Where But Here?
Venice — a Grand Salon
Abbot Kinney is packed. It’s hard to pass on the sidewalk with all the baby strollers and the packs of people walking like packs of Golden Retrievers – gorgeous, self-assured, exquisitely coiffed with their very long hair.
Even the packs of tattooed guys in their muscle shirts stroll with the assurance of those at a red carpet event. It’s our Oscars, our Grammys.
You spot a couple of friends with their friend having a glass of wine up on the porch and they invite you up and pour you a glass. You join the conversation. Not twenty minutes pass when three more wave as they are walking by. We all wave and shout out “come up, have a glass of wine.” And they do. Now we are eight.
And, for two hours we watch the world walk by, the boom boxes in hot shot cars take over the street’s sound for a moment. The Harley’s drive by, rev-up announcing their place on the street. Everyone belongs. Those golden retrievers, the rappers with the loud boom box, the tattooed couple, the Harley guys – it’s their street too.
The action is non-stop, never dull as the the eight of us sit up on the front porch on a Sunday afternoon jumping from one subject to another with some grouchie grumbles but mostly endless endless laughing. Living life in a real neighborhood – it’s our Salon.
Being real Venetians is to know the rare camaraderie of belonging.