We went to Venice/Santa Monica this weekend.
Where I lived by myself in a one-room studio on a walk streets two blocks from the ocean,
adopted my first dog,
spent many unemployment checks at Chaya Venice while waiting for another film job to come through,
played trivia on Saturday nights at the Firehouse,
met my husband at O’Brien’s and fell in love,
watched the fog roll in,
ate at Joe’s Diner and Van Gogh’s Ear,
played hockey in the beach parking lots,
swam in the ocean at dawn after my night shifts at the Post Group,
worked at Roger Corman’s studio across the street as a first-time first assistant editor where I was responsible for screening our dailies with an old-as-dirt projector that would eat your film if it wasn’t threaded just right and put the fear of God in me,
went to Hal’s when it was the only place to go on Abbot Kinney,
got married in the Venice Canals in a pleasingly overgrown lot that is now the site of a two-million-dollar home, but at the time was perfect for 30 guests, a string quartet, and some bemused gardeners.
It’s nice to go back, but not as nice as living there.