Third Street Promenade

Third Street Promenade

 

Back to school - Fall 2014

I am tagging along with daughter Brett, age 45, and my two granddaughter cousins, Jersey-Girl Emma 13 and CALi-girl Anna 12, Brett’s daughter. The occasion is back-to-school shopping.

Mostly clothes today, the one exception being the annual backpack search.

We are in Santa Monica, CA, strolling up a walk-street referred to as Third Street Promenade.

The first store is Tilly’s. Never heard of it, but I'm told we purchased backpacks there last year.
OK, fine ... anyway ... backpacks ... if you don’t know, they are very serious fashion statements these days, especially for girls. 

But of course you know. 

Inside the store I adjust my mental state, preparing for the long haul.

Whoops, here's a miracle, the girls have already settled. They get identical packs. That was easy, I think.

A word about backpacks: I have fond memories of my school years and yes, backpacks existed a half a century ago, but mostly in the army. Never with school kids. We carried books in our hands. Girls  cradled them with both arms, against their tummy. Not sure why no one thought of backpacks for school kids. 

Different world in so many ways, I guess.

Regardless, with new backpacks now in hand, the girls want to browse a bit. Fine, I think.  As they wander about, I stray, ever so slightly, from the flock . Off on my own, I feel a trifle out of place. Where's the men's department?

A sales clerk spies me. Her look says, what’s-this-guy-doing-here. She says, "May I help you?” I hear “Are you lost?” 

I'm not making this up. But then it could be my septuagenarian imagination?

Regardless I survive, noting with interest a new style or two. Here’s one: sweatpants with ribbed pant leg bottoms.  Or maybe not. OK, whatever. I continue circling. 

Girls and Brett are still browsing. They hand me the backpacks. I gather that we'll be here a while. I diligently follow the crowd, keeping the girls on my radar. After a dozen or so racks, I’m yearning for a place to sit. 

Good luck.

Stores don’t want me, or anyone, to sit. They want all customers on their feet, visiting each display, touching the garments, holding them against their chin in front of the mirror, asking for opinions, murmuring “mmmmm,"  finally draping selections over an arm and moving on to the next item, or the register.

But, no sitting, period.  

Then I hear, "We're leaving Papa." Huh? 

I tag along, toward the next store, Urban Outfitters.

We arrive and I breeze in, scan the room. Wait, what's this? I spy a place to sit, a couch in the distance. I speed-walk over.

Figures ... all cushions occupied. Three wide eyed senior women, obviously strangers, but nevertheless shoulder to shoulder and staring straight ahead, pocketbooks on heir laps, as if riding a trolley.  

Disappointed I turn back. "I'll be outside," I tell the kids.

I head out to the pedestrian friendly promenade.  The nearest bench with a view of the door is occupied by a young man, well-dressed, and ... well ... he appears sane, that is, if one ignores the fact that he is holding a battery powered megaphone up to his face and shouting advice to the passing crowd on how God wants us all to live. “God doesn’t care about your money or your success,” he screams.   

I find another bench.

Fifteen minutes go by. The megaphone man shows no sign stopping for air. Impressive, in a way. A non stop monologue about what God thinks. And without notes. Hmmmmm.

I return to the store.

Kids are putting things back on the rack. “We’ll come back,” they say.

Really? 

 

Whatever. We move on. Outside, the man with the megaphone is still going strong. We give him a wide berth. 

Next stop is Brandy Melville which is a store that the girls have been talking about.  I say, “I never heard of this place.”

Kids explain, “There are no Brandy Melville stores in New Jersey, just one in New York.”

They know everything.

  

Inside Brandy Melville the girls make rapid selections which they hand over to me as they glide about. Their enthusiasm is so positive that I feel that these items I'm holding Will not be put back. I am happy to be useful, to have a function. Before long I am cradling upwards to two dozen items in my arms, plus backpacks looped on my wrists. I resist the notion to see myself as silly grandpa, human clothes rack.

Eventually I’m given the signal to move up to the cashier. I unload the various items onto the counter separating them into two piles, Emma’s and Anna’s, because I may want to tally the costs of each girl.

Smart huh?

The young cashier girl is overly polite. I feel very accomplished cradling armfuls of clothing as I fish in my wallet for the credit card. “Go ahead, swipe,” the smiling cashier says. I do so with a billionaire’s nonchalance.  I’m handed the slip.  Now, still with my devil-may-care face, I speed sign a chicken scratch signature – my best MD-prescription-like scrawl.  

Outside I announce the totals for each girl. I'm proud like a talented accountant. The numbers don’t seem to register. No comment, so I let it drop. Nevertheless I feel good about a job well done and as we stroll down the pavement, looking for a spot to eat, I’m thinking, table with a view at a nice bistro. Reward for our successful venture. Sit and talk. Can't wait.

The girls choose Wetzel’s Pretzels.

Huh?

I wander across the street (promenade) to a kiosk- like eatery with wobbly aluminum tables the size of dinner plates. The girls join me. They put their pretzel bags on the table as I order sandwiches for Brett and me. Nothing to write home about, but at least we’re sitting.

Cleaning up, I gather the pretzel bags and Styrofoam plates. I notice a couple of pretzel “bites” in one bag. On my way to the garbage can, I reach inside the bag and fish out a small pig-in-a- pretzel-blanket type thingy. 

I take a bite.

Hmmmm, tasty. I toss the bags and plates in the can.

On the ride home the girls entertain us with a fashion presentation from the back seat.  I’m in stitches, the whole way, not wanting their comedy show to end. Late afternoon LA traffic cooperates, extending the trip by almost an hour. 

Ten miles in ninety minutes  and, honestly, I enjoy all ninety.