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.

DAVID

Today I talked to David

This is the end of the afternoon. The streets are cooling down after a hot day, and the sun is slowly turning orange. I push the door of the Golden Bridge Yoga center. An electric Indian music fills up the almost empty space. I walk through the library-restaurant where two girls are eating pastries and talking over scented tea. On the other side of the shop, I see a spacious yoga studio. It is empty too, except for a man meditating on a mat. I pick up a book - Krishnamurti to Himself: His Last Journal - and read the back cover. A young man appears from behind a curtain. His blond curly hair is covered with a cloth. He wears thin metal-framed glasses, a long red apron, and red Adidas sneakers. We share a few words about my camera and I show him a picture I just took in the street. A woman passes by. We suspend our conversation. After a pause, he asks: "Hey, you want to take a picture of this?" He opens up a thick curtain that reveals a narrow kitchen. He enters and I follow him inside. "I'm making cinnamon rolls," he adds. I see flour spread on the table and dough in a metallic bowl.

His name is David. He works here as the assistant to the pastry chef and teaches yoga when he can. He loves to cook because it makes him feel more grounded. He tells me that he is aware that his thoughts are transmitted to the food while he is cooking. I notice a man sitting next to the curtain and wonder if he is listening to our conversation, but he seems mesmerized by his book. David grabs a rolling pin, removes the flour stuck on it, and rolls out the dough. I ask him how he got here. "A year ago I began to meditate and focus constantly my attention on working here. I wanted to cook vegan food and practice yoga at the same time. And it worked! I've been working here since December," he says with a sparkle in this smile. David's movements are harmonious and composed. He delicately spreads the cinnamon mixture all over the dough with a spatula and rolls up the dough into a long baguette. At that moment, a blond girl pops her head through the curtain and stares at us for a short moment. "Hi," says David. "Oh sorry," utters the girl. Her head disappears.

Initially David is from Portland, Maine. He was making sandwiches, working as a dishwasher seven days a week, and partying a lot when he realized his life needed a change. He began practicing yoga three to four hours a day. Then, he went to Esalen in Big Sur, California. In this center, people can learn and practice different spiritual arts, techniques, and therapies. David studied Kundalini yoga, meditation, shamanism and some martial arts during one year. "I miss my friends from Portland but that life wasn't healthy for me anymore," he says. He cuts the long roll into slices and creates a ball with each piece. Then he puts the balls on a translucent paper and starts all over again with a new piece of dough.

"As humans we have to evolve because initially we're hunters. When I meditate I feel part of the infinite, the ocean. I feel one. When you experience this, it makes you feel so small and humble. It changes you. Even if you experience it only once," he says. "I think this is why people do drugs. That's a way to experience the infinite. I tried this too. It worked a few times but it's not sustainable," he adds with a smile. Then he wipes his hands on his apron and turns towards me. "Today, I feel really blessed."