It’s back. Again. That horrible, aching homesickness for LA. It was self-inflicted, mind you, but I unwittingly exposed myself to the catalyst. And that catalyst was an innocent solo trip to a movie (I fly solo a lot - I’m my own BFF - long story). So anyway, the movie was Larry Crowne, starring Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts and it really wasn’t about LA at all - in fact IMDb refers to the setting as “Anytown, USA” - but I know better.
There were some touching moments in the film, but I didn’t cry in any of those. But I did cry. I cried when Larry Crowne (Hanks) is zipping down a street on his scooter with those brown mountains in the background, that smog-filtered sunshine enshrouding everything, those spindly palm trees pushing their bushy heads up to the sky behind the buildings. I cried about the buildings - ordinary ones. Those dull, beige, cookie cutter buildings that house cookie cutter businesses like H&R Block, PetSmart, Sally Beauty Supply and the local Chinese place.
I got a lump in my throat during the diner scenes. I don’t think I’ve ever been in that particular diner, but I don’t have to to know exactly what it’s like to be in it. I know how that padded vinyl booth feels when you slide into it - and how it creaks and squeaks under your bum. I know the feeling of the faux wood-grain laminate table top and the ridged, metal edge trim. My fingers have the feel of the bumps on the glass sugar dispenser imbedded in their memory, along with the gentle ripple of the water glasses that neatly fit the grip of my hand. The sign outside simply advertised “Pie” - you never see that here. “Pies” perhaps - but they will be the meat ones and will never be referred to as simply “pie” - and how I miss pie - a la mode. No one ever says "a al mode" here either.
Then there were the diner meals - the perfectly round, perfectly brown pancakes, the French toast, the whipped butter in the little metal dish and the syrup in the little metal jug. There were those perfect, straight, uniform strips of streaky American bacon, and pork links - sausage. Never see sausage here. SausageS, yes. But not sausage. And it’s not the same thing (not that I mind an Aussie banger when the mood strikes).
And finally, I got sentimental seeing ivy used as a ground cover in the gardens around the college. And I got a little misty in the scenes at the end outside Larry’s new apartment which is mission style. Textured stucco, heavy wood beams, big doors with rustic metal trim, wrought iron balustrades, and terracotta tile floor.
I looked around the theatre, briefly, and considered my fellow patrons. They laughed in all the right places and seemed to enjoy the movie, but I knew that none of them could possibly enjoy it or be moved by it in the same way I was. But then, it occurred to me, neither would people in the US - including - or especially - those in LA. It would all just look ordinary to them, which I’m sure was the intention of the director (Hanks, also). Ironically, I kind of feel blessed that I got to enjoy it from my own, private angle. There’s a strange beauty in an agony that makes you feel something so deeply.
Photo of Burbank taken from my friend's apartment this morning
You can find him on Instagram as experiment818 (Thanks, Sean!)
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