But I'm content with my life."

I ask Cristine to make gift wraps for the things I chose. We joke about the incredible creativity of certain objects that have to be inspected before you actually figure out what they are made for. "You remind me of my old roommate. Carefree and lighthearted in the way you speak," she says. She asks me where I live. Instantaneously, she draws a mental map of Los Angeles public transportation. "To get here you could take the subway line at Highland &  Hollywood, or you could also take the bus 2". I promise Cristine that one of my future blog-adventures will take place on a bus, a train, or maybe a bike. We split on a cheerful note and I get out of Atmosphere. The sun gently warms me up while I walk slowly to my car, enjoying every step I make. 

BOURGEOIS PIG

Today I talked to Randee.

It is 10am. I am driving home after an early meeting in Silver Lake and I badly need a coffee. I decide to park my car in Franklin Village, where a short street portion with bars and restaurants always looks animated. The sun has been hiding for four days now and the streets are still dark this morning. When I enter the Bourgeois Pig, one of the oldest coffeehouse in Los Angeles, it feels even darker. A bit like a warm disco cocoon. A few random red and blue lamps feebly shine on the washed-out walls. A disco ball slowly spins on Otis Redding songs. People are slumped on couches and chairs, reading on their laptops screens. At the bar, a man is telling jokes and the woman sitting next to him laughs at them. I might have stepped into another dimension. It is a late evening at the Bourgeois Pig.

Then, I see Randee. She is a petite energetic brunette. She is smiling, joking around with the customers, and bouncing from one spot to the other behind the bar while making coffees. She wears a x-large tank top held together with a safety pin and a loose "Nasty boys" t-shirt. A woman asks her how she makes her t-shirts look so darn cool. Randee's blue eyes shine. "I cut all my stuff. It's cool to cut straps in the back or tie it behind your neck. You can do so many things. I love it," she says. "I find my stuff at the Goodwill. And it's even better to have an oversize t-shirt and make it fit. You can do it, believe me!" Someone throws the idea that Randee should create a cutting t-shirt workshop and she likes it. Randee has a lotus flower tattooed on her arm with the word "Riot" written underneath. "That's my nickname. When I was living in New York, I was in the alternative scene and people called me Randee Riot," she says.

I go outside to take pictures but the light is pretty low. I meet David who is sitting there, smoking. We talk about photography and he shows me the pictures he took at the Huntington botanical garden. He loves it so much that he goes there at least once a month with his girlfriend. We are watching the pictures of beautiful cactuses, exotic flowers and trees on his computer, when his friend Christophe arrives. Christophe is a French actor and played a part in David's short film. He loves his life in L.A. He says that, even though he is not ambitious by nature, he has challenged himself to do something great here and is working on achieving it. I ask him if his accent can be an asset sometimes. "Not really. L.A. is the worst city to improve your English because no one speaks it well here. I used to hang out with Japanese friends. We could hardly understand each other," he says, and  laughs. Randee comes outside too so I can take a picture of her. She doesn't know how to pose, so David takes her in his arms and lifts her high.

Randee and I are back inside. I meet Andrew, the manager of the place, who stands behind the bar. He shows us his phone. "Look at that picture. I went for a hike in a creepy forest. We didn't see a single animal, not even a squirrel. It was like the Twilight Zone forest," he says. "That's the Yeti." I look closely at the photo: a man is sitting next to large trees trunks. Behind him, a big brown furry spot looks exactly like the Yeti. That is bizarre, but not so much. After all, I knew I had stepped in a parallel dimension when I entered the Bourgeois Pig today.  So why should I be surprised to see the Yeti on the manager's phone? 

ASTRID

Today I talked to Astrid.

It kind of sounds funny to me even to write about it because I never thought I would do it one day, but I have decided to do headshots. Living in Los Angeles has finally got me. Sometimes, I see the entertainment industry like an old lady who doesn't let herself be impressed by new comers. There are rules to follow, and one of them is to carry your headshots around. Even if you are not an actor. The photo shoot is just part of the L.A. life. Like gondola riding in Venice, bullfighting in Seville, or wine tasting in Bordeaux. You just need to do it once, that's all.

