I spent some time south of the border last month. In the O.C. and in L.A., as my blog title suggests. It was one of of those lazy, just-us-girls kinds of trips, involving shopping, facials (my FIRST!), manicures and sauvignon blanc. There is a part of me that loves California. I am far too removed from TV and popular culture to enjoy the Hollywood aspect (have you see Us magazine lately? I don’t recognize anyone under 40 except Selena Gomez), yet there is something deliciously decadent and excessive about California that appeals to the hedonist in me. But it’s all a bit much, really, and some aspects are so, er, not Canadian that I was delighted to return home to composting, integrated communities and walking. But the weather, the ocean—that incredible coast line—and, possibly my favourite California treat: the breakfast burrito. These I embraced happily. Sunshine. Fescue. Hibiscus.
But I digress. This is the story I want to tell.
I spent an afternoon in L.A. while my girlfriend met some suppliers in the fashion district. My instructions were to check out Santee Alley while I waited for her, L.A.’s fashion market known for its “festival atmosphere and amazing bargains.” I’m always up for a bit of a shop, so off I went. Without much difficulty I located The Alley, and began my explorations. Shoes (platform, plastic), skirts (impossibly mini), and sunglasses (cheap, big, ridiculous) abound. Santee Alley is indeed an alley, a pedestrian shopping district. It stretches across several blocks and is intersected by narrow city streets. It is noisy: stores open onto the street, music blasts (pop nonsense), owners shout at one another and pedestrians move along, some quickly, most slowly. It’s hot. I look at a pair of shoes but my heart’s not in it. I am being lulled into a stupor. I stop curbside, look left and right. I see no oncoming vehicles, and proceed across the street to the other side where the market continues.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Wait. What was that?
Again. This time louder.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
I look up as a rather imposing-looking uniformed and helmeted police officer is gesturing to me.
“Me?” I say, stupidly, pointing at myself.
“Yes, ma’am. You. Can you come here please, ma’am?”
Don’t panic, I tell myself. This is the United States of America. Nothing bad can happen here. There are hundreds of people around. This officer cannot arrest me in plain site and send me to a work farm. That only happens in TV movies from the seventies, not in real life.
“Is there a problem?” I ask crisply.
“You see that stop light over there?” he asks, pointing. “You crossed on a red light. You are supposed to wait until it’s green and indicates that you can cross, like all those other people over there.” My gaze follows his index finger and I see the stop light and about two dozen people dutifully waiting as the light turns green. Well, duh, I think.
“I’m not from here” I say (is this the best I can come up with?). “There are painted lines on the road, “ I stammer. “It looks like a pedestrian walkway” (True, but weak).
“That may be, ma’am,” says the officer, “but you’ll have to come with me.”
What?
He gestures to me to follow him and he heads towards his motorcycle. I follow, feeling a little queasy. He picks up a recording device (no, I’m not making this up), presses it to his mouth like Martin Milner in Adam-12 and proceeds to speak into it. I can only make out some of what he’s saying. “Officer blah blah blah, pedestrian violation blah blah blah, caucasian woman, blah blah blah”.
He then asks for identification. I sigh dramatically and dig into my purse for my wallet. I pass him my driver’s license, heart pounding. Is he going to take it away? He starts filling out the form. I notice that he’s left-handed.
“What’s your height, ma’am?” he asks.
“It’s there. On my driver’s license.” I say rather sharply.
“Ah, I see it here. But you look taller than than,” He is trying to be friendly, I think.
“I’m standing on the curb,” I point out, curtly.
Silence. He continues to fill out the paperwork.
“Er, what do you weigh, ma’am?” he asks.
“Are you allowed to ask that?” I am officially horrified.
“It’s right here on the form, ma’am.” He shows me the place on the form where he will record my weight. His pen wavers over the page expectantly. I tell him the number, being sure to round up. For some reason this is important to me.
He signs the form, and tears off a copy for me.
“You’ll be mailed a ticket, ma’am, which you must pay upon receipt.”
I am outraged. Indignant. A ticket? Really? Can he be serious?
“How much is the ticket?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
So far, I haven’t received a ticket. I wonder if I have an international criminal record.
How thrilling.
