From: Della Koehn

Subject: LA tour

Date: Thursday, November 22, 2018

Dear Dena and Vila, 

The long awaited day is here and I am writing from the blue couch preparatory to meeting the Koehns for Thanksgiving Day lunch. From there we head to the airport. We’ve finished up the tasks that must be done before an eight day trip. I made plans for someone to feed Clarence and Herbert and emptied the refrigerator. Kent took out the trash and put new caulk around the bathtub. He’s been researching for weeks, planning this tour, checking options— every coffee shop, restaurant, scenic drive, Airbnb, and POI. 

Ever since Kent returned to Ohio in November 2016 from six months of volunteer work, he has been dreaming about taking me to LA to show me his favorite places. Two years is a long time and a lot can change, but we hope to see a list of acquaintances and visit as many sights as we can in six days. 

We plan to fly from Cleveland Hopkins at 8:02 in the evening and arrive at LAX at 10:30. From there we take a Lyft to our Airbnb on Chesapeake Ave in Crenshaw. Since we’re flying from east to west it will be far past our bedtime when we arrive, and I’ll be grateful for a hot shower and cozy bed. 

It’s time now for our rendezvous with the turkey and cranberries.

Your friend, 

Della

From Della Koehn

Subject: our first night in LA

Date: Friday, November 23, 2018

Dear Dena and Vila,

Well, here we are in sunny LA! I’m sitting cross legged on the red bedspread eating dates and bananas we brought from Ohio for this morning’s breakfast. We had a good flight and arrived at the Airbnb at 2:00 Eastern time. Our hostess, Elba, and her guests were finishing a meal of what smelled like some extremely appetizing tamales. 

Elba didn’t speak much English but she was full of smiles as she showed us to our room and pointed out the bathroom. We usually take rooms with shared bathrooms as they tend to be a lower price. Kent isn’t going to shorten the trip by spending extra on lodging and I agree with him. We do like our own room though; I haven’t always slept well in communal spaces. 

Although we ran the bathtub faucet for a good five minutes last night it never got warm (sure, this is SoCal but it’s late November) so we went straight off to sleep and got a good eight hours. First thing in the morning Kent checked the water again. Still cold, very cold in the unheated house. We made do with more of a sponge bath than shower. 

When I opened the shades I discovered the bunnies in our room— dust bunnies, that is. Very dusty hair balls floating on the dark hard wood floor. Maybe Elba doesn’t have a vacuum cleaner, or maybe she thinks that since it’s the company room it stays clean, or maybe she doesn’t see very well. Oh well. With low cost Airbnb rooms it’s win some, lose some, and this one was $57 total. 

Kent is finishing up the packing and we’re headed out soon in a Lyft to pick up our Turo for the duration— an older blue convertible Mini Cooper he snagged for $23 per day. Yay!

Your friend,

Della

From: Della Koehn

Subject: our first day in LA

Date: Friday, November 23, 2018, evening

Dear Dena and Vila,

Here we are back at Elba’s for one more night. Kent booked it ahead of time for two nights because of its convenient location. So, hello again, dust bunny friends! The only drawback here being a lack of warm water, we decided to take advantage of the messaging capability of the Airbnb app. 

Kent: The hot water doesn’t seem to work in the bathroom. Or maybe that’s normal here, just wondering.

Elba: Sorry, yes we have hot water. 

We cheered. At least we’ll have a warm shower tonight, we said to each other. 

After meeting up with the rental car (we sat on the curb while he finished washing it, then he handed me the key to his car, said alright, and disappeared into the house) we made our way to Republique for a breakfast of crudités and ricotta berry toast served on a board. 

Our POI for today was downtown. We drove and drove with Kent exclaiming and peering and saying “Oh man.” We parked in a gritty grungy area and headed down the street. All the businesses had roll down doors to cover their storefronts, and the ones open had windows plastered in cheap paper bulletins and advertisement. Trash clogged the gutter. Kent pulled on my hand and we ducked under a partially open roll-up door into a cool, dimly lit, floor to ceiling moss room. Everything was concrete, glass and moss. We seated ourselves at the bar. It was time for the Gorgi Porgi experience.

Black or white, the barista said.

White, said Kent.

Hot or iced, said the barista.

Hot, said Kent.

Large or small, said the barista.

Small, said Kent.

