Advertisement
Published: March 5th 2009
Saturday 8th February to Saturday 15th February, 2009. As is increasingly becoming the norm being the impatient soul that I am I once again found myself stretching my timekeeping skills to the limit. A dislike for waiting around had meant I'd delayed departure to our appointed rendezvous until the last possible moment thus ensuring a foot to the floor white knuckle ride up the 405 Freeway but thankfully as I bounded through the doors of Los Angeles International's Terminal 6 around 8.30pm on Saturday evening she immediately came into sight, directly ahead of me and zipped up to the neck in her fur collared brown suede coat staring vacantly yet inquisitively at the empty baggage carousel, glasses and silver hair twinkling in the bright lights, grannie boots unzipped to the full allowing her tiny swollen feet to breathe all bringing an immediate cheshire cat smile to my face. Margy, my little brave globetrotting mother was here to visit and it was wonderful to see her.
It immediately felt as though it was only yesterday since we were last in each others company although of course it wasn’t, it was over eight months. On the drive back to Long Beach
Mamma Mia.
Cool chick !I was given the heartbreaking news that the Cheshire Cheese and Branston Pickle that I was expecting to be safely packed wrapped up in my mother's smalls, the thought of which had had me dribbling all the way to LAX (the cheese and pickle, not my mother's knickers) was instead still chilling in a fridge in Ellesmere Port, England and within minutes of arriving back at the apartment I was given another gentle reminder of the possibilities of what may be in store for the coming two and a half weeks, a reminder that resulted in me observing a full five minutes of under the breath cursing and increasingly frantic searching through bags, pockets and purses before deciding enough was enough and calling an end to the misery by rooting out my trusty tool kit and carefully smashing the padlock from her suitcase.
There is more than a hint of irony in the fact that my latest visitor, who back home donates a fair chunk of her time to voluntary 'home help visits' for the Alzeihmers Society possesses the memory of what can at best be called a seive but it's an unfortunate fact. My own ever increasing absent
Mamma Mia.
The world's two thriftiest shoppers on Rodeo Drive. mindedness, admittedly more likely brought on by a lifetime of ill advised and dubious 're-fuelling' techniques as opposed to the onset of years causes me untold frustration and Marg is no different and so the following morning, after being informed of the necessity to have identification on her person at all times she took off on a similar ten minute hunt for her passport, a hunt that on this occasion thankfully ended successfully, the elusive document found snuggled in her rucksack pocket with just a tiny key for company !!. For the next two and a half weeks I was half expecting each ringing of my telephone to reveal LAPD on the other end requiring me to confirm the identify of the eccentric English lady who had been found wandering the streets of Belmont Shore looking for her latest 'patient' to visit.
The following morning just before eight o'clock I was awoken from a restricted nights sleep on the couch to the sight of Margy tentatively peering around a half open door checking that the coast was clear before emerging, dishevelled and unkempt from my bedroom in her ankle length nightdress, a modern day wee Willie Winkie minus candle
Mamma Mia.
Stop The Pig !! and nightcap. Eight O’clock on a Sunday morning and not a hope nor a chance of a lie in although it was perhaps just as well. With holidays in the US as rare as the proverbial rocking horse shite and with an extended trip home planned for the summer I’d only managed to take two days off work for the duration of her visit and as a result our free time together was restricted meaning the weekends would have to be utillised to the full. Consequently, by 10am that morning we were surrounded by the Sunday morning surfer crowd as we caught up on events back home strolling up and down Huntington Beach Pier.
With my first day off not scheduled until Thursday Marg would have to start her vacation with three days of self occcupation and so after arming her with a key to the flat, a map of Long Beach and some brief descriptions of 'things to do' I left her to it, 'it' being her revealed plans no doubt inspired by observiation of ample collections of dust and grime around various nooks and crannies of my apartment to spring clean it from top to bottom on
Mamma Mia.
First morning and Marg on a cloudy Huntington Beach Pier. a room a day basis. ! Although I attempted to give off a 'whatever' air of indifference upon receipt of this news my elation was probably thinly disguised as this was music to my ears. More good was going to come out of this visit than a simple reunion of the maternal mother son bond !
