The Accidental Flaneuse

In 2008, on May 10, I was registered to participate in this really cool-sounding one day workshop at school, Antioch University in Los Angeles, entitled, “The Cultural Shades of Downtown Los Angeles”.

Part of its learning objective was to find examples of certain terms, as defined on this transparency… (imagine overhead projector with transparency, if you will.)

It was to be a tour, on foot and by DASH bus, of the pocket of L.A. that contains in great concentration almost all of the elements that make L.A. what it is, for better or worse. As a transplanted native, I was quite excited and intrigued by the idea of taking such a close look at a town I know very well – or thought I did, anyway.

When the day of the workshop finally arrived, I was all ready – hmmmm, was I?

I’d forgotten two things – first, a Los Angeles Public Library card, which would have availed me of $1.00 parking at the downtown branch for the whole day.

I also forgot to look at the syllabus, which, of course, I had on my person. Had I looked, I would have seen that the actual meeting place for students and instructor was at the corner of 5th and Flower… I, however, waited one block away, at the corner of 5th and Figueroa… I stood there a long time before I gave up and went home. I called the instructor in a panic, leaving a frantic and feeling like a fool message on her voicemail.

She generously agreed to meet with me privately to give me the workshop goals and itinerary so I could do the downtown tour on my own… the following paper resulted from my solo experience as The Accidental Flaneuse:

Boy, oh, boy, did I goof. I was so looking forward to the workshop, too. I was in my comfy walking shoes and lightweight clothes. I had my backpack all set with a small, portable notebook, a pen, my reader and my syllabus, a little bottle of water, 3 dollars in quarters for the DASH rides – but I forgot to bring my brain! So, while I am sorry I missed the group experience, I am not sure “flaneury” would have been truly possible had I not been alone.

Since I did not have a chance to obtain a library card for the huge, downtown L.A Public Library, I instead took the 333 express bus from Mar Vista, down Venice Boulevard, then caught a DASH up FIGUEROA to 5th (from where I could see my stubborn corner of 5th and FLOWER one block to the east). I disembarked in front of the Paul Hastings building and sat down for a few minutes to get my bearings.

I had only ever noticed the one-way streets and other inconveniences of downtown L.A. before. Even when I lived just off skid row, in a fantastic loft on Gladys and 7th across from the oh-so-glamorous Ford Hotel, there were only a few pockets I liked. The rest, like 5th and Fig, for instance, I ignored…. but not that day.

When I was ready, I rose and crossed the street to more closely examine what stood out for me as examples of the treasures I was to find on my scavenger hunt. On the north-west corner I observed the following:

Indicative of global economy were the Westin, Marriott, the ubiquitous Starbucks, Johnny Rockets, Robek’s Juice, Koo Koo Roo, La Salsa, and Quizno’s, all squished together and smiling for my approval. I wondered if maybe they are all owned by the same company?

Across from that, on the south-west corner, I saw the “revitalized, refreshed, rejuvenated” (the essential three Rs… readin’, ‘ritin’, and ‘rithmetic?!?) Manulife Plaza…. Hmmmm, Manulife… is that supposed to be a life that is handmade? (I think not) They left out “gentrified”.

Anyway, the building, or at least its façade, is constructed of sleek black marble or perhaps highly polished black granite. A perfect backdrop for its unintentional fashion show… dark, “tasteful” suits, dresses and coats, the uniform of corporate business, blend quite nicely with this cold black background, while the traditional clothing of a “lower” socioeconomic class, perhaps the blue collar laborers (upon whose backs this building is actually being constructed), and those who work in the service industry (for instance the green-aproned kids who make mochachinos for the folks in the suits) that tend toward brighter, friendlier colors – stick out like a sore thumb against that same midday midnight. I have a feeling this is not accidental. It is a different sort of human scale… not only in the size of man vs. skyscraper, but in the unreachable nature of this alluded-to life for those who “do not belong”, those who stand out against this background… the laborers, servants, artists and bohemians.

The cold color of the building almost kicks these people away with its force of contrast, while simultaneously sheltering and protecting its “own” - the corporate suit wearing “movers and shakers”. There is also a very interesting piece of public art… a sculpture of a bear catching fish. This almost seems out of place until I notice how high up the bear is… and how it is reaching down to catch the fish… It makes me think that the people who work in the building, especially the higher floors are the bear and the people walking by but not stopping in, like fish swimming in a brook, are the trout the bear is about to consume… they are predator and prey.

All of the sidewalks (save the ones in front of the Manulife building, which is, as we know, under construction) are broad enough for crowds of Christmas shoppers (were it Times Square, that is).

The walk paths are a combination of public and private – on the south-east corner in front of and around the Paul Hastings building, the walkways are especially inviting because they are wheelchair accessible.

The structure on the north-east corner is shady and illusory of privacy, with secret-looking, almost Escheresque staircases leading up to it. The incredibly commercial north-west corner (home of our friend Starbucks) uses the same black marble as its south-west neighbor for a low wall to delineate the public space from the private.

Also, there is bamboo and the prominently displayed word “CIUDAD” to give a false multi-ethnic feel to its sterile and homogenized bland environs.

There is an addiction facilitating escalator leading up to, you guessed it, Starbucks. The only allusions at all that I can see to a colonial past are the name of the restaurant, “CIUDAD”, and its rusty orange patio umbrellas that seem to try to recall terra cotta roof tiles. Ay, que lastima.