I met Astrid through common friends. She is a dynamic brunette who speaks fast both in English and French. She is a photographer, graphic designer and musician. When she enters my apartment, carrying two large photo bags, reflectors, and background material, she is all business. My make-up is not finished yet but she is fine with that. In front of the bathroom mirror, I put some face powder, a light sparkly color on my eyelids, and arrange my hair. Astrid sits on the toilet seat and watches me in silence. She is getting ready for the session too. "Each shoot is unique," she says. "I adapt to the person and her personal vibe. I never know where it's gonna go, but when we get there it's like a dance." The make-up is done. "You look like a doll," she says, and she smiles warmly. Then I show her the clothes I have prepared and spread on my bed. We decide to start the shoot with the cool colors and end with the warm ones.

Astrid loves still images. With her company, Purple Red, she has been creating movie posters since she moved to Los Angeles from Paris, eight years ago. Recently, she started doing more and more photo shoots because it allows her to interact with people. She experiences unique and intimate moments with them. "I'm tired of working alone in front of my computer. I crave for more sharing right now," she says. Since Astrid prefers to work with natural light, we get out on the balcony. "We'll start with something simple, so you can make yourself comfortable," she says. She puts a newspaper on a tiny table and a cup of coffee next to it. It is 10am and the sunlight is extremely bright. So she grabs four clips and a piece of white cloth, and creates a roller blind with all that. The balcony becomes cozy. I sit down and start asking her questions (in a lame attempt to cover the stress), when I realize that the shoot has already started. Astrid asks me to remain silent because: "if I don't, the pictures will come out bad," she says. 

After maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, we decide to change the outfit and find a new location. I change my tank top to a blue vintage shirt, and we get out of the apartment. In an alley behind the garage, we find a dirty gray wall that stands next to a few old cars parked behind a gate. Astrid continues shooting. She stands deeply rooted on her feet and moves in rhythm to an inaudible music. I giggle awkwardly thinking to myself that I would rather be the one taking the pictures and that modeling is definitely a hard job...

Four outfits and three hours later, I am standing at the front door of an orange Spanish-style house. Astrid has removed the doormat and the ad hanging at the door. My feet hurt from  standing in high heels, and I am thirsty and hot. Astrid watches me patiently. She smiles. "Do what you feel to do," she says. So I throw my shoes away and start to play hide and seek in the surroundings. "Here we go," she whispers. And I see her smile peak from behind the camera. The dance has finally begun. "Now, we're done," she says."I've got some really good ones." Thanks to Astrid, I did it. I had a memorable photo shoot experience in the streets of L.A.. But it is time to reverse the roles and it feels good to be behind the camera again. 

 

SWARN

Today I talked to Swarn.

It is already the end of the afternoon but the temperature seems as high as at midday. I'm strolling around Los Feliz with a friend. On north Vermont Ave, we pass by an immaculate white temple. It is a square building with onion shaped cupolas. We can't figure out what kind of temple it is, so we decide to get closer. 

At the entrance door, a skinny Indian man is sitting on a metal chair. He tells us this is a Sikh temple. "From the Sikh religion," he says. He agrees to let us in and comes with us to a locker room. There is a high shelf with tiny compartments in it. "You leave your shoes here," says Swarn. "And you put this on your head," he adds. He points at a big basket full of yellow, orange and royal blue headscarves. Then, Swarn shows the piece of fabric tied on his own head to make sure that we understand what he just said. Swarn doesn't seem to have an age: his eyes are lively but some of his teeth are missing. He has been living in the U.S. for thirty years, and has worked at the temple for only four months. Before that, he was working at a motel. When his boss stopped paying him, he had to leave. He says it was tough for a while. He lost his apartment and couldn't find another one without a job. So he came to the temple. Now his job is to take care of the building. He also have a place to sleep, on the second floor. Every morning he opens the temple at 8am and closes at 9 in the evening.

My friend and I walk through the hall and enter an empty silent room. The floor is covered with  rugs. In the center, there is a large square that looks like an altar full of holy objects. Behind it on the wall, a wide picture of the Golden Temple of Amritsar, in the North of India. This place is the spiritual center of the Sikh religion. I remember spending one night there when I was backpacking through India a few years ago. Everyone was welcome to take a shower and sleep for free in the temple compound. The generosity of this community has stayed with me until that day.
 

