Here’s the problem with weekends: they’re too damn
short. I don’t mean that simply as a
tongue in cheek “we work to much” statement, although we do so someone oughta
to do something about that. I mean it as a reality, we have only 2 days
available to sort out all of our actual lives before getting back to the work
world which has replaced our actual lives.
What tends to happen then, at least with young families, is a horrifying
pattern of the same things in slightly different places. Breakfast, soccer, make up gymnastics, lunch,
birthday party, dinner, bedtime.
Sometimes there’s a movie rental in there, maybe a round of golf or a
Sunday brunch, but for the most part it’s pretty consistent. That’s why I really relish opportunities to
shake it up drastically.
On Sunday, Gina and I woke up with a plan: today was going
to be an adventure day. We rounded up
the kids, threw on some clothes and bagged some cereal for the road. We got to the train station just before 9
with plenty of time to catch the 9:13 to Downtown LA. We thought, let’s get the kids out of their
suburban bubble and show them things they’ve never seen before. It was just after the last of the car doors
closed and we all stood their looking at the homeless man yelling at himself on
platform 2 that we really thought: um, was this a wise choice? Next we fumbled through the ticketing machine
and the security guard who came to help us clearly had the same concerns. “You
all be safe today,” he called as we walked away, clearly concerned for the
worst.
As crossed the bridge towards our platform, the kids skipped
eagerly along and Gina and I glared at each other intently. What were we doing? Four little girls, taking them to
downtown?! But here’s what we were
doing: creating a memory. I recall
walking Olvera Street with my parents. I
remember traversing through Chinatown, exploring Little Tokyo. I remember these things because my parents
exposed me to them. I learned things
that can’t be taught. I experienced a
broader sense of the world around me, and I desperately wanted to give that to
my kids as well.
The train ride (their first) was everything you hoped. We explored the upper levels, played Eye Spy
with the passing world, we tested the limits of the silent commuters around us,
and when we emerged at Union Station it was like we’d entered a foreign
world. Literally it was a completely
foreign environment for the girls; people dressed differently, talked
differently. … acted “differently”.
We made our way to Chinatown first, only a few blocks to the
northwest of the station. It was during
this passage through the homeless encampments and past unidentifiable odors
that it dawned on me – my memories of this place were bright and cheery, but
only because my parents absorbed the fears and concerns that it brings
internally. So I didn’t allow my trepidation to manifest
externally, I didn’t want to jade this experience for them. And I’m so glad I didn’t, but damn did I hold
tightly onto their little hands the whole time.
We walked the shops, explored some live food markets with bizarre fish
and angry chickens. We even bought a
couple of baby turtles to come home and live in our pond.
We then made it Olvera Street where the girls explored the
outdoor shops, delighted in the live dancing in the historic courtyards and
enjoyed a wonderful meal in a crowded cantina with mariachi playing all around
us. They bought some little fans and
trinkets to remember, then we headed back to the station for our 3:15
home. As we waited outdoors near a public
fountain, it was then that Rosaline realized she had misplaced her fan.
“That man over there has a fan,” Arianna announced nonchalant.
Gina and I turned to see a homeless man, with one leg of his
pants missing and a flip-flop sandal secured to his head with a rubber
band. He held Rosaline’s pink flamenco fan,
open and fluttering, covering his face just below the eyes.
Of course. … this is Rosaline, this is where her fan would
end up.
Gina walked her over to the man, had her ask for her fan
with pleases and thank you’s and he graciously abided. And it was in that moment that another lesson
was taught. The unfortunate people can
be scary. They’re unpredictable,
troubled and desperate. But their human;
they deserve respect. And even if a man
has flip-flop on his head, you ask with a please and afford him a thank you.
And just like that, we were back on a train, headed
home. We were up 3 fans, 2 turtles and
countless memories from our Sunday adventure.
