When I come out of my motel in Los Angeles and look up at the sky
the words 'have a beautiful day' are etched into the blue.
On the street, sleek convertibles glide by and women with their morning lattes in hand walk their pooches in that casual way that is indigenous to California.
Down a ways I watch a woman approaching in a crab like fashion, each step carefully coordinated as she pushes her walking support frame along in front of her.
Now and then she stops as if to plan her next move.
When she comes within earshot she stops and asks me where I am from.
I tell her and immediately she and I launch into a conversation.
Beneath the shade of lush and perfumed growth that borders the sidewalk she seems anxious to share snippets of her life with me.
Glad of my attention she tells me she has two new hips and moved here from North Dakota. She used to teach kindergarten and has two daughters still living back home. Now she lives in an apartment building that is 98 per cent Russian. She emphasises the 98 per cent bit. She says the building reeks of garlic. 'I hate garlic', she chirps. 'Well now honey I better mosey on' she says and brushes my arms with her cool fingertips. 'You are so sweet and thank you for talking to me. Why around here,nobody gets to talking anymore'.