One of my suggestions for something to do was to take a stroll up the timbered boardwalk of the nearby peninsular; at less than two miles to the end and back it was not too far to risk exhaustion and with the Pacific Ocean to one side and the splendidly opulent waterfront homes to the other there was plenty to see and admire. I left for the office on Monday morning with the simple directional instructions from the flat of right, left and right again and was overjoyed when I returned home on Wednesday to be informed that she'd finally made it, Monday and Tuesday's attempts to walk the walk somehow resulting in visits to Second Street (left, left) and the Long Beach Municipal Swimming Baths (right,right) respectively !!
The first day I'd taken off was Thursday and as Marg had made
Mamma Mia.
Looking for a bargain. Marg goes shopping for cleaning products. a 'must see' list of things to do during her visit we headed off to start ticking them off, first stop Hollywood. Having compared our foot and hand sizes with those of the Hollywood greats outside Mann's Chinese Theatre we decided to accept the offer of one of the many tout's scrapping for titbits of business and take a half priced trip on one of the numerous open topped mini buses that lined Hollywood Boulevard, horribly touristy I know but a good value practical and stress free means of seeing the area.
The bus took us around the residential neighbourhood just north off Sunset Boulevard, a series of leafy winding lanes, large hedges and even larger wooden gates providing varying degrees of security and privacy to the homes of the stars before ending at nearby shoppers paradise Rodeo Drive, two of the planet's thriftiest bargain hunters wandering like lost souls amongst it's most outrageously priced stores. As we passed each huge mansion, some beautiful, some garishly ugly the driver would inform us of it's owner and it's history irrespective of if we could actually see the property to which he was referring. The Beckham's gaff appeared from our viewpoint
Mamma Mia.
The lighthouse at Palos Verdes. to effectively be a roof perched on a hill behind a large hedgerow, De Niro's a lovely English style cottage with open lawns with no sign of either gates nor walls and Wacko Jacko's front gates, for some reason, still adorned with two huge Christmas reef decorations.
The day ended with us braving the rush hour traffic and heading out to Venice Beach to explore the four remaining canals which conservationist's have thankfully saved from being filled in like the rest and which no doubt went someway to giving the place its name. This was a first for me as well as Marg but before exploring the canals we walked along the famous Venice boardwalk which had an altogether different vibe from my only other visit. That was on a hot sunny Sunday afternoon not long after my arrival in the States when it was packed with day trippers and street entertainers but today was much quieter and seedier not to mention colder. As the sun went down the weather turned decidely chill so we called in to one of the myriad of tacky gift stores that lined the boardwalk selling identikit kiss me quick touristy style crap and
Mamma Mia.
Manns Chinese Theatre. after a bit of bartering purchased Marg her very own Venice Beach hoodie sensibly stopping just short of buying her an accompanying skateboard.
The canals were scenic, duck infested and lined with an assortment of wonderful, individually designed houses which have succeeded in turning this part of Venice, now home to a lot of wealthy bohemian arty types into one of LA's more sought after residential areas. It was a joy as the sun dipped behind the houses to watch the ducks splashing and playing until mother informed son of a fact about the birds and the bees, or birds at least that she'd neglected to mention thirty odd years earlier.
She revealed , to my total surprise that the ducks weren't frollicking playfully in the evening sun or indeed anything of the sort but actually copulating 'gang bang' style like rabid dogs and closer inspection revealed she was right. Whether or not it was mating season I'm unsure but all around little brown ducks were chased down by packs of randy green headed rapists, plunged underwater and pounced upon like packs of rampaging vikings smashing through villages raping and pillaging as they went. It was almost disturbing
Mamma Mia.
Bob De Niro's gaff. to see the brutallity of mother nature at work as my own mother, tutting and muttering about the unfairness of it all as she went searched the canal banks for something to throw at the brutes and only stopped when I pointed out slightly unconvincingly that the ladies might actually be enjoying themselves.
Friday night saw us accept an invitation from the neighbours, Jeff, Deb, Ang and Mark, the same foursome who'd hosted our Thanksgiving 'dinners' when big Jerry was over, for an evening of good food and good wine. The evening was particularily memorable for an outburst from Marg that surprised me, probably herself and most definitely our hosts and which resulted in a split second of stunned silence before shocked laughter filled the room.
