ARTHUR

Today I talked to Arthur.

I'm sitting on a cement wall at the intersection of Melrose and Cahuenga Boulevard. I took a picture of a yellow building and now I'm waiting for it to develop. The day is sunny with a fresh breeze. Over the traffic noise I hear a faint singing. I look around and see the back of a man on the other side of the cement wall. He is crouching behind a pole in the parking lot. I try not to stare at him. A spicy smell of incense floats in the air. All of a sudden the man turns around and smiles at me awkwardly. He is a handsome Asian man but he seems uncomfortable. He stands up and leaves. That is intriguing. I hesitate to follow him and finally decide to do so. I walk across the small parking lot and enter the Angel spa.

The delicate music creates a contrast with the traffic outside. A middle-aged Thai woman welcomes me and asks me which massage I want. I ask her if I could speak to the man who works here. She leaves and comes back with him. His name is Arthur and he recognizes me right away. We sit down on black leather armchairs. I ask him about the chanting he did. Arthur starts to explain in a minimal English. “I put food and incense on a plate every day before work. I’m a Buddhist”, he says. He is forty-three years old and arrived from Thailand one month ago. He is originally from Chiang-Mai, a city in the North. His birth name is Arnont but in America he goes by Arthur. The middle-aged woman – Nana – listens to our conversation. She approves with a fixed smile. I ask Arthur if he is the owner of the place. “No, I work here as a masseur. Before that I spent twelve years in Japan working in a Thai restaurant and in a video rentals shop”, he says.

The door suddenly opens. A young woman in strict clothes and high heels bursts into the shop. “I’m sorry, could I use your restrooms?” she asks. Arthur goes with her to show her the way. Nana gives me a bigger smile. I point at her multicolored nails and ask her where she gets them done. “By myself”, she giggles, and she shows me her feet – multicolored too. At the wall I notice an aquarium. The sand is royal blue and the plastic plants are flashy pink. I spontaneously feel so grateful that I am not a fish.

Arthur is back and we resume our conversation. “The ritual is an offering to thank the land – America. You give food to the land and the land gives food back to you”, he explains. “I put Jasmine rice, fried chicken, incense, rice noodles and sweet water on a plate. The water is sweetened so that everything that will enter my life will be sweet too. It makes the problems disappear. The rice and the chicken symbolize wealth and success. The noodles symbolize a long life because they are very long”.

Arthur’s dream is to earn enough money in America to buy a house in Chiang-Mai. Then he will open his own import-export business. “When you’ll come to my country, I will be your guide”, he adds. I utter a clumsy “Kop Khun kha” – for thank you. It is the only word I remember from my vacation in Thailand three years ago. Arthur and Nana smile. She bows slightly. Then Arthur grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously. “You’ll be back for a massage soon, ok?”

AMBER

Today I talked to Amber.

I enter the Paparazzi Hair Studio that stands between a shoe repair shop and a restaurant in Sherman Oaks. It is Sunday and Amber, my hair stylist and the manager of place, opened the studio especially for me and another client.

The first time I came here was a month ago and I was thrilled with my hair cut. I immediately called my mother and friends to tell them that I had found my new hair stylist. I love how Amber works. She literally sculpts hair. She is focused and extra precise. What I also appreciate is that she doesn’t make small talk. Hair stylists who bombard me with millions of questions bore me to death. On the contrary Amber is mellow. She seems grounded yet energetic. Her clothes are simple but her hair style stands out. She has a curly red Mohawk, and both sides of her head are shaved with drawings in them.

Rap music fills the empty studio. Solomon, Amber’s eleven-year-old son, is sprawled on a soft couch next to the entrance door. Amber starts to cut my bangs. “Where are you from?” I ask. “I’m from L.A. But I've got family in Denmark and Sweden,” she answers. “My grandfather was a jazz musician. He was traveling a lot and had children all over the world. Thanks to him I got to travel too and I saw a lot of places!” she says. Her grandfather is Don Cherry. He was a cornet and trumpet player, and played with John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, and Archie Shepp to name only a few. Tiny bits of hair fall on my eyes and mouth. I try to blow them away. Amber continues. “The good thing about my grandfather is that he kept us connected. We’re a big family now.”

Solomon looks bored. From the other side of the room, he shoots questions at his mom about some kind of contract. It makes me curious. “What does your son do?” I ask. “He does music. And I’m his manager,” she answers. She tells me she has invested in music equipment so he can create beats. “I was into the music gang myself,” she says.