We stop at the altar and look around. Two bearded men wearing turbans, and sitting in the far end of the room, are watching us. We greet them in silence and sit down. The men start to play music and sing. It is a simple and beautiful music. Then, Swarn puts a napkin in my hand. "Both hands," he says. So I take the napkin in both of my hands. He puts two large spoons of a brownish thick mixture on it. It is sweet and greasy. My friend and I look at each other, intimidated by the setting, the music, and Swarn's kindness. "Come on Sunday, at 9am. There's two hundred, three hundred people here. Black, White, everyone comes." We ask Swarn what is that food. "Flour, sugar, and butter. Special butter," he says. "It's the message from God."

A man wearing a large orange turban enters the room. He bows, throws a bundle of dollars on the altar, walks around it, salutes the priests and exits. Another man approaches the altar, bows with his hands on his forehead, moves them to his heart, and finally kneels down on the floor. He remains with this head on the floor for a while. We decide to get out of the temple, so I can take a picture of Swarn. But when we get there, the sun is disappearing behind the roofs. I decide to come back the following day.

 

The next day, nothing has changed. Swarn is sitting at the same spot at the entrance of the temple. The priests, Ajit Singh and Sohan Singh, are standing outside with him. They recognize me right away. One of them goes inside and brings back a warm cup of Indian Chai. The flavor of the spices and sweet milk is delicious. Swarn poses seriously even though he looks intimidated by the priests' presence. Then, when it is time for the picture, the priests strike a solemn pose, raise their heads, looking in the far distance. They become monumental figures of authority. I trigger my camera. 

 

BEN

 

Today I talked to Ben.

I am wandering around Thai Town on Hollywood Blvd, between Western and Normandie Ave. In some places the area looks abandoned. The garbage cans are overloaded with trash and the pavement is dirty. Most businesses are supermarkets, Thai video stores, or restaurants. In a shop window, a note catches my attention: "We fix watches", it says. It reminds me that a few years ago, I bought a musical clock on a flea market in Tokyo. One day at 11.55, it simply stopped. And it has been stuck at this time for about three years. This is the chance to give my clock a second life. I push the door and enter the Elsie's Antique shop.

Behind a shelf covered with miniatures of Asian gods and rustic statuettes, I see a short round man discussing the price of a watch with the salesman. "Is it a Rolex? Is it gold?" - "Yes, it is gold. Plated," says the salesman. His name is Ben. He is a sharp man, with pepper and salt hair, whose cheeks carry the memories of all the times he smiled. "Let me know if you need any help," he says to me in a kind voice. I look around. At first glance, the place looks like a mountain of dust, rust and knick-knack. But after a while, I find some unique and interesting objects. "Thanks. How much is that?" I ask, and show him a small bronze Buddha that plays on a drum. Ben makes a concentrated face for a moment that seems extremely long. I imagine him scanning my profile: flip-flops, old jeans, and faded tank top. "Twenty dollars for two pieces. The dancing elephant goes with the Buddha," he says. The short round man promises he will come back for the Rolex, and exits. I continue to wander around in the shop and stumble across African masks, craved Asian sabers, and jade pendants. Ben also carries some contemporary pieces. Like the Ronald Reagan plate with his face in the center and all the American symbols you can possibly imagine around it.

Ben bought this shop three years ago. Before that, it was a clock museum. Apparently, a lot of films were shot here and another one is planned for next week. Ben finds most of his pieces in auctions and travels abroad only for large ones. For him, there seems to be two types of objects - the old ones and the very old ones. He rarely gives you the age of the object, which allows you to fill in with whatever makes you happy. Unless you are a trained collector or an antique expert, this shouldn't be problematic in any way. Ben is originally from Beirut, Lebanon. He shows me a golden teapot that sits on the floor. "This is a very old Lebanese object," he says. "It was used to pour coffee or tea." The pot is about three feet high and is extremely refined. It was designed in a way that would allow the liquid to be poured without requiring any strength. While Ben is demonstrating how to use it, he explains that certain people's job was only to serve coffee and tea, but it was a long time ago.

It is 4.59pm. Ben startles when he sees the time. "I'm closing at 5," he says. We walk quickly out of the shop to take pictures of him. "I was better when I was young," he says when the first picture is developed, and he smiles. We agree that I will bring him my Japanese clock soon. Ben runs into the shop, comes back, then closes the door behind him. I make a few steps on the sidewalk and turn to thank him one more time. But he is already gone. 

CHIREL

 

Today I talked to Chirel. 

