On the second night, I left my zone again, traveling away from my downtown everyday, my job, my collection of tea and my organized dishes; I was leaving comfortable for the canyon. Upon my arrival I was greeted with hugs and waves and kisses, all from one new friend and was led to a bungalow covered in vines and through one of those beautiful doors. The kind that hardly has a lock, dark forest green wood with window panes and a tiny doorknob. The room was filled with candle light and the smell of sage, the walls lined with books.
I sat down in front of a man with a young face, and old, eyeliner-rimmed eyes filled with jaded experience. He wore a thousand bracelets, and twice as many necklaces. I later noticed two long dreadlocks flopping down his back, as long as an old mans beard and then some. He was to be our tour guide for the night, telling stories over countless cigarettes and swigs of Jim Beam whiskey. I wondered briefly if I was back in the 60s Laurel Canyon, talking about the kind of life things I have yet to experience and astrology and our bodies. I was in the company of some of those educated types who don't have it together, the ones who get evicted, who subsist on whiskey and coke, and who look back on their past successes and failures with seemingly no regret and only stories that beg to be passed on. The kind of men who love women, and while maybe trying to sleep with you, they back off upon hearing you're "someone else's girl" for that night.
I struggled early on in the night as an outsider, wondering why I was there, why these characters were accepting me into their fucked up world, telling me the most intimate details of their lives all the while complementing me and touching my hair and asking nothing in return. i soon let it all go and gave in to the night.
I was in a foreign country, and I loved every uncomfortable minute.