Two minutes later she set before us a macchiato in a tiny ceramic cone cradled within a ceramic cube. A matcha Pocky stick lay across the micro foam. 

Grand Central Market was next on the agenda with stops at G & B Coffee, PBJLA, and a Filipino restaurant for lunch. We picked up baby bananas, ripe honey mangoes, and figs for our first breakfast tomorrow. 

The Last Bookstore is the largest independently owned bookstore in California. It seems more like an art gallery. We dropped by Verve for old times’ sake, and Bottega Louie for a macaron apiece. Everywhere we go Kent says “Oh man.” He sidles up to the countertops and runs a happy hand over the stone. 

We walked through Santee Alley in The Fashion District, and saw the store where Kent bought his wedding suit. We walked several miles in all, there and at The Row, stopping at ceramics shops and mercantiles where we admired artisan goods. It got dark while we sat at PCPDTLA (Paramount Coffee Project Downtown Los Angeles). We found a ten story parking garage and took the elevator up to the roof to admire the night skyline. 

Kent had a ramen restaurant in mind so we caught a bus for Little Tokyo. Whoops, we got off one stop early and walked through people’s living rooms on the edge of Skid Row, dimly lit by far away street lamps. They sat on buckets and boxes, they sat on blankets on the sidewalk, and we stepped carefully through. I hated to intrude but it was the sidewalk. 

“Hey,” they said. “How y’all doing?” And, “Nice evening.” 

“Lovely,” we said.

“Ya’ll lost?” They said.

“No,” we said. “Just got off at the wrong stop.” 

They would have made splendid friends if we lived nearer. 

The ramen was topnotch and here we are, ready for bed after another cold water foray. We returned to Elba’s, anticipating a warm shower as part of the routine for a good night’s sleep. Our hopes and cold water disappeared brusquely down the drain. 

What babies we are. 

I don’t know yet what the plan is for tomorrow. I’ll probably write and tell you all about it tomorrow evening from a bed in a house not too far from here.

Your friend,

Della

From: Della Koehn

Subject: Westside 

Date: Saturday, November 24, 2018

Dear Dena and Vila,

On the flight here I told Kent we should write down what we do each day so we don’t forget. I have trouble remembering which experiences belong to which trip and city. Like our Portland trip, I said, and our honeymoon trip to DC/Baltimore. You can’t remember all those, I said. So he started at the beginning and named each place we went, and what it looked like, and what we ate or drank and talked about. So no— there’s no reason for him to write it down. This is just for you and me. 

This morning when we left Elba’s we headed to Highly Likely (see Yelp for photos of all businesses listed in my letters) for the first cappuccino. I’ve developed a trip routine. I always have a large water first thing in the morning, and some kind of fruit before we leave for the day. And wow is the fruit around here fantastic! I’ve never tasted anything like it. I understand how so many people in this area can thrive on a plant based or even fruitarian diet. Then we head out for a shared espresso to start the day off right. If the restaurant where we’re having breakfast also specializes in good coffee we skip the espresso in lieu of a fragrant pour over. 

Destroyer is a minimalist restaurant in Culver City owned by Jordan Kahn, serving inventive Scandinavian-style breakfast and lunch fare. I selected raw oatmeal with red currants and skyr, and Kent chose baby Yukon Gold potatoes with braised bacon, smoked dates, and icicle radish. We left Destroyer feeling good, highly satisfied with our experience. 

At the farmers market at Virginia Avenue Park in Santa Monica we purchased juicy medjool dates, fresh perfect figs, and the new love of my life, persimmons. California knows how to do farmers market, and November must be the best month for fruit. We came away with a dozen soft fuyu persimmons, which, even though I attempted to ration them, were gone in two days. 

After dropping our fruit loot at the car, we did what tourists do at the Santa Monica pier and the promenade: we got Bird scooters and went all over seeing what there was to see. Not knowing any better, we chose the option of locking the Birds instead of ending the ride while we went out on the pier. We wanted to pick them up when we got back, and were chagrined to find it was a fourteen dollar mistake for each of us. 