At my next destination, Old Chinatown, I get off the DASH at Broadway just a block or two before Alpine. I feel like walking a little… a flaneur/se is one who strolls, and not one who rides, after all. I feel much more at home here. The public spaces provide respite from the bustle of the marketplace-like atmosphere where street vendors offer cheap imports at bargain prices.

There are little arcades, much like the one in which I have chosen to stop to write my observation, where a long double row of back-to-back comfortable wooden benches beckons me and any other walk-weary passers-by to come, sit, enjoy the day and take your time. I sit facing one of the many jewelry shops in this space, where display windows offer sparkly sights to delight and dazzle the eye.

I look down and notice the square brown tiles that line the floor of the walkway and think how great a sound they would make under a pair of swiftly moving roller skates.

There is no urgency to leave so I relax for a while. For me this is the loveliest form of cooperative motility – an attitude of live and let live.

At about 11:30 I notice a distinct rumbling in my tummy and remember how close I am to Philippe’s French Dip, another assigned stop on my tour - close enough to walk, and so I do.

I enter from the side and head right to the counter literally 30 seconds before the lunch rush. I am served immediately. It is instantly apparent to me that downtown L.A. has been “revitalized, rejuvenated, refreshed” because the quality of my sandwich (beef French dip) has dipped considerably since my last visit fifteen years ago, when downtown was still a “dump”.

This shows me that the emphasis is now on speed of service and Philippe’s has become nothing more than a touristy nostalgic au jus stain on the designer silk tie of Corporate America. Further evidence that it is now just a “quaint landmark” is in the nickel and dime old fashioned candy counter, where I gleefully purchase a few Bit o’ Honeys and a Charms Sweet and Sour sucker… haven’t had one of those since I was about eight and a half)

Also, almost desperately proffered, are Philippe’s t-shirts, aprons, jackets, and a little boxed sandwich man figurine. He seems to beg “Please don’t knock us down to build another Starbucks!!??!!”

Now it’s time to head over to Olvera Street, once again, close enough to walk.

As I happily masticate my Bit o’ Honeys, the thing I notice the most that makes me sad is how the “locals” seem to have to package the average American’s idea of Latinx culture and be willing to sell it for bargain prices, no less.

This, I think, is a form of cooperative motility as well. It gets the average customer in and out, very quickly, so as to not have to be endured for too long.

I will talk a little bit more about Olvera Street later, although I did not linger for long. It was very crowded and hot and I was getting uncomfortable, so I headed across Alameda to the cathedral-like atmosphere of Union Station.

The building itself looks like an old Spanish mission, and I would have no problem believing it may have once been a place of worship with its lovely high ceilings in the entrance and the enveloping tranquility that remains regardless of how busy the place may become.

The red tile roof dome and spire belie a colonial past as well. I sit for a while in the waiting area before braving the crowds that head for the closest way out of town.

I notice how suddenly the ceilings change and become oppressively low and am aware that I am now under the trains! I feel a little claustrophobic and turn tail back for the expanse of the waiting area. I head for the front door, stopping for a moment to ask the security guard why one particular area in the front is not open to the public… it is a gorgeous art deco hall that looks like an old bank. It is now only used for parties and filming, here in this movie-factory of a town.

By now I have to use the restroom, and my search is not an easy one – Union Station is certainly beautiful but public restrooms are not.

I cross Alameda again and mistakenly board the B DASH and so I completely miss Little Tokyo on my way to Grand Central Market. What I do find, when finally I arrive, is a bizarre mall type of place that reminds me of New York City’s Rockefeller Center. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they were designed by the same person.

It is very obviously a place where people congregate not only to be seen but to be put on display – one glance around at the abundance of stage lights everywhere is all the evidence I need. I search and finally find an extraordinarily well-hidden ladies room, for which I must have waited what felt like an hour.

Finally, I get to Angel’s Flight, which to my great disappointment is closed (for rejuvenation, I’m sure) and so I descend a daunting number of stairs and, with trembling legs, finally emerge across the street from Grand Central Market.

When I walk in I am immediately cooled by the concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. I am awed by the vast array of herbs and medicines at the drug counter on my right, and put off by the many conflicting odors of fried noodles, dried meat and fish, and slightly rotting fruit.

I have been told to have a snack here, but everything is so repugnant after Philippe’s assault on my taste buds.

As I move through the market place I spot it, way at the other end, facing the sidewalk outside… ICE CREAM!!! Blessed be! I almost run to the counter and order a scoop of mint chocolate chip on a cone, and as I do, I remember watching a few kids enthusiastically licking chocolate soft serve in the plaza at the end of Olvera Street.

As I dig into my pastel green scoop of loveliness I laugh to myself as I recall a story I’d heard on NPR the previous day – a report about how the President’s (GW) advisor on bioethics, a schmuck by the name of Leo Kass, considers the act of licking ice cream in public IMMORAL:

“…a catlike activity that has been made acceptable in informal America… still offends those who know [that] eating in public is offensive… [it] ought to be kept from public view, where, even if we feel no shame, others are compelled to witness our shameful behavior.”

As I thought of this story I extended my tongue all the longer and increased the relish with which I was oh-so-shamefully a’lickin’ away as I sat in a place that so beautifully represents not only the diversity that is America but the freedom, too, and I silently toasted the wonderful city in which I live.