I am looking for comfortable summer shoes in order to walk in the streets of Los Angeles and become a better blogger. The Lux shop stands on Larchmont Blvd and carries affordable things. Let's say that if Ali Baba were a girl, this would have been her summer cave. Everywhere you look, there is something you want to touch. Fine jewelry, shoes for night and day, sunglasses, hats, and scarves. Chirel, a petite smiling trendy girl, is the boss here. A few years ago, she moved to Los Angeles from Paris, France. At this time, all her friends were getting married. She suddenly saw herself at the age of forty, married with three children, eating quiche with girlfriends on Sundays. "I wanted to live something exciting," she says. So she flew to Los Angeles to work with her brother. 

By the way, this portion of Larchmont Blvd is pretty much like a family business. Chirel's brother manages one of the shops next door. His wife, Jacquie Aiche, designs fine jewelry, that Chirel sells. Amongst other things, she creates handcrafted amulets inspired by her Native American and Jewish origins. The necklaces contain a blessing and are said to bring good fortune and protection to whomever wears them. Then, I meet Cynthia who shows us her hand. Her wedding ring says "Fuck". "Fuck, I'm married!" she says, and laughs. She works at the men's store next door. Her husband is Chirel's brother's best friend. "We're one little family over here," says Cynthia. She points to the bench in front of Lux: "Sometimes we seat here and talk about people on the street. We call it Larchmont Talk," she says. A girl with a light summer dress and black sandals walks by. "She would be a perfect customer for me," says Chirel. At this moment, the girl blatantly pulls on her panties. "Well, she puts her panties back in place but that'll do," adds Chirel with a laugh.

Every five minute, a new girl pops into the shop and  looks delighted to see Chirel. A woman with green-tinted sunglasses enters: "I've sold the house. I'm moving to New York," she says. Chirel congratulates her and they hug. Her name is Viktoria. She has created Ebba, a line of scented candles and fine perfumes. Women who wear these perfumes seem to love them so much that they refuse to reveal the name of the brand to other women. That's intriguing... I definitely have to check it out. 

Tonight Chirel is going to a restaurant that shows movies on its rooftop for free. She says that her friends call her Huggy Bear, or Huggy les Bons Tuyaux in French (Antonio Fargas' character in Starsky and Hutch, TV series). They say she knows all about the best tips, the free parties, and the great restaurants in town. But most of all, you can tell this girl loves people. She offers advice about fashion or anything else concerning... well, life. 


Suddenly, after maybe an hour or two of girl talk, Chirel mentions that she is creating things too. She shows me her black leather bags and purses. Each one has a different object engraved in the leather: a plastic spider, a pair of sunglasses, or a paintbrush. The idea is unique and the result definitely cool. Her brand is called Sibling as a tribute to her brother and sisters (The French name is: Trois Soeurs et un Frère, but Chirel says it is way too long) and it can be found at American Rag. 

It is finally time for me to leave this bubbly girly experience. I have enjoyed meeting these fun and creative women, and I hope to hear from Huggy Bear's good tips soon. 

HEATHER & KRISTIN

Today I talked to Heather and Kristin.

I'm walking in Griffith Park and I stumble upon a hive. Not a real one. One made of little human beings with puppets attached to their hands. About fifteen children are running around, playing, and teasing each other. A girl runs towards me. She looks annoyed by my laid-back attitude. "Are you coming already? Cause we gonna have the wedding soon," she says. Her name is Stella and she is 9 years old. "And a rock band's gonna play too," adds her sister Maddy, 6 years old. Amazing. I just got here and I am already part of the puppet show.

Heather and Kristin are the girls in charge of this workshop. They are both artists and teachers. Last year they realized they had no plans for the summer. So they decided to create an art camp for kids and put it together in three weeks. They named it The Art Grist because "we are like bees and we get together to make honey," says Heather while Kristin glues a long red tongue into a puppet's mouth and laughs. During the whole summer, they offer all kinds of workshops, every day of the week from 9am to 3pm. Two weeks ago, it was the Photography week, last week the Film School, and this week is Toy Shop. Every day the kids create a new toy out of a different material. Kristin shows me a brown crooked teddy bear with a red heart sewed on its chest. "We did that yesterday with gardening gloves," she says. This is the cutest thing I have ever seen and it makes me want to do it too. "We are planning to do this for adults. We'd like to put a group together and make projects in five days, like a short film," says Heather.

