Once upon a time, back in 1997, we went to Manhattan Beach for a weekend with Jim and April. While we were at a Dodgers game the first day, Princess Diana was killed. Every newspaper we saw and every TV that was on that weekend was covering the tragedy, and it was hard to avoid. Two years later we were in southern California again, all four of us, when JFK Jr. was killed. It was then that we decided maybe our southern California vacations were not very good luck for huge celebrities. We’ve vacationed together since then, but not in L.A. (You’re welcome, still-living huge celebrities.)
We were staying at a hotel in Manhattan Beach, so it seemed like the actual beach shouldn’t be too far, right? And wouldn’t that be a pleasant stroll? Wrong and no. Apparently even though the address of the hotel was Manhattan Beach, it was actually located in San Bernardino. It was a long, long time before we actually reached the sand. Even suckier? We had to walk back again and it was mostly uphill. Victor and Jim still remind me and April about this poor decision, as though THEY have never mis-read a map.
April’s an expert at researching restaurants before our vacations, and she had a Wolfgang Puck Café on our list for this one. It was on this trip that my love affair with most things Wolfgang began. That love affair has felt strained, though, ever since I watched his cooking show and he licked his fingers the whole time he was preparing food for his guests. Oscar partygoers, beware.
This trip was also at a time when I was a new Jetta owner and the commercial below was very popular. I decided that weekend that I needed to get the Trio CD so I could listen to the song anytime, and that meant I dragged Vic, Jim and April with me to 1,524 different stores to find it. I did not find it and Jim has still not forgiven me. However—and I’m sure he’ll correct me if I’m wrong or even if I’m right and he won’t admit it—Jim started my obsession because we frequently drove on Sepulveda Blvd. that weekend and none of us knew the correct way to pronounce “Sepulveda” and no matter how we said it, Jim always echoed with “Sepulveda-da-da.” So it’s totally his fault, right?
Wherever these guys are driving, some of the streets kinda remind me of Manhattan Beach. Also, I miss the VW commercials with the infectious tunes and silliness.
I always wondered who to blame for Princess Di's death (not to mention JFK Jr.) and now I know. When the four of you are together, it's a powerful vortex, apparently. A direction/distance-challenged vortex, but powerful anyway.
ReplyDeleteMy head is boppin' to the tunes on that ad... I had almost forgotten those boys. And I've definitely forgotten what those kinds of aimless drive-around afternoons feel like. I wanna be young!
It's Sepul-veeeeeda not Se-pul-ve-da.
ReplyDeleteHead east on Rosencrans away from Sepul-vi-da...and you'll be in my hood. Don't go there alone. ;) Or at night. Or if you're idea of a tough neighborhood is Lloyd Center.
ReplyDeleteSorry, typo.
ReplyDelete"...if your idea..." not "you're."