Our trip down the pier coincided with a loudspeaker on a handcart from which blasted a fiery sermon. The zealot moved steadily, surely, and ever so slowly down the 1,600 foot pier and back. Everyone within a quarter mile who wasn’t completely deaf heard about Hell today. We also passed a couple dozen performers— dancers, singers, musicians, magicians, painters, and impersonators. At the end of the pier we sat awhile on a bench and looked out at the ocean and gulls. A couple old men leaned on the rail and fished as though they had nothing else to do. 

We found our car, drove (always with the top down) to Abbot Kinney Boulevard in

Venice, where we parked and walked and peered in windows and meandered through shops gazing at goods. They have the goods there. We got some clean-ingredient donuts from Blue Star which did not give me a bellyache. We had lunch at The Butcher’s Daughter. 

Four Sigmatic is a mushroom superfood company founded in 2012 by a group of Finnish friends. I had been wanting to try their products for awhile to see if it would help my fatigue and improve my wellbeing. We entered the little white house and followed the hall to the Shroom Room. With the purchase of a combination box we got a free cup of shroom tea to go. 

Then to the canals! On fresh Birds we zipped along the streets, steeply up over the bridges and down the other side. The area was developed by Abbot Kinney in 1905, and he endeavored to recreate the look and feel of Venice in Italy. Surely you’ve been there, Vila, but Dena and I might have to make do with California. All villas and bungalows and organized flaming chaos in the flora department.

Still on our Birds, we headed toward the waterfront, Kent in the lead far enough ahead that I wouldn’t tailgate him at fifteen miles per hour as I peered at my surroundings. I love those things. Quiet, easy and safe to use, thrilling and legal. I caught up with him at Menotti’s Coffee Stop, where we ended the ride. 

I entered the open doorway into dim coolness and stood next to Kent at the counter. “How’s it going?” Said the barista. He wore a mustache and skirt apron with a forest green button-down. “What can I get started for you?” He said.

Kent folded his arms and leaned one hip against the counter. “Uh, can I see your secret menu?” He said.

The barista stopped what he was doing and stared at him. Then he glanced around the room and pointed to a portrait hanging on the wall. Kent reached out and took it down. He flipped it over. “I’d like to try the activated charcoal latte,” he said. He hung the portrait carefully back on the wall. 

I had to wee. “Where is the restroom?” I asked.

“Actually we share a restroom with the bar next door,” said the barista. “Just tell the bouncer Fred sent you.”

I had to wee. I went out and down and was stopped at the door by a large man. “I’m looking for a restroom,” I said. “Fred next door—“

“ID?” He said.

I unzipped my crossbody and held up my license for inspection. “In the back and to your left,” he said. 

I made it ten feet into the room and then it was so dark I had to slow down and let my eyes adjust. It smelled of Lysol. The place was nearly empty. I found the door and found the handle and found the toilet. Man, it was dark. Everything was freshly tidied though, ready for a busy evening of pukers and brawlers, I thought. I tucked a yellow tract from my crossbody behind the toilet paper dispenser. The Best Story to Know. I left, walking faster and faster toward the light and burst out into the sunshine.

We continued down the boardwalk to the skatepark on Venice Beach. The sun was getting lower and silhouetted the palm trees. We stepped into the deep sand and I slipped off my shiny shell-pink sandals. The skateboarders, razor scooter riders, bikers, and rollerbladers were diverting. We watched for thirty or forty minutes along with a hundred other strolling families. 

We reconnected with our blue Mini and drove through Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive in the gloaming. It was sixty-eight degrees. I never realized how much more you can see and enjoy riding in a convertible. 

Then it was truly dark and we passed a glass fronted coffee shop that was all blonde wood and white inside, save for plants. It glowed with sweetness and light. “There’s Coffee for Sasquatch,” Kent said. We scooted in and sure enough, there was Sasquatch on the wall (see Yelp). 

We drove. We passed through neighborhoods and then we were in Koreatown. We parked in an unassuming strip mall and entered Myung In Dumplings. There were eight tables. Three were occupied. Someone helpfully waved us toward the tables and we sat. Someone handed us menus with pictures and brought us four kinds of kimchi. We had the best steam buns and dumplings at Myung In. We still cannot believe how good it was. 

Now we are at Kent’s friend Bill’s house. He has three extra bedrooms. I saw him in church at Homeworth once when he came to visit Kent. He is from Nairobi but lives in Los Angeles. Covina, this town is called. Tomorrow we will go to church together. 

I must sleep now.

Your friend,

Della