Today is puppet day. The kids have decided to have a wedding with the puppets they have created. A few parents show up to pick them up, but before that they have to watch the show. The kids gather on the rocks in the middle of the square and the ceremony starts. Stella and her hobo puppet are officiating. "I'm the announcer so everyone please be seated," says the puppet in a bossy tone. "I'm glad to be here and it's an honor cause I'm a hobo. Now, the groom may stand up and the bride walk down the aisle." A shy girl with long hair walks towards the hobo with her puppet. All the kids hum a melody that has nothing to do with a wedding song. They giggle. "Groom, do you promise to keep your girlfriend-bride safe from poisonous tomatoes, poisonous snakes, poisonous mosquitoes, poisonous cucumbers..." The kids laugh. "There's a lot of poison in the Muppet world," adds the hobo. The bride and the groom answer: "I do." - "You may kiss the bride," says the hobo. "Sandwich!" a puppet shouts out from the crowd. All the puppets run to the newly-weds and surround them with shouts of joy. "Security! Security!" says the hobo.

After the wedding, Heather congratulates Stella on her behavior. "You did really good today. You've been super helpful to others, so five stars for you." They hug. In a blink of an eye, all the kids are gone. Only Stella and Maddy are still talking to me and making me laugh. "Do you know the banana song?" Stella asks. "It goes: I'm a banana, I'm a banana, I'm a banana, LOOK AT ME MOVE, I'm a banana, I'm a banana, I'm a banana, BANANA POWER! Did you like it? And then a chicken comes in the song somewhere but I forgot where," she adds.

Heather and Kristin sit down at the table covered with funky puppet hair, color papers, and pieces of fabric. "It's our debriefing time. We talk about what happened and what could be improved," says Heather. Just when I am about to leave Heather asks me if I want a puppet. "We stayed up all night to make them and we have plenty left." I can't possibly turn down such an attractive and generous offer. I pick a green puppet that reminds me of Kermit. And at this precise moment, I'm 8 years old again and that feels really good.

FRANCISCO

Today I talked to Francisco.

The day is so hot that no one ventures outside. If feels like the heat comes from everywhere - the sky, the walls, the roads, and the cars. It is 4.30pm. The temperature starts slightly to dip down. I decide to get out and look for someone to talk to.

On Santa Monica Boulevard, I come across cast sculptures of Christs, Virgins, Buddhas, Indian gods, and miniatures of David. Dozens of them are aligned on the sidewalk. Right behind, there is a mini mall with a laundry, a Donuts shop, and a 7-Eleven. I walk to the wooden cabin that stands in the middle of the parking lot. It is the sculptures' workspace. Pots of paints, brushes, and various tools are scattered on a workbench outside the hut. A man stands next to it. He greets me. His name is Francisco. He works here as a painter. I ask him if I can watch him work. He accepts. I move in the shade, under pieces of fabric and tarps stacked up and tied to electric poles. Francisco is originally from Guadalajara, Mexico. He has been working here for eight years.

He stands in a yoga pose: one leg rooted to the floor and the other bent, resting on his knee. He grabs a paunchy Buddha from the ground and delicately puts it on the bench. With the tip of a knife, he removes the dirt from the folds in the cast. Then, he pours fresh water in a plastic cup full of used brushes, takes one, and dips it in an olive green paint. "Me. Only one color," he says. He shows me the plain statues. Then he points to a man sitting inside the cabin. "This guy is good." A dark man with earplugs sits at a tiny desk full of knick-knack. "This is Rodrigo," says Francisco. Rodrigo waves at me and turns back to his work. He meticulously draws the details in Nefertiti's necklace. One more color to add and the queen will be finished. But Rodrigo stands up and says something in Spanish. He gets out of the cabin and leaves. "He has to go see his dog. He lives three blocks from here," Francisco says. He points at a picture of a white smiling poodle that hangs at Rodrigo's desk.

Francisco loves his job and nothing seems to bother him. Not even the heat or the continuous traffic. He knows the rhythms of the city by heart. Each moment of the day tells a story. When the kids go to school, when lunch is over, when people come from work, or when an event comes up in Hollywood... Francisco is a traffic expert, with a specialization in Santa Monica Boulevard. While we speak, he paints one statue after the other and puts it back on the floor to dry. A wave of loud traffic passes by. I notice a short white and beige column. "I could use it as a candle holder. How much is it?" I ask. Francisco seizes it, wipes it with a rag, and hands it to me. "For you, nothing." I hesitate. "Take it, take it," he says. I accept his gift and thank him. It was good to stop by. Time to leave this little oasis of humanity and get back to the streets with my new Greek column in hand.

