Oh? Great Service? Well, we didn't notice, 'cause we were face-deep in the food of our lives.

This morning, we woke up at 12:00am. I was annoyed because I didn't think we should wake up that early, but Lucas's hair took precedent over my sleepy, so I complied.

Slow going getting out - 'round 1:40. Had to double back when we spaced on whether we locked the door; we had. There were teenagers hanging out at the post-office looking LSD'd, and practicing sign-flipping, the useless advertising scheme used throughout the US now.

So anyway, we set out on the journey back to LA, and actually, it wasn't too bad. No real traffic to contend with, only cargo trucks and such. The only tough thing was seeing the tipped truck. It looked like a dead beetle on the side of the road and I felt so worried about the person driving it; it had flipped on his side! There were six or seven highway patrolmen directing traffic away from it. That was pretty horrible. But we made great time.

To reiterate, 1:40 we hit the Phoenix I-10, and 6:55 we pull into the 24-hour IHOP on Shatto Pl. and 6th St. in Koreatown, LA. This level of success typically involves divine intervention, or a stuffed four-year-old behind the wheel going a flat-80mph the whole way:

Lionel is also a great navigator and helped translate the Google map so that I could communicate the directions to Lucas:


Nicest woman in LA rang us up at IHOP - Claudia. Two things: first, the layout was more like a shotgun house than any 'normal' AZ IHOP; second, when I cut my egg, it fit perfectly upon my sourdough toast slice. These two things were highly entertaining to me.

It was really funny going to the IHOP because I got scared I'd gone through the back door accidentally or something. The door opens right into the front of the kitchen, and the place is like, long and narrow. Very disOrienting. No pun intended. I had the Swedish crepes. We left the restaurant and got to the consulate building (500 Shatto Pl.) at 7:30-ish. We were about the third group in line, followed by...NUMBER TWO!

I'd had a feeling that we were to run into this man again. He, too, was picking up his visa, and turned out to be very nice. He remembered my stupidity at taking the stairs.

After our slight disgrutled-ness against Mr. Number Two, it so happens that he is actually a much better person than we'd initially thought. Funnier too. We never exchanged names, but he revealed to us that he is a clergyman, married to a German woman, living in Ventura. We chuckled about the last meeting and wished each other success on the visas. Then Little Miss Squeamish-and-Intolerant arrived. The line was growing away from the building and she thought she would have better luck opening the locked door than we'd had. After a huffy sigh, she decided to take her rightful place: at the back of the line. It was really funny when she started going around asking people if they had "any change, like, coins." Nobody had any, or wanted to give it to her, so she asked Mr. Number Two if he'd watch her stuff. He agreed, but when she left he said, "I might drink her Coke though," which really made me laugh. The wait went by pretty swiftly this time.

The actual consulate experience was smooth: there is a separate line for pick-ups, and it goes quickly. You hand the attendant your pink-slip, she digs for your passport among a sea of others, says "hundred-thirty," which means '$$$,' and you get the fuck out of line before she says anything else. Pie. We sat on the bench to share excitement, and genuinely ponder whether a visa/money exchange had just occurred; it had. We were out at 9:02.

SO, we decided to go Venice Beach and eat...well, I guess it had to be breakfast, which we packed. It was chilly. We LOVED it.
Left the beach for Chinatown, where we planned to stay. Found the Royal Pagoda...circa $76 a night, post-tax. The slideshow at the bottom of the post includes pictures of Chinatown and the hotel. I should add that the proprietor is a 'Park-Nazi' of sorts, which is a desirable quality in my mind, since I've always hated poor parkers. Hence the irony when he got on my ass about my line-hugging. The room is quaint, the light-bulbs energy-efficient, the closet spacious, the shower low-pressure, and the door-gap large - reminiscent for us of 100 W. Nopal Pl., our trusty first apartment together. In short, we recommend the Royal Pagoda to any LA visitor (995 N. Broadway; 90012).

Lastly, we decided to tour the Sunset Strip and then return to Chinatown for dinner.

Sunset Strip is a series of tattoo parlors, strip clubs, adult video stores, and liquor establishments - bars, stores, and clubs (pictures are all in the slideshow). I should add here that though Santa Monica/Beverly Hills are all pretty and green, and the ocean air is thick with that salinity that melts the smog away, Kiara and I prefer the sapien-issued salt of Downtown. What is interesting about Sunset is that it is a clash of the two: crazies, strung-outers, and punk-kids walk, while a safe bet places 50-60% of all vehicles on the road are 2005 or later model Lexus, BMW, or Mercedes vehicles, with the occasional Rolls-Royce, Bentley, or Maserati gracing the pavement. The drivers all look the same, but my description of them is probably unfit for most readership, so I'll refrain (this excludes the Saudi Arabian-looking fellows who drove the cream RR I had to cut in front of slickly). We stopped in Amoeba Music, and saw the notorious Viper Room and Whiskey-a-Go-Go clubs. Then we turned around, and made our way back to the stranger side of town.

Slinking our way back into Chinatown, we went looking about the shops in the square. There were some pretty charming-looking jade bracelets for a very nice price in one of them, but once I heard what the owners were saying about Americans, I promptly left, whisking a bewildered Lucas away with me. My feelings about going to China are somewhat shaken up, and I realize they were just speaking aloud in what they thought was a private conversation (in their native language), but it really bugs me that people assume that everyone is stupid and doesn't understand, and specifically that many Chinese do not give Westerners the benefit of the doubt that there is actually a good chance that we can learn to understand them. I was so upset that I waltzed into the plainest-looking restaurant in the square and ordered up a sizzling rice soup and lobster with ginger and green onions hot pot. THEY WERE DELICIOUS. Now I can't wait to go to China. Everybody: if you have to go to lame-ass LA Chinatown, at least go to the little restaurant at the very end of the left arm of the square. You'll know it because it doesn't have any of that silly Romanization of Cantonese sounds on its sign. And it will be the only restaurant with a full menu posted in the window that sounds even half-edible.

Boom-boom kitty. The bed is hard, the slideshow will follow, as well as pictures left out of the previous posts. Good night.