Mark, as I've mentioned before in these pages is a friendly, larger than life character with a thick crop of peroxided hair and a desire and a tendency to make himself heard. He could never be called shy and tonight, aided by an equal mix of scotch and wine was particularily boisterous. Marg, fuelled by her 'one a day' tea time brandy before we went round and a glass or two of
Mamma Mia.
And Wacko Jacko's wacky Xmas gates. wine over dinner was just starting to tell a tale in response to a question from one of the others when Mark, for the umpteenth time in the evening started to interrupt. Mother had obviously had enough and stopped in her tracks before turning to Mark and sharply and sternly speaking two words, "Shut up", before returning to her story. The following morning she was riddled guilt at her actions and spent the whole of the next week questioning me as to when we could invite them all back for dinner.
Our first weekend together was road trip time and we set off on Saturday to re-track my trip of last year north up the Pacific Coast Highway towards Santa Barbara. Having made good time as we were about to enter Malibu we decided to pull into the Getty Villa, former home of oil billionaire John Paul now converted, unbeknownst to us both at the time into an educational center and museum dedicated to the study of the arts and cultures of ancient Greece, Rome and Etruria. We were stopped at the gates and told we needed to have made a timed appointment on the internet to gain entry
Mamma Mia.
Well she did marry Roger Moore fifty odd years ago. but a little bit of pleading ignorance and a large show of extreme disappointment in such situations usually works and this place was no different.
The Getty was a big let down to us both, no entry permitted to the actual house of JPG which now simply houses the admin offices, just a mock Roman/Greek style pillared building housing an array of broken statues and gardens containing a couple of water features. Within the museum was a room designed to entertain kids as their parents examined the culture and Marg and I, excited at the prospect of the weekend ahead somehow found ourselves inside.
Having decorated some fake pottery vases with a thick removeable marker pen we turned our attentions to a large screen on the other side of the room, brightly illuminated from behind and decorated with a line drawing of a sword wielding Gladiator. A couple of young children dressed in foam helmets and brandishing swords were stood behind the screen, their images enlarged and transferred to the screen giving the impression they were in duel with the soldier and closer inspection behind the screen revealed an array of helmets, swords and shields hanging on the
Mamma Mia.
Decorating Marisa's jeans. wall. I encouraged Marg to don some attire and strike a pose which she did and as I was snapping her image I had an idea.
As she emerged from behind the screen I asked her to take a photograph of me and ignoring the little Asian girl and her mother who was probably disgusted at what she was was seeing and with shoulders rocking with mirth I placed the sword between my legs pointing skywards at an angle of forty five degrees and waited. And waited.
Handing a camera to a seventy odd year old woman without any instruction whatsoever as to how to use it will obviously result in a slight delay and a full twenty seconds later I was still stood with the sword between my legs urging her to hurry up. Tears were beginning to roll down my cheeks and I could clearly hear a man giggling from the other side of the screen who had obviously identified the scene from Ancient Mythology I was trying to re-create even if I hadn't when I heard my mother let out an "ooh Matthew" followed by a chuckle of amusement and, thankfully, the clicking of a
Mamma Mia.
Marg outside Morgan Freeman's place on Rodeo Drive. lens. As I walked still laughing around the screen I was horrified to see the room had filled to an audience of about twenty horrified parents and bemused children.
Having stopped for some lunch in the delightful town of Ojai we eventually arrived in Santa Barbara and quickly realised, just like my previous visit that the place was full. No room at any of the towns many inns so we elected to push on to Solvang, the twee model village settlement founded by the Danes only to find this was no different. It was Valentine's weekend after all and becoming quite apparent that every man and his dog had decided to descend on wine country for the weekend.
The road trip was now beginning to bear more than a passing resemblence to our journey around New Zealand; bouts of childish behaviour by two mature adults who should know better, sing-a-long's in the car as we went, wrong turns resulting in us having not the foggiest idea where we were and fruitless searches as darkness fell for somewhere to rest our heads. Thankfully we found a Bates style motel three miles through Solvang with a vacancy, dined on a
Mamma Mia.
Resisting the urge to splash out. butty from the local shop and settled down for a Scrabble and of course a bottle of red. It was wine country after all !
Advertisement
Tot: 0.464s; Tpl: 0.016s; cc: 22; qc: 103; dbt: 0.2546s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.4mb
waymo
non-member comment
I'll bet that place is back to a cesspit in next to no time!