Chapter Eight : Not in Kansas anymore!

Visiting the garment district in Los Angeles is like an other world experience.  You pull off a Southern California freeway and within two blocks you'd think you'd been dropped into a middle Eastern souk or a Mexican street market.  Vendors on the street hawk bacon wrapped hot dogs, tacos, Central American pupusas, churros, and mangos slices on a stick.  A man sits on an upturned milk crate with a coconut on his knee as he deftly whacks off great slices of husk so that the milk can be drunk through a straw.  At a table set up on the sidewalk, a man sells sandals for $5.  Similar tables line the street selling sunglasses, piles of socks, makeup, costume jewelry, suitcases and purses.

But my reason for visiting the area is the fabric stores. Some no more than 10' by 10' holes in the wall, some much larger extending into murky depths, but all with fabric everywhere.  Great bolts of fabric line the walls, the shelves, and overflow onto the sidewalk.  Haggling is expected, even required.  Sales are in cash.  I chuckle to myself as a store owner actually utters the phrase "for you, lady, special price today".   I step over fabric bolts and squeeze between store workers and customers to work my way through each store looking for velvets, satins, and laces.  After a few years of coming here I have a good idea of how much fabrics should cost and how much they shouldn't.  Sometimes I make my choices and then bring in my husband to bargain and close the deal.  

Going to the garment district is like going to Disneyland for me.  I only get to do it a couple of times a year.   Negotiating the Los Angeles traffic is no picnic, after all.  It can easily be a six hour round trip from my home in San Diego.  And working my way through the stores, hauling bags of fabric around, and the sensory overload from all those colors and textures, noise and people, can be exhausting.  But it's so gratifying to find those luscious velvets and lovely shiny and sparkly fabrics that I can make into dresses.  Anything you want can be found in the L.A. garment district.

This time we combined a family trip to Universal Studios with a visit to the district on the way home.  (The suggestion by certain family members that I planned the trip to Universal only because we'd have to pass through the district to get there is really just an ugly rumor!)  Parking attendants with flags wave us into a lot on the roof (yes, the roof!) of a block of shops.  I try not to think about how well the building has been earthquake retrofitted.

With hubby and kids ensconced in the local Starbucks with books and an Ipad loaded with games, and with their patience bought with glasses of passion fruit ice tea, vanilla frappacinos and pastries, I make focused and efficient forays into the shops.  I return once in a while to unload my bags and  rehydrate, and then head out again.  At some point Meaghan discovers the $5 shoe vendor.  Apparently, her patience can also be bought with a strappy pair of white gladiator sandals.  Her younger sister Jocelyn is made happy with a couple of sparkly rings and a shiny bauble to hang around her neck.

Three or four hours later we're headed home, with the back of the van loaded up with fabrics, energy and money spent, and visions of dance dresses yet-to-be running through my head.