Monday, October 11, 2010

Palos Verdes Estates, Ca, and San Pedro

Monday morning. Off to San Pedro. Another adventure, this time getting a mechanic I don't know to replace a part that I 'think' is broken. I have to get to a place that I have never been, in L.A. Monday morning traffic, in a car with one seat and the transmission and drive shaft open and exposed. Etcetera. Why do I choose to do these things to myself?

So, I follow Bob's directions and arrive just before 8:00am. I talk to a mechanic (not the one I wanted) he says he'll try to fit it in, maybe today, maybe tomorrow morning. I whine, cry, plead, beg, and so on. He says he'll try, and that I should go away and not bug him anymore. I guess you can have an attitude if you are the only British service shop for miles around. So I leave the car, the key, the part, sign a piece of paper that says he can do anything he wants and charge me whatever he'd like to do it, take my backpack and computer, and scram.

Now I'm on the street. Waiting. For how long? Don't know. So I start walking up Pacific Avenue and a few observations begin to register. First, I'm the only caucasian (ie 'white guy) that I've seen since leaving Bob's, everyone around here is Mexican or Black. Second, there is hardly any traffic on the road. Third, there are a lot of vacant businesses and they all have BIG locks on the doors, bars on the windows, high fences around the properties, etc. Not yet Watts in the '70s, but you get the idea. I keep walking, backpack over my shoulder, drawing stares from the locals. I see a coffee shop, a 'cantina', and cross the street. I go in. About fifteen tables, one empty, about 20 or 30 people in the place, all staring at me. I get a coffee, to go, look around casually (try, at least), most of the men and some of the women are wearing sunglasses, indoors on a cloudy morning. Staring at me. I leave.

I walk down the street a bit further and notice a man and a woman walking a very small dog down the other side. He's six feet, over 200 pounds, she's five feet, about 300, bulges everywhere, he's walking this little dog, and they're fighting. Shouting in Mexican, waving their arms. She suddenly walks away from him and the dog, crosses the street toward me. She's quiet now, he's still shouting. Stoney faced in her anger, jaw set, striding with a purpose, she is now on a collision course with me. I stop, move over, she walks on like I wasn't there, past me, and turns a corner. He's still yelling things I don't understand, but the tone and volume and hand gestures indicate his anger. He turns a corner the other direction, I keep walking, bemused by what I have just seen, then turn back to walk to the garage again. Maybe I'll take the car and go, live with four gears. I get there, the car's out of the yard and into the shop, on a hoist. Well, leaving is no longer an option. I phone Jan, honey I'm going to be here for a while, call you later.

I try the other direction on the street, no place to sit and work on the commputer for a bit. No hospitable restaurants, McDonalds, Burger King, nothing but car and motorcycle shops. I find a place next to a car wash, sort of a pedestrian version of a drive in, dirty and old, but it will serve for the moment and there are no patrons there just a cook. I still have my coffee so I order a veggie omelette, $4.50, and sit down at a bench to start typing these notes. The food appears in the gap in the window, I go to pay. Five dollars says the large, meaty, mexican cook with the dirty apron and stubble on his face. Wow, that's inflation compared to the menu price, but who cares. I pay, take my plate, sit down, thanks. The food is very hot, fresh, and exceptionally good, a heavy layer of spicy cheese covering the open omlette, a huge mound of hashed brown potatoes, brown toast. I type, eat, and leave only when my battery runs out of power. During the hour I sit there only one other person walks by on the street. A slow day for the cook.

Back to the shop, car's still on the hoist, nobody working on it. I want to ask how its going. Huge cavernous shop, about eight mechanics working, about five Healeys, as many Jaguars, two other TR6s, an MGTC, and a dozen other scattered project cars, all British. Definitey the place to come to fix our car. Nobody will acknowlege me, nobody at the desk, I stand. Eventually, I approach a mechanic and he shrugs his shoulders in the universal language of 'dont know, dont care', I remember the 'dont bug us' warning, and leave. It's taking up hoist space so I can't move it anyway and sooner or later they will get to it. I walk in my original direction, further this time.

I stop at a hardware store, all bars and locks from the outside, painted yellow with a yellow and black sign saying, simply, 'Hardware'. No 'Home Depot' around here. I enter a very large, very high room, poorly lit, one guy behing the counter talking on a phone. I look for the four bolts and fittings that I would like for the seats of the TR. Find them, pay at the counter, leave, one other old guy rolling around the back in a wheelchair. A sad deserted place. I walk on, autobody shops, transmission repair. Past an abandoned office of a community newspaper. The stuff still hanging in the window indicate it was an English language newspaper, and there can't be much call for that here anymore.

