Kindness in California

by Ashley Marshall (Canada)

Making a local connection USA

Kindness in California Miguel sang “I was at Townhouse down in Venice Beach…” and I was sold. I recently got my promotion and passed probation. Next, soak in all the California cool. The cab from LAX was breezy and jagged. We dropped our luggage and headed straight for the skatepark we peeped on the way. The athletic bodies defying gravity, commanding their boards, skates, and wheelchairs to do spins and spirals, awed the onlooking crowds, relishing in the practice of what looked to us like professionals. We stayed until sundown, palm trees guiding us, merchants selling their talents, the Santa Monica Pier illuminating the horizon. Day 2: Free breakfast and off to meet the Uber pool on a street we couldn’t find. We missed it, and were definitely lost. Not to worry. We, Canadians, knew to use our best manners and expect that help would come. Luckily, we were on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, a posh strip close by. Perfect for sizing up storefronts or sampling the occult, the boutiques along the mile-long stretch invite you in with cacti, art deco displays, and healing crystals. After a desperate search for WIFI, I saw a fellow Black woman, dressing mannequins. In my oversized hoodie and tourist bag, I asked for help. Where was the corner of “what” and “huh,’ and how do I get there in 3 minutes? Sun kissed and willing to assist, she offered the WIFI password, exact address of her shop, and checked on us as we waited for our Uber. She wished us safe travels as we headed to the remote hills of Topanga Canyon for our midday hike. Relieved, I sang Anderson .Paak lyrics to myself: “With the top down up the PCH I'm heading north, I hope it doesn't rain…” We spiraled upward, looking down on the rooftops and solar panels of the homes – or movie sets – of the Cali crooners. Our driver, a lovely Latina lady, told us of her anxieties about her kids going to college. I quelled her tensions, assuring her that as a graduate and a tenured professor, the student loans are worth it. Nervous laughter. Atop the hill, we saw a group of bikers, and our destination. I made sure to get the cell number of this helpful driver, in case we couldn’t get any signal later. We snapped a photo of the map, and set off, a twenty-something and her teenaged cousin, into the foothills of Calabasas. Our path was surprisingly easy: just follow the graffiti. It was the perfect contrast: nature along-side the modern ruins of counter-culture. Two strangers invited us to their church, the same church frequented by Manny Pacquiao, as they were sure to tell us. They teased us about the snow and we boasted about our Raptors. Luckily, I didn’t need the driver’s number after all. There was no signal, but there was the kindness of strangers. “Never get in a car with strange men” doesn’t apply when you’re ballin’ on a budget. Siri: play “California Love” by Tupac Shakur. These friendly finds offered to take us to our next stop: the Reggae on the Mountains festival at King Gillette Ranch. We were greeted with wristbands, pumping bass, positive vibrations, and free samples of CBD everything. The teenager was in Instagram heaven. I, the Jamaican-Canadian, was where I belonged. The Rastas played, the audience jumped and chanted, the sun set, and we knew that we were in the company of fellow island spirits. After Julian Marley’s set, we were stranded again. No WIFI. Data did nothing. There was a dreadlocked man, awesomely Hawai’ian, yelling “CHEEEEHOOO” to punctuate every liberation tune and protesting on behalf of Manu Kea. Another friendly stranger? He was camping at the ranch overnight, and could not help us get back to Venice Beach. We walked the path, dimly lit. Patrons were tethering their phones and organizing pools. We got lucky: he found us! We headed back to the hostel, joints creaking from the climbing and jumping, but soothed by the cannabis. “Driver, do you have ‘B*****, Don’t Kill My Vibe’ on your playlist?”