So yesterday I pull into the library, with my car, thinking I’m going to park there. This was the Studio City library, so imagining I could simply pull in to the lot and park was a hopelessly naive idea to begin with, I know. I knew that at the time. What I wasn’t prepared for was the kind of Where’s Waldo cavalcade of assorted randomness that overtook me within feet of my entry. Because actually, a bunch of people were leaving the lot just as I was entering it. I mean a bunch of people!

Not that it mattered, but it make me wonder. One guy was pulling out of the Electric Vehicle Parking only space (hybrids, sure - but how many people drive straight-up electric vehicles?), two octogenarians with yoga mats were hobbling towards their handicapped space, and an Asian woman with a minivan was unloading what seemed like a lifetime’s worth of romance novels… I took a second turn around and found myself a little room beside a Lincoln Continental, and exited to the sweet strains of some Russian woman, sitting on the concrete outside the building, having an argument on a cell phone. She sounded very practiced at it, very practiced at being able to fight and smoke at the same time. I was immediately reminded of my grandmother, also Slavic, also given to historically unpleasant phone conversations, typically with my dad. I worry sometimes if it’s a genetic heritage that’s going to overtake me as mercilessly as a hairy upper lip. Having no good answer to the question I merely fled inside.

The librarians were awesome, and pushing stacks of French movies at the counter, like restaurant waiters instructed to sell some veal. I succumbed. Review of cheapo-Gallic-thriller forthcoming, you lucky people.

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