She Stoops to Conquer the Rush of Daily Life : City Smart / How to thrive in the urban environment of Southern California

It’s not a desert oasis or a mountaintop aerie, and it certainly isn’t Maui.

My getaway is the front stoop.

That’s my place when I need a bit of a breather, a perch with a prospect of an unremarkable L.A. street in a district that’s Mid-Wilshire or Miracle Mile or Fairfax.

When I moved into the neighborhood, there was no Campanile, no Ca’ Brea, no American Rag. Ralphs hadn’t gone mega and Rita Flora was just a florist. The Pick Me Up Cafe survived on the uncertain patronage of grunge pool players with more time than skill. The Social Security office on La Brea stood forlorn amid a bunch of businesses gone bust.

In those days my sanctuary was my apartment. It has Art Deco hardware and hardwood floors. To the dismay of my landlord, a dogmatist for white paint, I colored the walls olive-oil green. Then I hung navy blue chiffon curtains. The effect was serene and, when the breeze was in the right quarter, voluptuous. My downstairs neighbor saw the curtains billowing and declared--I’m paraphrasing here--that if they didn’t get me hitched, nothing would.

And so, eventually, it came to pass. But life is full of trade-offs. My one-bedroom refuge became home first to two and then, inevitably, to three. With baby in the bedroom and soul mate slumbering on the sofa, the bathtub briefly was my resort. Then I stumbled upon the front stoop.

I didn’t witness any mythic stoop scenes: urchins rioting ‘round a fire hydrant, their parents yelling out tenement windows, the cop walking his beat. But slowly, after hours of solitary 15-minute respites, I discovered I was not alone.

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At first, because this is L.A., I got to know the cars: “Volkswagen Beetle’s home early. There’s that damn USC Spider Veloce. Will the Nissan Sentra ever learn to park?” It’s simply not true that people in L.A. don’t walk. They walk to their cars and they walk their dogs.

I met them: Fritz, the dachshund. Midge, the corgi. Edward, the Lab. I got to know the man whose home is the alley near the doughnut shop. His query never varies: “Spare a cent?” There’s the man who shuffles by every day and always seems on the verge of saying hello. Another homeless man does. And when I became a redhead, he complimented me.

I started recognizing the recyclers--the older Korean gent always in a suit and the frail Filipino girl who surely should be in school.

Each Tuesday and Wednesday morning, just as the meter maids hover, the man in the Beetle helps the woman with the broken-down van push it from one side of the street to the other. If there is one thing that unifies our street, it is loathing for parking enforcers.

One day, I wandered off the stoop and up to Insomnia on Beverly. The man seated next to me said: “Excuse me, but you live on my street. I see you sitting on the front stoop.”

Vicente started sitting on his stoop. He’s much better at the front stoop than I. He’s quickly learned names and even professions. Of course, Vicente’s a New Yorker.

Occasionally, one of us will actually cross the street to chat. Recently, as we watched four guys spontaneously playing football, Vicente threw out, “Quien es mas macho?” I laughed, adding, “Fernando Llamas, Ricardo Montalban o Lloyd Bridges?” He was astounded I remembered the bit. Suddenly, we were compadres.

Sometimes, even in L.A., you can discover a community if you put yourself out there.