POP ART

Today I talked to Stacy and Matt.

I am walking down on Vermont Avenue, an animated street in Los Feliz. The cold moist ocean air - that Angelenos call June Gloom - has finally cleared. The sun is out. On the sidewalk, between the bookstore Skylight and the French restaurant Figaro, I notice a small stand. Under a colorful umbrella, two people are chilling on beach chairs with an icebox next to them. Stacy and Matt are selling artisanal popsicles. I check their menu on the chalkboard and pick one with a Blueberry Nectarine Lemongrass flavor. The ice cream is light and refreshing. While I eat it, I watch people passing by. A muscular man with a Chihuahua on a pink leash walks quietly.

Stacy and Matt have been friends for ten years and recently decided to create this business together. They called it Pop Art. Today is their second day of business. We introduce each other and Matt hands me his business card. Under his name, it reads: Chief Popsicle Officer. Last week he was still working as an attorney but he left his job to do that. As for Stacy, she took a year off from her PHD in Chinese History to dive into this adventure.

It all began when Stacy met a guy in Atlanta who was selling popsicles on the street. She thought this would be a great job for her. Then she talked to Matt. He was up for it. "We put everything together in two weeks. The license, the equipment, the company, everything," says Matt. I am impressed by their professionalism and seriousness. "We are the most serious popsicles sellers in the universe," Matt says. "At least on Vermont," he adds. Stacy laughs. To make it happen they ordered molds from Brazil. "It's the only country you can find molds to make large amount of popsicles - up to three hundreds," says Stacy. This morning they threw away two sets because the texture was not perfect. "The taste came out good though. But we don't sell people popsicles we wouldn't eat. We're finicky," they say. On the terrace next to us, two sophisticated women clink with red wine and call the waiter.

Stacy and Matt's popsicles are made of organic products and flavors. And the names too are delicious: Strawberry Rosewater, Key Lime Pie, Watermelon Mint, Strawberry Cheesecake, Raspberry Lemonade, Mango Cilantro, Mimosa (like the Champagne cocktail), Pineapple Jalapeno (a little spicy), and Mexican Hot Chocolate (very spicy with dark chocolate chunks). "We want flavors that sound a little crazy and that are good too," says Stacy. They tried a Bloody Mary flavor lately but Matt didn't like it. I ask them how they find these originals ideas and combinations. "We just mess around with stuff," says Stacy. "We play with it. It's a little like alchemy," adds Matt.

For Stacy this job is the perfect one. "It's great. You got to seat outside, talk to people, and make food for them." Matt enjoys it also but for different reasons. "I'm my only boss. I'm the only one yelling at me right now." The only downside to it is the sun. "Sun is a killer. We've got too much Irish blood," says Stacy. True. She is a redhead and her face and arms are covered with tiny freckles. It is 4pm. Stacy and Matt have sold about thirty popsicles so far. It is a good start. The next time I feel like eating a tasty popsicle and having a laugh, I will stop by this Pop stand for sure.

REGINA

Today I talked to Regina.

I am driving north of Los Angeles through a dry winding canyon. The afternoon sun makes the hills golden and bronze. A horde of Harleys passes me with a loud roar. I reach the equestrian center. Today I am getting my first horse-riding lesson. The place is intimate and simple. There is a stable with chicken running around, a donkey, and a few dogs. Two big Retrievers escort me from the gate to the stable. Regina, the instructor, is here. Right away she stands out as an energetic woman with an unusually expressive face. She speaks loud with a slight German accent and makes signs with her hands to illustrate her thoughts.

Regina starts the lesson, skipping the greetings and the formal introduction. "In order to ride a horse, you have to discover yourself," she says. She bends her knees and moves her arms in the air. "You have to find your core balance so you can dance with the horse." She brings me to a box at the far end of the stable. "That's Gypsy. You'll start with her," she adds. Gypsy is a medium-sized chocolate brown mare with white spots on her back. She walks towards me to smell my hand. I hand it to her. The air coming from her large nostrils is warm. We enter the box and Regina shows me how to put a bridle around Gypsy's head. She explains that riding starts on the ground, therefore I will not ride a horse today. She is concerned that I might be disappointed, but I am not. I have been dreaming of doing this for years. The simple fact of being here is amazing.

