It wasn’t the heat, or the palm trees, or the traffic, or even the little old Mexican women selling shish-ka-bobs from carts on the sidewalk, waving brown paper lunch bags over the meat to keep the flies away, but the tile in the bathroom, that let me know how far from home I really was.
Now this, I thought to myself, this is a real California bathroom. I ran my hands over the cool pink ceramic on the walls and listened to the honking and old brake pads whining in the heat outside my window. It was difficult to grasp that I was really in Los Angeles. I leaned over the counter and peered at myself in the mirror, trying to remember why I had come to this place. I couldn’t for the life of me pin a name to the man looking back at me.
————————————————————————————
I like this, but I don’t know what to do with it. I didn’t plan well and I’m hoping something comes to me eventually. I don’t like to write about this part of my life, since it was something I planned to leave behind. I didn’t do anything at all in Los Angeles, I stuck to a mundane routine, barely saw any of the sights, stayed indoors and went home after a few weeks, so there really isn’t much at all to write about.
I liked these two paragraphs, and I’m hoping that I can use them as a backdrop for something better. So for now this little project is finished, but they’ll be here for safe keeping.