In the 90’s, Amber was a rapper and her artist name was Cobra Red. Her band was the 5 Footaz. “We chose this name because we were all short,” she adds, and then laughs. Amber started cutting hair because she needed a day job. “Music is a dirty gang, you know. I was dying down.” She hands me a mirror to let me check my bangs. “You need everyday money. So I started doing hair and I found a new passion,” she smiles widely. “People come from all around,” she adds. Recently a new client of hers flew all the way from Japan to have her hair done. It doesn’t surprise me. Her style is fresh, a little crazy, and perfectly executed.

Amber hands me a brush to remove the sticky hair from my face. My bangs look great. Then Salomon comes closer and sits down into a chair. His feet can hardly reach the floor. I ask him what music he loves. He giggles and rocks from side to side. “Rap,” he says. “And what else?” I ask –“Hip hop,” he hesitates shyly. Amber tells him to answer seriously, as if it was a real interview. Salomon is intimidated. But after a long silence he finally enumerates: “Naughty By Nature. Eminem. MC Lyte” and then he falls silent again. “He likes old school type of hip hop,” Amber shouts out on her way to her desk.

It is picture time. We all go out of the studio. Solomon strikes a cool pose and Amber laughs. In front of the camera she is totally in charge. She tries out groovy poses, squeezes her Mohawk between her hands and suddenly freezes. Ventura Boulevard freezes with her. This girl is amazing. Whatever she does, she’s all about rhythm.

Check out Amber's blog

PETER

Today I talked to Peter.

It’s a peaceful sunny day in Silver Lake. The cafés are crowded and everyone wants to seat outside. The neighborhood looks trendier than ever. Skinny jeans, funky hats, and moustaches.

I like it here. There is something European in the air.

The mission of the day is, of course, meet and talk to someone. But I would be really happy to find red earrings along the way. I have decided recently that I need red earrings to wear with my black and white 50’s dress.

I enter a shop attracted by colors in the window. There are vintage magazines, a collection of vintage cereal boxes, an authentic blackboard from a restaurant on the wall... Each object seems to have been chosen with care. At the far end of the store, dozens of earrings made of semi-precious stones are exposed on wire netting. And here they are, my red earrings! They are made of a bright red hoop with a red pearl that swings underneath. I love them.

“Is it a gift?” the salesman asks. “A gift to myself”, I answer. He smiles. That is Peter. He and his wife Donna are the owners of this gift shop called Serifos. She is the creator of the jewelry I just bought. But today she is out. Peter and I start to talk naturally.

I tell him about my blog and hand him a card. He is an active blog reader and seems to know more than I do about the subject. “I’m always impressed to see people do something and put it out”, he says. “I was so proud of my wife when she put her jewelry out”. He points towards her work. “The great thing about running a gift shop is that it’s a positive and fun place. People who come here are in a good mood. They’re doing something nice.” Peter likes helping people find the right thing for someone they love. “If you’re looking for something unique, you might find it here”.

A well-groomed man with a light green short-sleeved shirt and slicked hair enters. He is picking up a present. A strong and masculine smell fills up the place. “What is your perfume?” I ask the man. “Chrome”, he answers a little dumbstruck and proud at the same time. “I just got out of the shower”, he adds. Not many men still use perfume. It’s pretty old-fashioned but I like it. The man takes his purchase and leaves happily. The smell evaporates.

Something in the way Peter speaks and moves makes me wonder. “Are you an actor?” I ask. “I was in the last episode of Glee. I was the MC when they go to the championship”, he says. “That was fun to do but I don’t like talking about it too much”. Peter is a private and modest person. “We live in a strange world. People tell everything about themselves”, he adds.

We speak about what it means to be an actor in L.A. Peter thinks that a few of the actors love their art, but many only want to be famous. “They are completely self-centered, talk about them all the time because they got used to sell who they are, like you would sell a product”, he says. “They don’t talk about art, politics, or society”. He regrets how that impacts the image people have of his profession. “I think people got to hate actors because of that”. While he speaks, I’m filling pages in my notepad. “Are you writing about me? It’s way too much for the human race to know!” he says.