We walk towards a sand circus next to the stable. The nature around us is wild and beautiful. Regina commands Gypsy to walk and then stop. But the horse does not look thrilled with the challenge at all. Regina really listens to the animal. She adjusts her energy to it and translates the horse's thoughts: "She said it's boring." Regina continues to explain. "You have to learn to talk to you horse. It's like dance or music, you have to feel it." Gypsy gets obedient. Regina scratches the animal's back to reward her and turns to me: "You have to become an Alpha horse. Now we are in a technological world, cut from our instincts and our bodies. But horses don't know this. They're still totally connected to nature. So you have to guide them, nurture them into this world that can be frightening to them," she says. She shows me how to hold the reins softly in my hands. "The horse is not a monster, you don't need to hold it really tight," she adds. She makes the face of a monster, bends her back and crooks her fingers. I take the reins in my hands. At first it feels easy and I assume that the horse will follow like a dog would. But I realize how different and sensitive that animal is (and also much heavier). Regina stands next to me and captures every single change in my posture or my thoughts. "Riding a horse is body language. How can you guide someone if you don't know where you're going?" she asks. I guess, at this moment, something clicks in my head. Suddenly Gypsy follows my commands. Regina takes some distance and cheers us from the other side of the fence. The challenge escalates: I guide the horse to the center of the ring, then we walk to the right, and I make Gypsy stop and walk backwards. I feel it. For a second, we are dancing.

Regina continues to explain her way with the horses. "My husband and I prepare our young horses during weeks. But when it's time to put a saddle on and have someone ride them, it takes us only three days." Her goal is to avoid any brutal methods. In her opinion, the horses should feel as little pain or discomfort as possible. "Horses are energy and mother nature. They're beautiful, they're life." She pauses. "Horses are life," repeats Regina. Our forty-five minutes session has lasted twice longer. Regina is too passionate to look at her watch, but I have to leave. We bring Gypsy back into her box. Before I go, she warns me: "Other horses with different personalities will show more resistance. Be prepared!" A stallion neighs loudly as to approve of these words. "I look forward to it," I answer. "You don't know what you're getting into." exclaims Regina. Her loud generous laughter fills up the stable. And the rooster echoes it proudly.

WILLIAM

Today I talked to William.

I drive by the sea and decide to stop my car to enjoy the day for a moment and watch the boats leave the harbor. On my left side, I see the Marina del Rey harbor and the buzzing city. On my right side, the opening to the vast ocean. The wind is strong and refreshing. Three crabs are playing on the greenish-brown rocks. They crawl from the sunny to the shady side and follow the comings and goings of the water. Next to me a man with a fishing pole stands still. He is wearing a dark ski jacket. His eyes look tired and he has a cold cigarette butt squeezed between his lips. "Are you a fisherman?" I ask. "Yeah," he answers without looking at me. He sits down on the floor, opens a tin box, and cuts a piece of slimy squid. I sit down cross-legged on the concrete about eight feet from him. Above us a black pelican starts to dive and suddenly changes his mind. The man continues to speak, still watching only his hands. "I bought the squid frozen at Redondo Beach. I walked all the way from there. It took me from last night to this morning to get here." Half of his words get swept away by the wind. You can tell that extended loneliness has made that man gruff. He puts the bait on the hook and stands up. I imitate him. And with a powerful movement, he throws the line in the distance. It creates a long sharp hissing sound. His name is William. He is forty-one years old and was born in Ontario, California.

"What kind of fish do you usually catch?" I ask William. "All kind. Small, big, medium. Look at the bird!" he exclaims. The black pelican dives into the sea with a big splash. "There's fish around here," says William with optimism. The bird comes back to the surface. He holds a silver fish in his bill. We watch the fish move for a while and finally disappear in the bird's throat. I ask William where he lives. "In the street," he says. "I've been living in the street since I was seventeen. And I've been fishing around Redondo Beach since then." - "What happened?" I ask. "Mother. Father. Disaster. It's a long story," he replies. We stay silent for a long moment, staring at the line that doesn't move. A few sailing boats pass by. William throws the line again. He catches fish once in a while "when they are hungry enough to bite." When it happens he sells it to the fish market. This is how he makes his money. In the windy sky above us, the same pelican comes back. "He's gonna dive again, he's gonna dive again, here we go, here we go..." says William in his swaying Afro-American accent. Then he throws the line another time. "You can tell I'm an impatient fisherman, huh?" he asks. And this makes me laugh.

