Last week-end being warm I took a spin over to Santa Monica. It has always struck me as quintessentially a beach town. The blue city; blue skies, bue water, blue street signs and big Blue Bus. With an appreciation for the Modern Streamline architecture they have, there isn’t too much more that strikes me as…
One thing that was and still is close to me is french music. I love the high-end street record shops in Paris where live sessions are part of the summertime concert series and even now outside of France, I still enjoy listening to french music.
Whenever people ask me where I live, I say “Las Vegas,” and pause a beat, and add “Not near the strip”. As if defending myself that I am not a gambler, nor a drinker or a smoker. It elicits opposing reactions; a blank stare, a sneer or downright hostility.
Dressed all in black with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her voice is melodic but earthy. By 12:10, emotionally tangled into the music, when everyone gets up to leave the Swede and I stay behind.
Ten minutes later, we make our exit grab a cab arriving at the hostel at 12:35 to closed doors.
My fists hammer at the huge double wooden doors but no answer. The Swede tries a couple of rounds. After 30 minutes it’s useless, they have enforced the curfew and are trying to teach us a lesson.