Exploring Earth with an Open Heart; Hearing and Sharing the Old-Hearth-Art

150 years ago, this story would have been about Mexico. I was on Pico Boulevard, which takes you all the way from Downtown LA to the Pacific Ocean. "Pico" sounds pretty much the same in English as it does in Spanish; Perhaps this is part of the reason I chose to make Pico, named after the last Mexican Governor of CA, my first drive.
"Mijita, promise me you'll take lessons!" pleaded my mother on the phone. "Aveces estás un poquito extremo... You haven't driven since you took your driving test... the second time!" But being un poquito extremo, I decided to learn to drive the way I do everything else.
I adjusted my mirrors, looked both ways, and ANDALE!
About 20 minutes later, I started to get thirsty, precipitated by the profusion of sweat between my fingers and the steering wheel.
Where would I go? When I walk, it's easy to wander into a cafe that draws me in simply by being itself, by its ambience of well-being, by the serene confidence it exudes after years of being loved and needed by loyal patrons. How would I pick up on these subtleties while moving at fifty miles an hour in a metal box?
That when when I heard the explosion and felt my butt freefall to the floor. Apparently, some parking lots have vicious red spikes at their entrances. Spikes that will explode your tires if you try to drive over them to get into said parking lot. This was not something I learned about 8 years ago in Driver's Ed.
Half an hour later, Ameer arrived with his tow truck & his brother, Akash, who was visiting from Mumbai. Squeezed in between them on the drive to the tire shop, Ameer told me he had yet to visit any other states than CA. "How long have you been here?" I asked. "Since 1986," he said. "I've been very busy working."
"You ever make it to the beach?" I asked. He smiled, shaking his head. "But my kids do!"
We said goodbye, & a mechanic helped me choose new-to-me tires for my new-to-me car.
"Quince minutos," he said, "You can wait allí." I turned towards the office, but something else caught my attention. It was a scent. It was a sound. It was a feeling.
Next door to the auto shop was a little window beside a narrow metal counter. I stepped closer. And closer. And closer. That is the last thing I remember before coming to, the mechanic calling, "Sarita!", a taco con mariscos in my left hand & a large, cold cup of Horchata in my right.
I made it to the end of Pico in time to see the sun go down over the peaceful sea. Or, as we say here in the USA, the Pacific Ocean.