(CONTINUED FROM PART 1)
By early evening, we were in Dana Point sitting in the car at the parking lot of the Marina Hotel. She was promised a room that Sunday but I wagered that if the motel had a room unsold that evening, they were likely to let her stay earlier. It was Saturday, the peak of the motel business and when she finally got a chance to talk to the manager, she was informed that there was no vacancy that evening.
There are ordinances in certain cities that prohibit sleeping in a car. I wasn’t sure whether Dana Point had one so I was quite apprehensive parking. Again, the evening started with the usual homeless menu of canned goods. The homeless usually prefer this as it is easier to travel with and requires no preparation. It takes a little getting used to because the absence of a stove means that the soup will not be hot. I’ve discovered by trial and error which ones are agreeable with my stomach – usually the ones that do not have much fat. A can of beef stew, for instance, will create havoc on your stomach if you consume it cold because the fat (lard) will be hard to digest.
We drove down a street lined with expensive houses that had ocean views and parked in front of two homes built beside each other inspired by Tuscan architecture. I can’t help but think how far that trek might be for me – from homeless to an ocean view Tuscan home. No matter, the speakers were booming to a thumping dancing beat. Power 106 and Hip-Hop provided the sound track for the house admiring moment. It turns out that she is a Hip-Hop dancer with deep roots to the L.A. club-scene.
When it finally got dark, we found the perfect spot to camp for the night. I was feeling much better and had a chance to talk with her into the late hour. She has a 12-year-old son who is staying with his father. She had lost her license because of missing child support payments. And like many, she was a mortgage professional taking a painful ride on a wave that became known as the “Financial Tsunami”.
The next day came in a flash and we found ourselves back at the Marina Hotel after doing our morning constitution and changing from our sleeping cloths at a Taco Bell close by. A police officer on a bike came to our car and upon seeing the blankets in the back informed us of laws against sleeping in the motel parking lot. He treated us to what I thought were standardized questions designed to ruffle unwitting Hobos into criminal confessions. “Are you on parole?, Did you sleep here in the parking lot?, Do you have anything in your car that I should know about?” The questions lasted a few seconds and off he went to keep the peace in the beautiful city of Dana Point.
We were instructed by the hotel manager to return at 10:30 AM when a room was to be available for her. At the appointed hour, she was handed a key for Room 11 which she will use, presumably, until the weekend rolls around and once again the motel will be packed full of tourists.
We parted company with a hug – a celebration of having negotiated the last few days safely. The streets could be an unforgiving place for the uninitiated. Although, I have recently met people who’ve been homeless for years, the streets have the forceful tendency of aging a person prematurely. You’ll find that in their muted smiles; the distant gaze; the resignation and the aversion for crowds. A homeless person has an aura of desperation and of daily struggle for self-respect and that proverbial road that will put them back in the right direction – towards a dream that was rudely interrupted. Many find it and yet many continue on daily searching for it hoping that time will not run out. Time is always the last one standing and the one that keeps the final score.
