Quaint Little Fetish
There are three ethnic groups at my departure gate: Portlanders leaving home and Californians going home and Midwesterners, far from home. You could walk down the aisle of the plane and sort them out by their hairstyles. Instead I drink orange juice and fall asleep.In LAX, the appropriately slick name for this airport, the Californians are the sudden majority. There are women in skinny jeans with heels, and men in Levi’s with sport coats. There are surfing clothes on surfing bodies. Everyone has sunglasses on.
They wear colors here that we would never wear in Oregon, but the palette is the one thing the Californians and Midwesterners share. Hot pink and teal and other shades fresh from a Cuban parking lot. The surface area covered is different, though, and the sheerness and the height of the waists.
I feel pale, sitting under the United Arrivals sign squinting in the sun. I feel like a hippie in my earth tones and unbleached hair. But it is warm, good dry crispy warm, and there are palm trees, and I’m craving a Coke. I guess I should order Diet.
posted by tortaluga @ 1:29 PM
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