I live in Hollywood, California. If you’ve never been, don’t think surfing, don’t think Baywatch, don’t think sand and sea. Think urban.
Within a mile of me is the Dolby Theatre, which hosts the Academy Awards each year, causing the shutdown of major streets in the area and a rise in local blood pressure. The art deco Pantages, opened in 1930, welcomes the top plays and musicals straight from Broadway. The TCL Chinese Theater, which I still call Grauman’s, has been the famous home to movie star hand and footprints since 1922. Netflix’s Los Angeles headquarters is within walking distance. But so is one of the largest municipal green spaces in the country–Griffith Park. It houses golf courses, tennis courts, hiking trails, the Observatory and the Greek Amphitheater. But my absolute favorite part of the 4210 acres might be a self-contained little sanctuary called the Ferndell Nature Museum, though it’s not a museum at all. What it actually is, is a little slice of heaven.
The meandering half mile trail houses tropical greenery. There are various ferns, of course. A stream which runs the entire course is home to tiny waterfalls–their steady trickling reminiscent of serenity fountains found in nearby spas. There’s a pond where koi glide about and turtles climb onto rocks to sun themselves. Squirrels frolic, dragonflies soar, and hummingbirds buzz. It’s accessed through a black iron gate, and though it’s only a few hundred feet from the intersection of Western and Los Feliz Blvd, most people don’t even seem to know it’s there.
It’s where I would find myself after a hike, exhaling away the past week’s stresses and minor crises. It’s also where I started to notice these two older women. Whenever I was in the park around ten, they would amble by. Pretty sure they also ambled by on days I wasn’t there. It seemed to be their routine–that little slice of normal that made life not sometimes seem so random. They were maybe in their late early eighties, and always arm in arm. One always wore black leggings, black sneakers, a hoodie, her short hair tucked under a baseball cap. The other looked like one of those ladies of my aunt’s generation–put together, no matter the situation. If she had no more plans other than to sit in her home for the day, her hair would probably still be coiffed, her face made up, and her body clothed in a most presentable outfit. She was usually in gray slacks and a patterned cardigan, or a poncho-like throw, or a blazer. And never once did I see her sans a fedora or lovely hat of some kind. Blue, gray, maybe beige. Sometimes these two women passed by silently. Sometimes there was a giggle or a few words. Every now and then the one in the black leggings would pause in her walk, and the one in the fedora would stand by her side patiently.
After a while, we began to acknowledge one another. A small smile here, a crinkle of the nose and eyes there, and then even a quiet hello. I couldn’t help but wonder about their lives: Where were they from? How did they meet? Were they friends, relatives, lovers? What were their existences like once they left the beauty and greenery of our little urban rainforest. I thought about approaching them a few times. But they seemed content and at peace in their own two-person world. So, I became content with our small acknowledgements.
The first time I went back to the park and didn’t see them, I thought nothing of it. But now it’s been months. I wonder if they’re okay. I wonder if something has happened to one, and the other can’t bear to venture into this magical little place that had been shared by both.
I think of them each time I go to the park. Sometimes I wish I had made conversation with them. Other times, I feel this is the way it was meant to be.
