To the shiny bars, darkly lit clubs, and noisy restaurants of the extending neighborhoods, by which I mean primarily, at first, to the Lodestar Bar in East Hollywood, the Epoch Club in Echo Park, and the silver restaurants in Santa Monica for brunch and late dinners. Then out on the city streets to visit friends who lived on 25th near Douglas Park or Pico Boulevard near Santa Monica College. I’d drive up the coast to the sandy stretch of Zuma Beach, to the curved seclusion of Paradise Cove in Malibu, or to Santa Barbara via the northern lanes for enchiladas on State Street and to Encinitas via the southern for walks at the Yogananda hermitage. I’d stream through the ravines of Malibu Canyon or down upon the more deeply curving and shadowy two-lane highway through Topanga Canyon. Sometimes, I’d travel over to Griffith Park for a hike up the dusty trail to the top of Mount Hollywood. Later, I’d step out of my truck and onto the white sidewalks and then under the banners at LACMA and into the museum itself for glimpses of a sculpture portraying Parvati, a portrait by Hockney, or an enigmatic canvas of Jasper Johns, then taste the hot brewed coffee at C+M, the LACMA café. I’d drive my red truck under the green traffic lights to the corner of Wilshire and Westwood Boulevards where stood the Hammer Museum, solidly built, seemingly built out of thick lines – cake layers, really – of black and white stone, for a weekend cultural event. Departing from another parking lot, I’d take the tram uphill to the terraced garden at the Getty Museum, to the multiplex of its galleries, and then walk across the stoned patios that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. I’d breeze across town to Third Street for breakfast at Joan’s on Third or to Soquel for sushi in the evening, looking out at the people on the street through the big windows inside...