No fish. William decides to go to another spot close to this one. I follow him there. We reach a wooden bridge that opens on a canal bordered with luxurious houses. This place is called the Ballona Lagoon. In the rapid current, hundreds of tiny shiny fish are milling around. William slowly lets his line go down. But the bite is so light that as soon as it touches the stream, it gets carried away. A little further on the bridge, I watch a chubby teenage boy clumsily kiss a girl. She giggles and kisses him back. When I ask William if I could take a picture of him, he refuses right away. "I had my picture taken once and the person reported me to the police." I decide to take a picture of the fishing pole with William's hands on it. I write a few words in my notepad. Suddenly William turns towards me. He looks me straight in the eyes: "Take it." He points at my camera with a grave face. "Show them," he adds. I take a first picture. And a second one. This time, William smiles.

KATIE & JEFF

Today I talked to Katie and Jeff.

I'm walking past the Hollywood Museum when a girl standing next to a camera shouts in my direction: "Could we take a picture of you?" - "Well, yes. What is that for?" I ask. "It's for Travel and Leisure," she answers. I agree and strike a few awkward pauses. It's pretty ironic to find myself pausing for someone while I'm actually looking for a person to photograph. Katie is a freelance photographer and her assistant - who is also her boyfriend - is Jeff. She is a direct, daring girl who doesn't seem afraid of approaching people spontaneously. Katie and Jeff are 27 and 26 years old. They met at the California Institute of the Arts where they were both studying photography. Today, they are making pictures to go with an article that will come out in Travel and Leisure's September issue. I ask them if I could follow them around while they work. They agree and we enter the Hollywood Museum together.

In the entrance hall, a large shiny chandelier hangs from the high ceiling. A faded rumba stresses the obsolete style of the place. I notice a sickly but discreet old cooking oil smell. Through a door ajar, I see Mel's Drive-In, the restaurant next door. At the ticket desk a perfectly groomed lady welcomes the tourists one by one. She wears a fitted pink skirt and a white flowery blouse. Her hair is tied in a tight chignon and her makeup - ruby lips and white skin - looks perfect.

The Hollywood Museum is the authentic Max Factor building where all the major actresses would come to buy their beauty products about a hundred years ago. Katie, Jeff and I enter the make-up rooms. The light blue room is "For Blondes only", the currant and beige "For Brunettes only", and the pink one "For Brownettes only". "This room will shoot better," says Katie while she peeks into the pink room. Jeff helps her set the camera in a good place. This room looks like a giant candy: the walls, carpet and ceiling are pink. An original poster of Judy Garland stands next to a dressing table covered with powders, lipsticks, and makeup accessories. Everything seems left in place by an actress who just left. Jeff measures the light and gives Katie the value. She starts to shoot. They work quietly together, exchanging only a word from time to time. In the blue room, the final scene of "Gentlemen prefer Blondes" plays on a TV. June 1st would have been Marilyn Monroe's 84th birthday. At that date, the museum opened the largest temporary exhibition in the world called "Marilyn Remembered". Private collectors and museums sent all kind of objects related to Marilyn: a fridge, personal photos, dresses, a pill bottle, a fox fur, and many more.

"I'd like to shoot Hannibal Lecter's cell," says Katie. In the stairs to the basement, we hear a creepy music and the light grows dimmer at every step we make. The basement is a mix between a shabby prison and a haunted house. The light is so low that I can hardly see the red brick walls. There are portraits of vampires and headless women here and there. Katie adjusts the height of the tripod and chooses a long time of exposure to shoot the cell. "There's somebody lying there," says Jeff. A body wrapped in a white linen lies in a dark corner right behind us. It makes me slightly jump.

The shoot is over. In less than a minute, Katie and Jeff pack their material. We come back to the bright light on the street. A family of red-face tourists wearing identical t-shirts passes by. "Could I take a picture of you?" Katie asks. "No, I've had my picture taken too much these days. We just came back from a cruise," says the father, and he goes off his way. Katie, Jeff and I split on a friendly note. They have more pictures to make and head towards another group of people. I go the opposite way and let myself slowly disappear into the crowded street.