Tokyo 77

To get to Tokyo 77 you cross Venice Blvd from Bagley to Main St. Walk past the hair salon, the furniture shop, the hardware store and the first alley. At the second alley, turn right and walk along the mural of the farmer's market. When the alley opens up, you'll see a sign that says "We're open." Go inside the "coffee shop" (read: diner) and pick any table you like.

I got the Breakfast Special C -- 2 pancakes and bacon, $2.35 -- tea, $.90, and read Juno & Juliet in the sunlight-through-the-window-with-a-slight-breeze as I ate.

Things confirmed:

• I want to be a Dodgers fan, and listen to their games on the radio.
• One of my first memories of San Francisco is influenced by the opening shot of Full House, and now I can give you Ashely Olsen's address in New York--both strange.
• I appreciate getting what you pay for, and having that value be decent and humanly.

Salsa Lessons

I'm a good dancer. Humble, sometimes. Good, always. I've been the party enabler, the one to let loose, the desirable, the only white girl in a room ("And she can dance!"), the leader and the follower. So when Enrique, my co-worker, asks if I want to go salsa dancing on Friday night after work and I'm even wearing the perfect dress already for it, I figure I know "enough," have decent rhythm and can follow, to say yes.

A Cuban restaurant somewhere near Hollywood and I'm nervous on the dance floor. My feet actually feel like they've gained awkward clumsiness and I'm out of place. And it's not the new environment, the new dance partner, or the music. I don't even think it was the confidence Enrique lacked that he was a good leader. It was something in me. I wasn't tapping into the place where I dance from, that core that I feel so secure in, that moving from the hips. I couldn't find it, couldn't remember what it felt like, and don't know what happened to it.

Last night, I was dancing some place else, to different music, with different people, and I was dancing like I always do. But I still don't know what happened that night, and I don't think it was just a fluke. I think maybe there is something else I'm needing to learn on the dance floor this time.

Life on Mariposa

I have lived in LA now for 36 days.

For 36 days, I made my home in an apartment on Mariposa Street.

Last night my father said "mariposa, butterfly" before he got off the phone.

Tonight I make a new home.

Mariposa. Butterfly.