Buying alcohol

A few months ago I went to a large grocery store to buy, principally, some beer. It was about 9pm, and the absence of an end-of-day beer had left me irrationally unsettled. No other beverage at home would suffice - if my evening was to end in a satisfactory manner, I needed a beer.

I made my selection, and started to pay for it at the self-checkout. A store assistant sidled up to me: "Could I see some identification, please sir?". Yes, yes, of course you can, I thought to myself, digging into my pockets. Actually....no he couldn't. In my rush to leave the house, I had only brought a few dollar notes and nothing else.

Having asked the question, he could not go back on it. Having no ID, I could not have beer. It was quite simple - but, in my desperation, I thought I could win him over. I tried matey friendliness, then pleading ("look at the grey flecks in my sideburns!"), and then anger - hissing that I was WELL over 30 let alone 21. He was not to be moved, and I stormed off, devoid of both beer and my dignity.

I should not have been surprised at this. The attitude to alcohol is quite different here in the US from the UK. It is illegal to drink in public - which has led to the time-honored tradition of swigging from a brown paper bag in order to outfox the police. Many waiters and store assistants don't consider it worth their jobs to judge on appearance, and will ID a granny as much as a tetchy Englishman in his thirties.

So I have learned my lesson now, and carry ID with me wherever I go, positively wanting to be asked to produce it. If I am, I do so with a flourish, like a schoolboy handing in his homework on time. If not, I conduct the rest of the transaction in a frosty silence, cursing my latest hairdresser for not adequately addressing my receding hairline.

I have not been back to the store from that evening. But if I get to the point that everywhere else has stopped asking for my ID, I may just pay them another visit.

Santa Monica

I took a stroll along the promenade at Santa Monica beach this evening. The sun was setting, the view out across the beach and ocean was vast and majestic, so the moment clearly called for big thoughts. I set off, hands clasped behind me and a far-off expression on my face.

A small boy was in my path in a flood of tears. He had dropped his ice cream, and seemed unable to believe that life could be so cruel. His weary parents tried to coax him on towards the parking lot, with promises of sumptuous treats at home, far better than any ice cream. Misery rooted him to the spot, so I stepped gently around.

A shirtless roller-blader glided past me on one side, a cyclist wobbling about on a hired bike almost ran into me on the other. I passed a sort of outdoor gymnasium, with people swinging on rings and doing handstands on parallel bars. There was a lot of flexing, and sideways glancing towards onlookers.

I reached the pier, picking through the crowds heading for the roller-coasters and candy floss. The pier is like any other really - hot dog stands, sauntering couples, games involving teddy bear prizes. But against a backdrop of palm trees and Pacific Ocean, overlooked by the Santa Monica Mountains and Malibu along the coast, to an Englishman it all feels a bit more glamorous than Brighton or Blackpool.

I have to turn back and re-trace my route, through the crowds and past the gymnastics, stepping over the melting ice cream and back to where I started. Santa Monica may not be the place for profound thoughts, I realize, but it has a unique quality, somehow tranquil and chaotic at the same time. I am sure  I will keep going back - it feels like an important part of LA lives there.