The distance from my home in East Hollywood to Malo in Silverlake, where I had dinner plans on Saturday night, is 2.6 miles. Too far to drive, by LA standards. But by walkable-city standards? Reasonable. So, I walked.
I haven’t walked Los Angeles – I mean, really meandered, or, flaneured, to use the pompous term preferred by literature enthusiasts* – in longer than I can remember. At most, I walk to the market on my street corner, or from my car to, a few feet away, whatever destination I’ve pre-chosen.
A full-moon, significant for some sort of astrological event, according to my friends who know about such things, illuminated the streets.
Can you tell which light is the moon?From a car window, the establishments of Western Avenue are almost unrecognizable as anything but a jumble of poorly-designed strip malls.
But on foot they loom, vibrating with detail and color.
The flow of freeway traffic, observed on-foot from an overpass, is LA’s version of The Seine.
*Flâneur (pronounced: [flɑnœʁ]), from the French noun flâneur, means “stroller”, “lounger”, “saunterer”, or “loafer”. Flânerie is the act of strolling, with all of its accompanying associations.