everly moving

ahh, I am going to enjoy this!
A night ride through Westwood, ghostly houses with big stale numbers painted on their faces, ending at an obscure golf course and a homeless but clean looking fat bellied man behind a big barred fence telling me where to go...the way leads back to Wilshire, through the UCLA student village up to sunset where I don't know which way to go again. The student houses flicker in delight, it's friday night and music is blaring, all different kinds. Cars are lined up on either side of the street, some even on the sidewalks, students rush through the night and I smile how close those two so different worlds are.
On sunset I take the wrong direction and after I passed the 405 I have to stop and ask for directions. There is a lexus hotel, very luscious and private, soft music in the background.
I park my bike at the entrance, shoulder my red designer bag and ask the receptionist for directions. I look so acceptable that he lets me use their internet. It is funny how clothing does make people. Everything I am wearing is from the actress whose house i will babysit from tonight on for a whole week.
I love and hate that I don't have a car.
I fu king hate that I chose to take the stupid bag instead of a backpack.
I love that I lost my way.
On my way out a valet guy asks me whether I need to check in. I smile, grab my dirty bike and shake my head. No man, thank you, I just needed to ask something. Have a good night.
He smiles, understanding suddenly what's going on, petting my arm for a second.
The hotel does have something about it. So comforting. So luxurious. So not for me.
On the long and winding suicide way to the canyon my red leather bag bangs rhythmically at my front tire. I #$%^&^& and laugh at the same time.
The road up the canyon is wet because of the sprinklers of the rich people's houses.
Rich people have such awesome houses in such awesome areas with wonderful trees.
Too bad, I think, that they don't use it properly.

It's good to be out, breathing trees at night.