Laying face down on the massage table, a traditional Chinese masseuse works the stress knots out of my back, Outside I can hear the clanging, chanting Hare Krishnas six feet away. As the tourists pass by this tiny, tented stretch of the Venice Boardwalk, a dozen languages are audible, barely covering the rush of skateboard wheels, barking dogs challenging each other and the Island walker-on-glass trying to scare up a crowd, offering that this was his last performance of the day all in that lilting voice that suggested tropical breezes somewhere.
I sit up and the gentle masseuse helps groggy me into my shoes and jacket, we bow to each other when I pay him and he promises to be there on Wednesday when I return with a brand new bunch of knots. I wrap up pulling my scarf close. There are no warm breezes today in Venice. It is a blustery March afternoon. The sand is whipping against the bare skin of those silly enough to think this stretch of beach by the Pacific is 'pacified' at all. People start stepping up their pace as the sun falls suddenly into the ocean, streaking the sky pink. I sit at the ocean's edge and watch for a while and Elijah stops on his fixe bike to show me one of the tricks in his growing arsenal. The ocean, the sun, the sky, the sounds --this sensory bombardment is one of the joys of living in Los Angeles. I came from a place in time where everyone mostly looked and sounded alike and when I got lost in books as a child, I decided when I grew up I wanted adventure and strangeness, a wide cultural and racial mix, different accents, different impressions and different worlds. The 10 mile drive home is an easy run and it's good to know that all this waits just a click or two away when I need to get my head clear. I love this city and all it has to offer Ruth Adkins Robinson
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