On our interpretation of The Odyssey–or Plains, Trains & Automobiles for those that don’t care for Greek– we had a layover in Los Angeles. The Spaniards must have been horrible prophets or have a deep love for irony. LA is far from a repository for the pious and devout. This was my second visit to Lalaland. The first was during spring break my senior year of college, and included seeing The Price is Right before Bob Barker retired.
We left the land of hippies, ATV’d through almond farms, and now had front row seats to one of the greatest people shows on earth. Built in 1939, Union Station served as the hub for so many young actors trying to hit it big during the Golden Age of Hollywood.
I argue train stations serve as a far greater stage than any theater venue. Observe the gentleman below. His guitar, whose name we know not, occupying the adjoining seat. His shoes have been taken off.
I’m a paranoid traveler. I don’t leave my bags unattended. I don’t know what I have to steal, but for some reason I think some socks with 3 weeks left of wear-ability are coveted by someone. I’m not sure who, but someone.
While looking around guarding our bags as Michelle went on a coffee run, I looked around the grand waiting room. Off to the left was a garden. The sun shone through the open doors, and a couple was having engagement photos shot near the fountain. The future bride was working on her playful, “come and get me” look as the groom stood smiling.
Inside, the center aisle quickly turned into a fashion runway as beautiful women strutted toward the doors. I refrained from snapping pictures of them, lest I have another paparazzi suit filed against me. Juxtaposed with the models were the bag ladies. The ladies you’d see on a hoarder program.
But the best “Seen in LA” Award goes to the man in the urinal next to me. I had tagged Michelle in for sock guarding duty and departed for the facilities. I wouldn’t say my peripheral vision is award-winning, but I noticed an awful lot of motion to my right. Too much for my liking. I’m hoping it was just prostate issues, but I didn’t linger to inquire about his lycopene consumption.
I washed my hands and rejoined the pretty people not touching themselves in the waiting room.