The Road to Chula Vista

I left the house around 10 AM because my sweet brother Marc, who is turning into one of my most ardent supporters, wanted to buy me a coffee for the road and hand me a bit of cash so I could have fun on my trip. “Hey, what are brothers and sisters for, anyway?” he asks. Not too proud to take it, now I figured if I wanted to splurge this weekend, I safely could. I foresaw 2 nights in hotels and lots of gas refills, so this surely would come in handy. My gig pays OK, but expenses are not covered, so I am paying strict attention to outlays and keeping receipts.

The ride was smooth and boring, as before, until I hit the L.A. area at exactly the wrong time of day – rush hour for the Mother’s Day weekend. When I saw the sign for Sunset Boulevard, I thought of Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond...

Joe Gillis: You're Norma Desmond. You used to be in silent pictures. You used to be big.

Norma Desmond: I *am* big. It's the *pictures* that got small.

...and made a right turn off the 405. Sunset takes you right across LA and down to the ocean, I remembered, and I made it easily to Venice Beach, against traffic piling into the freeway. Stop and go near the beach on all the little streets. People getting ready to party. Everyone so young. I parked and took a walk on the beach. It’s like 42nd Street on steroids. Hustlers and operators and hookers and seedy shops and gawkers everywhere. Sad little Muscle Beach now host to a couple of smallish black guys with bulging biceps, tight abs, and molded butts. An older black fellow and his “son” are promoting their new CD. They stop you and ask you to listen to their new song, and you put on their headphones. You are to suggest a price to pay for the CD. I say, “I’ll give you $2, keep the CD.” The man is grateful. I don’t have the energy for this kind of interchange today, so I head back to a road parallel to the beach and walk back to my car before the luggage disappears, and I’m off to San Diego. Normally, another 2 hours south.

Before leaving I call the big hotel overlooking the beach, to get a sense of what they are charging. The man with a Middle Eastern accent who answers the phone starts by suggesting the top floor with 180-degree ocean view and balcony for only $285. I work him down from there, to the second floor at $165. But, I am not staying. Not my scene, not at all.

I am heading towards Chula Vista. That’s the very Mexican city on the U.S. side of the border. When my parents lived in Rancho Santa Fe, we never went there. You take 405 to the right to go to the airport and downtown. There’s a split where 805 veers to the left and slopes down to Chula Vista. That’s where the shoot is on Saturday, 4:30 PM at the store. I have more than enough time. I like to get where I’m going, get oriented, get settled, then find a modicum of calm and centeredness before I work. I have no hotel plan because I like to psych out a place before booking it.

At 10:45 PM I am on 3rd Avenue, the Chula Vista civic pride zone, with arches and little white lights on trees announcing that this is the original part of town (or someone forgot to take down the Christmas lights). No chain stores here, no motels, no strip malls. I see a white stucco art deco building with the sign, “El Primero Hotel.” That’s the one for me. I park and hop out of the Miata and go to the office behind a glass door. I peer into a neatly decorated lobby, shiny black and white marble floors. A sign on the door gives me a cell number to call after 10 PM. I call and reach a neat Filipino man who appears to be in his 60’s who greets me enthusiastically. I ask if he has something affordable for one night. “What do you mean by affordable?” he asks.

How about $70?” I suggest.

“How about $80?” he replies. I’m in.

“Breakfast is served in the morning. Would you like me to wake you up in time for breakfast?” he says. I say I’ll probably want to sleep in after my long drive, and ask, “Would it be OK to have a late check-out, say 1 PM?” No problem, he says.

I note the cute little outdoor patio with metal chairs and tables, all locked up for the night. Sleep versus breakfast? Sleep wins for me. I park in the gated garage behind the building and Pie leads me upstairs, to the second floor, where I stay in the Cardiff by the Sea room. Swell. Very art deco. “Chula Vista’s Best Kept Hotel Secret.” Big bed. Cable. View of the parking lot. No tub. But, my new friend brings me a goodie bag and some fancy M&Ms and a little paperback Harlequin romance novel. He brings up my bag and I give him a tip. He seems surprised and gives me a warm hug.

The hotel was built in 1930. Pie’s wife and daughter did the decorating. There are 20 rooms, but tonight only 2 are occupied.

I should have gone right to bed, but I had business to attend to. Unlike Norma Desmond, Character Actress Launching has no make-up person, no hair dresser, no wardrobe mistress. I have to hang up my red silk blouse and back-up red blouse for the shoot that I’ve kept in a Macy’s garment bag, neatly laid out over the suitcase, during the entire trip. I have to wash and blow-dry my very curly hair, to make it easier to brush out in the morning. I have to keep the room cool and dry for the hair. The AC is noisy. I turn on the TV and become mesmerized by yet another insane CSNBC show from the Department of Pre-crimes. I don’t even hit the pillow til 2:30 AM. And that’s when I notice that all the linens have been rinsed in some sort of sweet smelling fabric wash that does not please. I cannot sleep and breathe in this odor. Around 3 I get up and roll up the sweatshirt I had been wearing and use it as an odor-free pillow. Then I sleep like a baby. Until the phone rings at 9:40. It’s Pie, the manager, who wants to double-check on my breakfast needs. Well, that was the wake-up call. There’s no getting back to sleep now. And so begins Shoot Day 1.