On, a couple more blocks, and I come apon a new building, an office of the Chase Bank. It is quite large, about a quarter of the block long, five ATM units out front, white stucco, set back from the sidewalk with about ten steps up to the wide front doors. Concrete planters our front, with shrubs, lovely. And a banner saying 'Free $100 for opening a new checking account'. This gets my attention, but moreso is the girl at the table at the top of the stairs, Hi she says, would you like to open an account?? To myself I think 'No, but I wouldn't mind stopping for a minute'. So I say, 'No, I'm not from around here.' No matter, says she. 'No', I say, 'I'm Canadian, from Vancouver, I'm not eligible.' That's OK she says, have a coffee and a cookie. Part of a promotion today, its Columbus Day and our competition is closed, we're open and want some new business. Ok I said, but tell me where there is a McDonalds or Burger King or such around. She says, 'About a mile up the street'. How about a hotel, or restaurant I say. 'About a mile', she said again, 'are you looking for breakfast?' No, actually I am looking for a washroom. Oh, she says, no problem, we have one you can use. Really?? Doesn't sound very bank-like to me, I think. I follow her in, she goes behind the counter, comes back with a key, takes me to a washroom, and smiles. I go about my business and leave, thinking that if I lived here I would definitely open an account, this place is nice.

I'm done, I head for the exit and there she is again. Have a cookie and another coffee, she says. Right, don't mind if I do. We chat about Russia, she is from Moscow and Jan/I have been to St. Petersburg, and we talk of Russia and Vodka and how safe it is on the streets at night (or not). She says 'you are not Russian and we could see it in your eyes, and take advantage of you. That's why you can't wander without a guide or a Visa'. She's got that right. A woman comes up, claims her coffee and donut. She asks if we know that it is Columbus Day today. Me and the Russian shake our heads. The new arrival laughs and says that it is no big deal to her either, as she is a native Indian and Columbus was the start of all her problems. The Russian has that vacant stare in her eyes, but I get the joke or at least the irony. Some holiday for the Indians, like Jews celebrating Hitler's birthday. The new woman backs away, munching and drinking, the Russian and I chat some more, then this fellow arrives. 'Can I have a cookie?' he says. Sure, the Russian says, and turns to talk to me again. The penny drops for me at that moment, and I realize that she and I are the only sane people on the street and that's why she pays so much attention to me. It's like a mid-morning break time at the asylum, and the inmates are out on the loose for a bit of air. Sure enough, new guy starts talking a mile a minute, while eating the cookie and drinking coffee. He tells his life story in a high squeaky voice, cookie crumbs dribbling down his shirt front the whole time. The Russian forces her face back in my direction, her eyes locking anywhere but on this fellow trying to engage her in conversation all the while biting at one cookie after another, while talking, as the masses of crumbs fall down and scatter upon his ample belly. The Indian woman stands nearby, smiling, talking to herself, while another woman with a shopping buggy babbles away at the bottom of the steps trying to get the crazy guy with the squeaky voice to give her some cookies. I sense the madness of this bedlam, and comment to the Russian that I'd best be on my way as I can see that she is about to get very busy with new customers. She smiles, says that I should come back for another coffee. I get to the street and walk back toward the car.

Back at the shop, the car hasn't moved. Nobody around it either. I stand a while and everyone ignores me while they speak Spanish to each other. I go sit out front on the brick wall by the front door, and write in my notepad. Suddenly a woman appears in front of me and sits down. Got any spare change? she asks. No, sorry, I say as I look at her for a fleeting moment. About five-and-a-half feet tall, and a flabby 250 pounds, give or take. She says a sentence or two in Spanish, then looks at me, looks away, and says 'Give me 500 dollars or I get my home boys to fuck you up good!!!'

Now she has my attention, people here actually say 'home boys', but she is talking to the street when she says it. And before I can respond she is back to rapid-fire Spanish again, all angry tones and violent hand signals, then gets up and walks the few steps to the steet corner. There she pauses, looks at me, looses a violent gesture and a burst of angry Spanish, then bolts to the middle of the street. There she stops, no traffic in either direction, and comes back toward me. I notice her eyes are vacant, though she is speaking again. At the curb she turns and goes back to the middle of the street only to return again briefly to the curb where she stands a moment. Then she launches for the third time, completes her crossing, and disappears. I watch, completely bemused, disturbed only by the arrival of the mechanic who announces 'Your car is ready', an anticlimax to what I have just witnessed.

I trot behind to the garage and listen as he tells me he has checked the fluid levels in the transmission and rear end and they are good. There are small leaks, but only small. They have installed the solenoid but he thinks the switch is the problem though they didn't fix it. The charges are $97.50, one hours work. Surprised, satisfied, I pull out my visa card but there is one more surprise coming. Sorry he says, our visa machine is broken, we only take cash. For me, a walk back to the bank and the ATM machine. My Russian friend is off duty and the pack of crazies surrounding her replacement are harrassing him. I walk back with the cash, pay, and head for home. The solenoid works and I am back at Bob and Celine's, and Jan, by 12:15 in time for lunch.

In the afternoon, Bob and I re-install the transmission tunnel and other interior pieces, and the new passenger seat. Jan tries it out and is ecstatic. Not content with this work, Bob attacks the left front headlight which Jan has mentioned is burned out but I have brought a spare. We install it, after repairing the headlight socket with a screw and bolt. Finally, exhausted, we quit just before dinner. Celine has been busy preparing a wonderful meal, a spagetti dinner, and we have some of the wine that we purchased yesterday. A wonderful, productive, day that has been shared with an incredible host and hostess.

Tomorrow we are off to Huntington Beach.