Perhaps Los Angeles is Magical

I grew up listening to Jack Benny on the radio. As a child, I memorized the "Who's on First?" routine. My favorite movies all had Jimmy Stewart or Cary Grant in them. It took adulthood for me to realize how unique this was for a child of the 1980s. But Dad was in the service and from 1983 to 1986 we lived in the Netherlands - where the only English language entertainment included listening to Armed Forces Network on the radio. I guess their budget for current entertainment was limited. I don't recall it being a problem for me.

Now I realize that perhaps I was born in the wrong time. Listening to 1920s radio re-broadcasts and watching old movies gave me an appreciation for the early days of American mass media. Oh, to have been a stagehand for Mack Sennett. To this day, no person in history enthralls me more than Irving G. Thalberg, a person virtually lost to American cinema history because of his lack of self-promotion. During the early days of Hollywood it seems not only was mass media revolutionized, but the participants were fully aware of their own roles. It was an amazing time.

It should be no surprise that as a youth one of my most prominent goals was to go to L.A. As a child, I never traveled further west than Denver. Though the mountains were more spectacular, it wasn't exactly the Hollywood Hills. My college years took me to Florida. Ironically, I didn't visit Hollywood, FL until after I had graduated and moved to Texas.

Flash forward several years, and 26 year old Paul has a real job, with a real reason to travel to Los Angeles on business...with an expense account, no less! In fleeting moments, I imagined loitering on Sunset Boulevard and being bumped into by Steven Spielberg only to have him say, "You're exactly the look I need in my new picture!" Since this seemed unlikely, I decided I was going to make the most of my first trip to L.A.

Of course, I knew absolutely nothing of the geography of Los Angeles. Today, I realize that EVERYTHING in L.A. is at least an hour from ANYTHING. At the time, I naturally figured that the best place to stay on my business trip was downtown. Every other big city I had ever visited featured a downtown that was almost always centrally located, so why would L.A. be any different?

My thought process was simple. I only knew of one hotel in downtown L.A. - The Westin Bonaventure. It is the same hotel where Arnold Schwarzenegger chased a terrorist through the lobby on horseback in James Cameron's True Lies. It also features the external elevators seen in the movie. Perfect.

While I knew nothing of L.A. geography, I did know enough to realize that it was not a city of mass transit. In New York, a rental car is a liability. In L.A., it is essential. Being on an expense account, it was quite easy to pass off a Mustang convertible for the trip. The receipt rarely states the specific type of car and everything in L.A. is more expensive.

Upon arriving in L.A., it is immediately apparent that this is a different world. First, it is always sunny although the quality of the sun changes gradually as the day progresses. In the mornings, the sun is filtered by a beautiful haze. Of course, to be seen as beautiful you must block out the knowledge that it is created from pollution. As the haze burns off, the city reveals itself as a collage of postcards and movie backgrounds.

The most unique aspect of the sun in Southern California is that you do not need sunglasses. Living in Texas, you instantly realize that sunglasses are a requirement if you simply want to see while outdoors. In L.A., the sun bathes you, but it does not invade your senses as if trying to incapacitate you.

Dressed in my best Magnum P.I. garb, complete with (mostly) green Hawaiian shirt and modernized with Birkenstock sandals, I headed out on the town. I hit all of the tourist highlights - Mann's Chinese Theater, Santa Monica Pier, Hollywood and Vine (best left to the imagination of yester-year), Rodeo Drive, Westwood (home of UCLA) and, of course Venice Beach. I even tracked down where Irving G. Thalberg is buried, although his tomb is unfortunately private at the Great Mausoleum at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California.

Mornings were spent getting in the required business meetings that served as justification for the entire trip. Lunch was spent on the town or at the beach. Afternoons were spent in the hotel napping or refreshing. Evenings were spent typically on Sunset Boulevard or other stereotypical hotspots more renowned for their iconic place in Hollywood lore than for their ambiance, including The Whiskey and the Viper Room.

It was during an afternoon recuperating at the Westin that I was touched, ever so slightly, by the magic of Los Angeles. It was one of those moments where you know nobody is going to believe you, but it doesn't matter because you were there. The best comparison I can conjure is that of getting a hole-in-one while golfing alone.

Resting on the hotel bed, I turned on the TV to find the Dodgers baseball game. Watching the Dodgers on local television is somewhat what I imagine to listening to the old Brooklyn Dodgers must have been like, as each was broadcast by Vin Scully. The time of the one-team career broadcaster has mostly passed now, but there are a few of the old guard left, including Vin Scully. I was never a Dodgers fan, but I knew the relationship of this man and the team. It was a pleasure to close my eyes and just listen.

By the seventh-inning stretch, I began to grow restless and decided to head down to the hotel bar for a drink before heading out on the town for the evening. As I was brushing my teeth, the now common-place sponsored trivia question flashed across the screen: "Who was the oldest player to get an extra base hit in the world series?" I didn't know the answer, but I was about to.

I turned off the TV and headed for the elevators. The elevator in the Westin Bonaventure is like a tube mounted to the exterior of the hotel and provides breathtaking views of sprawling city. The ride is smooth and quick as you descend into the seven story atrium and ground level.

I pulled up a stool at the The Lobby Court, a central cocktail and coffee bar on the ground level. Glancing up I noticed that the Dodgers game was on one of the overhead TVs, sans sound. The broadcast was just presenting the answer to the day's trivia question: "The oldest player to get an extra base hit in the world series was: Dave Winfield at the age of 41." It was interesting tid-bit, but without the sound on there was little point to watching a Dodgers game. I ordered a Corona and settled into my bar stool.

That's when I heard the voice. Initially, his back was to me as he took his seat at the bar beside me. He was talking to someone, but I could not see anything around his broad shoulders squared off further by an immaculate suit. But I knew the voice. I'm not sure exactly how, but I knew the voice.

If you have ever watched professional sports of any type and thought to yourself, if only given the chance I could...then you have not encountered a professional athlete in person. A professional athlete is a unique specimen among Homo sapiens. It is as though they were chiseled directly from the stone atop Mount Olympus. And Dave Winfield was no exception.

I have never asked anyone for an autograph, unless it was for my kids. I do not seek out celebrities and interrupt them during dinner to tell them why I am a fan. I generally like to be left alone and suspect that those who might be recognized in public would appreciate the same courtesy. But this was different.

I tapped Mr. Winfield on the shoulder and immediately wondered if I had made a mistake. This man was 6'6'' and played at 220 pounds. He was a former New York Yankee who once was (incidentally) involved in getting George Steinbrenner banned from baseball. He was in the Baseball Hall of Fame and owned a World Series ring. My fight or flight instinct gave way to sheer curiosity.

"Hello?" Mr. Winfield turned partially to discover the source of the interruption.

I held my ground. "Pardon me, sir, but you were just the answer to the trivia question on the Dodger game." I pointed to the TV to backup my claim.

"Really?" Mr. Winfield completed his turn towards me and a faint smile crossed his mustachioed square jaw. "What was the question?"

Now I had his attention. I proudly recited the trivia question that was not at all mine.

To this day, I do not recall the rest of the conversation except that we shook hands. It was a brief conversation centered on the singular subject of the trivia question. No autograph. No small talk. No further questions.

From the first moment of hearing his voice, I steadily became overcome by a warm, soothing rush of adrenalin. It is a feeling that only comes when you are experiencing a moment you cannot believe even while fully aware that it is happening.

For the next several days, the punch line of the story came naturally and consistently, "What are the odds?"