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| Not my bicycle, but a similar view. Via What'sOnXiamen |
I've decided my Schwinn is the two-wheel equivalent of '57 Buick. It is heavy and wide and wonderfully retro. However, without a garage to park it in, it has taken haven in the dining area of my kitchen. Yes, I'm not exactly fond of that either. But, being so close to the ocean, there's no other way to prevent the rusting that has taken over my neighbors' cycles. To accommodate ma bicyclette, I had to downsize my dining table. My charming tile-topped, rectangular table that six could and had squeezed into gave me little option. I carefully removed its legs, wrapped them in paper and taped them up, carried the I-completely-forgot-how-heavy-this-thing-is top out to the sidewalk and affixed the legs to the back. A sassy pink piece of paper shouted merrily, "Free!" And within an hour, it had found a new home.
I considered forgoing a table altogether. I thought I could convince people it was bohemian or something. To be honest, I use the bicycle more than the table. But a girl does need to have a proper table for a proper cup of tea and proper chat with a friend when a friend needs one. Solution: A wooden card table. It was inexpensive enough (at $60) and will later serve as a more sophisticated additional seating or serving option when I finally move out of my dollhouse and get a full set of grown-up furniture. My red patterned table cloth is folded in half over it, fitting nicely for the time being. Pulled away from the wall, the Schwinn is backed around it. I must remove a side chair to get it in and out, which I am becoming an expert at. Out the backdoor, then through two gates, and I am free to pedal about and take in the sights that, while familiar, appear different when not whizzing by them in a car.
I had been under the weather last week, so Saturday's ride was a little tentative. I rode to Main Street to pick up a belated birthday present then rambled down Abbot Kinney. I was beginning to crave lunch, but wasn't sure what to eat and, if I ate the wrong thing, I didn't want to be on my bike. Pedalling whilst in pain isn't exactly a good time. As I made my way home, I made notes of the places I wanted to stop on Sunday.
Sunday means a morning at the laundromat. Not exactly my favorite place, I will admit, but it is time-efficient. Only having to spend an hour there, I try to make the best of it. That morning had be particularly "special". I had IM'd Miss Jenn a few rants about that day's clientele and explained, "I'm donning pigtails and Keds today in an attempt to draw out my inner Hepburn. I think I conjured Katherine, though. She's the more spiky of the two." With folded clothes and groceries for the week, I went home and put everything away in record time. I couldn't wait to get on my way. It was time for lunch, and I knew exactly the place to have it. I put the necessities into my canvas Ireland bag, grabbed my water bottle and copy of Hitchcock by François Truffaut, placed them all in my basket and made my way.
The rules of the road are followed respectfully. I travel with traffic, since a bike is indeed a vehicle. If I am on the sidewalk, I am walking the bike. We are fortunate that there are plenty of bike racks about Venice, and an abundance of parking meters in Santa Monica to secure the Schwinn as I go off on an errand or adventure. One of the most pleasant views I see from my two-wheeled perch are smiles. People on the sidewalk give a pleasant grin or a cheery, "Hello!" as we pass each other, which I gladly return.
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I latched my bike to a meter in front of Finn McCool's, my favorite Irish pub. My favorite seats were open, too. The Fates always seem to be on my side when I'm on my bike. I sat down, removed my sunglasses and pulled out my book. The bartender came by for my order: Potato pancakes with housemade gravalox...and a pint of Guinness. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the Irish harp after the barman walked away and realized with a cringe that, in my black t-shirt, black capris, black Keds, gray cardigan and pigtails, I had done something unintentionally hipster by riding my bike to a pub to read a book. Mais, c'est la vie. Truffaut soon had me laughing, not only at myself, but his misstep into a frozen fountain after first meeting our shared hero, Alfred.
After my delectable lunch was thoroughly enjoyed, and I made my way through the introduction, foreword and start of the interview, I headed back to Venice. Before leaving Santa Monica proper, a quick stop at a hat shop called Fedora Primo. The store holds hats for men and women, plus gloves, scarves and other fun accessories. This was just a quick peek in on my quest to find the right chapeau. This shop offers a wonderful range from fancy to casual. I have a sneaking suspicion I will find something there soon enough.
Back down AK, I popped in to Venice Vintage Paradise, a wonderful second-hand store with a array of vintage tablecloths. The lovely sales lady helped me through the selection to find one that will fit my new table (that has also happened to be one of hers). Unfortunately, their credit card system was down, and I was short of cash. We stashed it away for me to pick up on Friday after work.
"Oh," she said as I left the shop, "what a perfect day to be on a bike." Yes, I agreed. Those are the comments I get most: how much fun riding around on the bike must be and/or that they wished they had a bike, too. As one who was sans cycle for too long, I will say that it is a great fun and quite practical, especially if you live in a congested part of town. My Schwinn was inexpensive, and there other options even more frugal if it's a cost consideration that might keep you from getting yourself on your bike. Even though my kitchen also now serves as bike garage, this is a compromise I'm happy to make. Not exactly elegant, I will admit, but it's a small eye-sore inside compared to the great views I get from those two wheels.
Delightful post. As always.
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