I’m back from Lotus Land. My daughter set me up with one of the three greatest weeks of my life in a city I adore: Los Angeles. Like a lot of smartypants east of SoCal I spent too much of my life scorning LaLa Land. Then Honor moved there, I visited, and from that first trip I’ve been dazzled. Dazzled by sunshine, hot days (no sweating) cool nights and, again sunshine. High culture and fish tacos.
My next seventy posts could be about our week in LA, and might be. The theme could be: “You are too old to be so stupid to set out on your travels with two pairs of new shoes.” They felt good in the shoe store, but when I trotted along our LA hood walk — from Loz Felix Blvd., down Vermont to Hollywood and up Hillhurst with a swing back to home, my feet were shredded.
Two days later, wearing a pair of Goodwill sandals, I cruised Little Tokyo. I think I’ve said before that if I believed in a former life, I’d believe that I was Japanese. I thought I’d entered Retail Nirvana at Kinokuniya Books. OMG. OMG. “Madame Figaro ” in Japanese, with binding on the right? What seemed like a half mile of Japanese craft and cookbooks? I admit that I spent almost an hour in an eighth of the shop. I’m proud that I got out of that orgasmic nirvanic store only sixty bucks poorer
The second encounter was, good Lord, even better. I wish I’d taken note of the shop’s name, but basically it’s a Japanese five and dime — the concept makes my toes curl a week later. Here’s part of the haul:
The coolest bento box. Brace yourself, and don’t hate me: Hello Kitty ziplock bags. Erasers in dessert form. Argyle patterned tape. A lighter with a cute dangling thang. A Hello Kitty tempura strainer. A Hello Kitty callous grater. Fifteen bucks total.
I won’t walk into Walmart for labor reasons. I won’t eat at a Cracker Barrel for the same reason. But a Japanese five and dime? Take my wallet. Please.