The Pilgrim Soul

Little Tokyo Station

It would be hard to underestimate what the Metro in the city of angels has meant to my little pilgrim soul, but its loss and rejuvenation give some idea. This week the train lines, which come within two blocks of our Los Angeles pied-à-terre, have once again connected up, with possibilities of travel west to Santa Monica, north to Pasadena, south to Long Beach, and so many places in between. Those of us without wheels of our own have been anticipating the day!

In October, 2020, Little Tokyo station closed down so the train rails could be re-routed. Since my arrival in Los Angeles, I had been using Little Tokyo as my neighborhood. I found a dentist there, an eye doctor, a place to buy notebooks and eat onigiri. My favorite coffee shop was there, Demitasse, where the feeling of intelligence and taste in the air was palpable. I could get to Little Tokyo from my apartment in 15 minutes. The COVID pandemic took some of the lustre from this scene, of course. Demitasse closed down quickly and the noise and dust of construction made the place less inviting.

LA Metro intended to close the Little Tokyo station for two years. In the interim, there were shuttles and other ways to get from place to place, but they were much less convenient. I did not often go to our favorite farmers market in South Pasadena unless Don was available to drive. I did not try to join the Arroyo Seco library book group, though I did listen in on some of their Zoom meetings. And I have still not quite found the home away from home that Demitasse was.

But of course, as on the Internet, life routes around damage, there is always fun to be had, and water finds its level! During the COVID years, Don and I developed a more stable tai chi practice, became members of Descanso gardens, and continued exploring markets and bakeries in quest of unprocessed organic food. We dragged friends along with us, traveled to see our families, and not incidentally, worked. “There must be more to life!” you say. No, there really isn’t.

Which brings us once again to the wonder of how dependent our inner selves are on a welcoming external world. This may be true of some of us more than others. Certainly there are those, such as prisoners and those  incapacitated by illness, who develop steely inner lives because they have been deprived of much outer life. But, as long as I am able, I take much delight in the sensual world unfolding around me. 

And so on June 16, five of us met for lunch in Little Tokyo. While eating excellent sushi and tempura, we watched the passing parade of tourists, locals and people dressed for cos play. And then we walked over to the new station to look at the art work and take the train to the next new station. The Metro was free for the weekend. People in yellow and orange vests were out in force, handing out maps and directing those with questions. The stations were gleaming, without wear and graffiti. The trains themselves were clean and new. No one as yet had taken up residence in them. Los Angeles was proud of itself, as well it should have been.

The art work in Little Tokyo celebrated the history of the Japanese in Los Angeles, even pointing to evacuations during World War II. The Historic Broadway station, new home base to three of our party, featured black and white photographs. This part of downtown, recently redeveloped, was the heart of the city in the early 20th century and is now thickly layered with shops, theatres, bars and restaurants, hotels and apartments. 

Moving on to the last new station, Grand Avenue Arts/Bunker Hill, we took a glass elevator to the surface and found ourselves behind the Broad museum. The sun had come out, purple clouds of jacaranda bloomed on the street, and I could see my favorite garden at the back of the Disney concert hall. The coral trees in this garden, with their gnarled trunks and slim flowers, are a wonder of nature. We took a concrete bridge which crossed high above Hope Street and settled down for a celebratory drink.

Thus I have been given the keys to the city! It brings me back to our first months in Los Angeles when no one was wearing masks and I frequently talked to other travelers. I remember an evening coming home with my vegetables from the market in the blue fall twilight. The moon rose over the mountains in the east. I nudged my seat mate, an Asian woman, and we shared a wordless delight in it. Perhaps she saw a rabbit in the almost full globe of reflected light in the lavender sky.

As a writer of a certain age, the prospect of an afternoon in a coffee shop, with a pen, a notebook, and a cup of tea is my idea of perfect. Ideally the table fronts a window on the street, from which I can watch the passing parade. I very often accomplish little, being mesmerized by my surroundings and what I can deduce from them. 

Occasionally I am pursuing an idea and my thinking benefits from the fresh air blown into it by strangeness. And, of course, the picture of Parisian coffee shops where people meet each other and have lively conversations comes to mind. Ask for the moon? More typically now, each person hides behind a silver metal rectangle with a little apple burned into it. But I won’t complain. The freedom to write and think is a great privilege, and even for me, whose pilgrim work is done in California, it is an attainment.