Loud Music, Good Food, and Comfort in the Unkown

The gray moon hung up amidst a midnight sky as I walked back from the concert venue towards my place of rest. I had seen one of my favorite bands at a long-awaited show, two years in the making. Among all the groups and couples, I stood alone. 

There’s something to be said about going to a concert alone; the thrill of seeing your favorite artists live, packed alongside others who share in your passion for their music. It’s tight, it’s loud, and uncomfortably damp–there oftentimes isn’t room to do much of anything besides sway to the music, or try with expert precision to lift your phone from your pockets and record your favorite moments. But in that sense, you aren’t necessarily alone, but in the company of strangers, bonding over the love of life’s universal language. A language that not only teaches us to live, but to survive. 

As I exited the venue, the historic Fonda Theater located on Hollywood Boulevard, the entrance was crowded with tired concertgoers and enterprising chefs, looking to fill the bellies of the crowd. I navigated through the congregation, my nose greeted with the smell of food carts grilling all manner of meat and veggies as the aroma permeated through the air, drowning out the odor of exhaust from the vehicles on the still busy road. Despite my stomach’s protests (and how good those kabobs smelled), I continued down the boulevard towards the old house which I was staying at. 

Deep in the heart of the city, right off of Hollywood Boulevard, tucked between decades-old houses and new apartment complexes lay an unassuming relic of a dwelling. After punching in the gate code, I walked up the steps of the flower-lined walkway up onto the dim porch, and swung open the industrial behemoth of a door attached to the front of the house. For this house is not a house, but a hostel. A home for anyone who needs it. Solitary souls seeking purpose perhaps, or a temporary place to stay for the solitary traveler–as is my case. The floorboards creak with each step as I pass through the empty common area on my way to the kitchen. Two men are cooking together, but separate, as their shared desire for a late dinner drives them to do so. They converse, I give a nod, and swing open the fridge for my dinner: overpriced sushi, tastefully prepared with fake grass garnish, ginger, and wasabi. 

I take a seat on a bench in the common room and eat my dinner, yearning for those kabobs, hoping my grocery store sushi is a worthwhile substitute (it wasn’t). But as I sit, I recall the excitement of today with a clarity only afforded to the mind by undergoing a surreal experience, only to be snapped back into the weariness of reality. I’m miles from home, surrounded by the company of strangers and music-lovers, but I’m not fazed. Rather, the unfamiliarity of my current environment brings me a strange comfort; a similar sensation felt at the concert, digging through stacks of books at the nearby local bookstore, or flipping through the dusty vinyl records at another shop. 

But I realize now that the weariness of reality is best defined by its very opposite–the existence of life’s pleasures: music, good food, and the ability to take solace within the company of yourself.