Non parlo Italiano.

While walking to the bus stop last week I was accosted by two Italians in need of some assistance. They were attempting to travel from west Los Angeles to Hollywood; I couldn't understand most of what they were saying, but fortunately they had a map with their start and end points clearly identified. They were going my way, right down to the last stop.

I’m a veteran of the public transportation system in L.A., a city known for its crappy public transportation system. I give Metro more credit than some, because it’s not easy being an authority on public transit in a city where the car is king. Before 1940, Los Angeles had one of the nation’s finest streetcar systems, but invention gave rise to the internal combustion engine. Despite a reference I came across that claimed GM (and other auto-related companies) conspired to profit by buying up and dismantling local transit companies, that that isn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I love public transportation, but I don’t take it because I think cars are evil. Go Metro is getting some good word of mouth these days because of Villainous Big Oil, which they are happily exploiting in billboards all over the city.

Many people are quick to point out the shortsightedness of our urban planning, which envisioned sprawl without the consequences. Live and work separately, but only a hop onto the freeway apart! Population growth and traffic jams are nothing but science fiction! Downtown couldn’t possibly dilapidate, I mean, just look at those movie palaces!

Agreeing with the aforementioned “many”, it gladdens my heart to see Downtown’s revitalization. Every city should have its converted loft apartments and skid rows, urban guerilla farming and rooftop gardens, sweatshops and bars like The Edison. I like my urban centers to be a capitalist cocktail of the entire economic spectrum, and Downtown is on its merry way.

I would love to take people on a tour of Downtown Los Angeles, starting in the morning and continuing through the evening, straight on till dawn. And from Downtown, one can hop on the subway to Chinatwon, Pasadena or Hollywood. There are short bus trips to Silverlake and Santa Monica. Possibilities swimming in Endless.

But I met the Italians on a weekday night and we were headed to Hollywood proper. I live just around the bend from the Chinese Mann Theater and the Hollywood Walk of Fame (and Shame). There lies the Hollywood Wax Museum (I love it) and the Hollywood and Highland Mall (s'okay). They had a one night layover in Los Angeles and Hollywood was where they wanted to be. I always feel a bit sad for tourists who come here and only ever see Hollywood. They walk away perpetuating the myth that Los Angeles really is an ugly tinsel town, because they arrive with hopes and dreams of the Golden Era and what they see are buskers in faded, dirty costumes, star names on filthy sidewalks, homeless drunks begging for change, cheesy museums and lots o’ movie theaters. This is hardly the heart of Los Angeles. These few blocks aren’t even the best that Hollywood and tinsel town have to offer, because some of it really is still golden.

Even the grime would be fun to show off if my companions spoke enough English to understand snark and clever asides, or a factoid well placed here and there as we walked. I suppose I shouldn’t feel too bad, since they really did seem pleased to see Paul Newman’s star. I was hoping to stop by The Roosevelt, a true Hollywood gem, for an overpriced cocktail and architectural tour, but one of the Italians didn’t drink and neither had any interest in restaurants or bars, and something I do love about Hollywood is its restaurants and bars.

Sometimes I felt bad that they were stuck with someone who knew not a lick of Italian. We spoke to each other in incomplete sentences and illustrating with hand gestures. I called a friend from the bus to see if she could interpret, but that didn’t work out too well. On the second bus, we ran into a man who could speak Italian. And Spanish. And Portuguese. Judging a book by his Best Buy employee t-shirt, I was rather surprised. If I spoke multiple languages fluently, I wouldn’t be working at Best Buy. Of course, maybe he’s perfectly happy. Maybe he has a chill job, lives cheaply, saves all his dollars and is actually a world traveler. I once knew a bus driver with that story. One doesn’t have to work at the UN just because he’s multi-lingual.

Eventually the Italian tourists and I walked towards Vine and circled back on Sunset, ending our excursion at those horrid tourist shops near Highland where they could buy t-shirts for their younger loved ones and my patience was tested. They kept asking me what size? What size? I helped as much as I could without knowing European size charts or the children being gifted.

I think I enjoyed the long stroll more than my companions, but they were in high spirits and couldn’t be more grateful to have me around. Their relationship was supposedly new and platonic. He, a married man and grandfather. She, a spinster aunt with a cat. They claimed to meet while traveling. I suppose there was no lie in their tale, but I enjoyed imagining a romance.

We said our good-byes at a taxi stop. Kisses on the cheeks and hugs all around, their thank you, thank you, thank yous ringing in my ears. It was all so lovely in its randomness. A little mini-adventure to split up the humdrum work week, and all that’s left is a memory (already fragmented) and a blurry photo taken with my less than stellar Blackberry camera phone.

The gentleman's name is Bruno, and he was a subdued but friendly grandfather type. The woman was younger than Bruno but older than I, and her accent was thicker, her English less developed. She comprehended better than she could speak, but it was easier communicating with her companion. Sadly I wasn't able to commit her name to memory.