I just returned back to my motel room on Vine in Hollywood. There may or may not have been a murder in this room once but there most certainly has been illegal sex and drugs, perhaps within the last week. The secret part is that I love that. It’s clean…enough. Safe…enough. Just the type of place that brings us artist types back to the edge of real.
I only drove into town for a day and some change for some business. After a quick 20 minute snooze to rest off the road trip, I hit the streets with my rose color glasses. I know that if I were to stay more than a day, the desolation and filthiness of the street would be more prevalent, but today it is romantic. Every little collection of individuals is a street-play being acted just for me. People with mustaches and tattoos, short skirts and long cigarettes, some with stuff and many without, but they all seem oddly happy.
I walked without a destination the six blocks to Hollywood Blvd and then followed the sidewalk stars the 20+ blocks to the Chinese Theatre; all the while my private performance continued. I wove the many blocks back through side streets and connectors, past Sunset, then to Santa Monica. This is when my stomach reminded me that my dream like walk had created an awakening in my depths. Must eat food.
All of a sudden, where there was once a plethora of eateries, there were none. I was not about to top my adventure off with El Pollo Loco or Winchell’s. Down Santa Monica back to Vine and that’s when I saw it. A real food truck. Not the Portland spin-off of fancy food in a pristine truck or the San Francisco spin-off of Asian Fusion from a repurposed ice cream truck—a real cafeteria food truck slinging authentic Mexican food. Pop up tents out front with Christmas tree lights around, a multitude of folding tables and chairs with a separate folding table with Costco packages of napkins and buckets (literally buckets) of Mexican food accoutrements. Pickled carrots and radishes, six types of homemade hot sauces ranging from “spicy” to “remove your finger prints,” plastic forks and knives, finely sliced onions and cilantro and diced onions and jalapeños.
I ordered the Carne Asada Burrito. There were no questions like pinto or black? White or brown rice? Cheese or sour cream? This was the real deal. Spanish rice and steak. Something about the food truck requires that you drink a bright colored sugary beverage out of a bottle with your meal, so I pulled the Orange Fanta from the shaved ice in front, paid the $7 and began to gather my tiny plastic ramekins to accompany my meal then sat down at a chair with questionable integrity.
All around me was a sub section of everything I had just witnessed on my Hollywood adventure, ordering or waiting for their paper plates of authenticity. Men in fedoras; a table of Muslim gentlemen in suits; two dainty twenty-something girls looking at their iPhones; the spitting image of the lead singer of the Spin Doctors, and quite a few Mexicans (which is always a good sign).
Then it came, wrapped in foil and ready to devour. I alternated between liberally dousing each bite with the habanero and diced onion/jalapeño blend, or the lesser but still spicy red salsa and pickled onions/cilantro blend. One napkin was for my hands and the other for my runny nose. Many napkins were used. Pauses were only taken to wipe or swig orange soda to temporarily halt the fire in my mouth.
At a time in life where I am delightfully busy carving out a career and raising a family, this small stitch of time for just me was brilliant, but the meal at the end was cathartic.
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