We go outside to take a picture in the sun. Then I take a quick glimpse at the picture. “Oh, no! Did you have your eyes closed?” I say spontaneously. “No, I’m Asian!” Peter laughs heartily. I feel bad. Why did I say that? Hopefully, Peter’s light-hearted and honest reaction saves me from any guilty feeling.

I want to take a picture of an object that represents the shop well. Peter hands me the Mister-T vintage cereal box. “This is the best one we have”, he says. I pick up the C-3PO one too.

During our conversation Peter speaks a few words in French. He can actually speak more than a few words. He spent three years in a school in Morocco. He loves ColCoa, the French film festival of L.A, and goes there every year. “It’s a different type of filmmaking. You get to be in France for two hours. You see the movie, and then you go home, have a baguette, cheese, and French wine. You extend the experience for one more hour.”

Two guys enter the shop. They are putting together an art-music festival in the street – The Silver Lake Jubilee - and are looking for sponsors. Peter is enthusiastic about their idea but can’t commit to be a sponsor. Even though he doesn’t express it, it’s in the air. Times seem tough and it would be a luxury to spend more money than you need.

I’m leaving. Peter promises to read my blog. I tell him that I hope I’ll be true to our encounter. He is totally confident. “I don’t worry too much about things I can’t control. It’s a little bit of oriental philosophy and another part of having, you know, crazy friends”.

TAQUERIA LA PIÑATA

Today I tried to talk to someone.

It has been three days. Three days that I've been walking in the streets, going to different places, and didn’t find someone to talk to. It felt like chasing my own inspiration. So today I’ve decided to go to a place I know of. It is a small Mexican restaurant where the food is good and the people always pleasant. I should be able to make an interesting encounter.

This morning the weather is unsettled. It rained heavily all night. Now at noon, the sun is out but the stormy feeling is still in the air. A cold wind blows from the ocean.

“What are you drinking?” I ask to the guy next to me. “Horchata. You want to try it?” He opens the top of his drink and hands it to me. It's delicious. The taste of rice and cinnamon is very refreshing. His name is Lance. He is waiting for his food. We are sitting side by side on tiny stools at the Taqueria - La Piñata. The restaurant stands on the street next to a mini mall. It is a square kitchen surrounded by long sliding windows where the customers order their food. Inside, two Mexican ladies - Alessandra and Lisette - work rapidly broiling meat and preparing nachos, burritos, and tacos.

Lance is an engineer in a post-production company, a few buildings from here. I take him for a Mexican but he is actually from Navaho and Irish origin. He has been living in Los Angeles for seven years and enjoys his time here. As soon as he gets his food, he hands me his business card and rushes back to work. Too bad, we didn’t have time to talk more. I didn’t even take his picture.

Inside the kitchen, Alessandra and Lisette discuss and joke while they cook. They are friends who have known each other for a long time. They came together from Puebla, Mexico. I ask them questions in English but they don’t seem to understand well. I switch to Spanish and attempt to hide my French-English accent. Their faces open up. They seem to appreciate my clumsy effort to communicate. Alessandra approaches just when their boss – an Indian man from the restaurant next door - enters. He looks at me suspiciously. Then he stares at my notepad and camera. It just doesn’t seem like a good time to continue the conversation. I take a sip of Coke.

It’s already 1pm. Three Mexican workers eat quesadillas next to me. It’s freezing cold in the shade. A sudden gust of wind blows my neighbor’s paper plate away and spread the rest of his food on the bar. He opens the sliding window and, in Spanish, he asks Lisette for a rag. He also offers to repair the sliding window that doesn’t slide well anymore. They seem to know each other and start to joke around. I only catch tiny bits of their conversation. The man wipes the bar and gives her the rag back. “Gracias paesano. Andale!” she says. The men laugh and leave.

Then I meet Irvin. He is waiting for his food with a colleague. He accepts to pose for me but can't stay more. He grabs his food and heads to his car. Again, not enough time to talk.

Two police officers in khaki uniforms are choosing their menus. They don’t want to be photographed. I realize they are much more concerned about their figure than anything else. “Come on, you go on the picture. You’re fitter”, says the one with the aquiline nose. “No, I’m not. You work out. You’re slimmer”, the short one answers. I finally suggest taking a picture from behind. The shorter one reluctantly agrees. He holds his stomach in. I trigger my camera.

Today my experience was like the weather – a little unsettled. After all, only one thing kept its promise. The spicy sauce was indeed spicy.