Where I Rest My Head Essay -- Descriptive Essay, Descriptive Writing

This is the area where I rest my head. I'm not giving in to calling this "home" because home is where the heart is. I live in the "court district" of downtown Los Angeles. With the influx of the Yuppies, however, it is now called the "historic core," We are standing on the corner of Sixth and Broadway. On the south side of the street heading east there are only two office buildings, yet there are many shops. The first is a jewelry shop. Walking past, we find two clothing stores that sell inexpensive women's clothing. There is a nearby market owned by a brother and sister from Iran: Ben and Miriam. When I do purchase there, I often haggle with Ben and he will come down on the price of the item in question. I'm more acquainted with Ben than his sister since he, like me, is something of a jokester. Besides, he is much more honest than his younger sister who is so shrewd she would snatch the nickels from a dead man's eyes! Leaving the market we pass a gated alleyway and a little hole-in-the-wall of a store owned by a Korean family. I normally purchase breath mints and gum there, but that is all. They sell little knick knacks and odds and ends, but their main source of income is alcohol--they sell enough to get a small country drunk. Five more paces and we are at the lobby entrance of a residential building where I have lived since my parole, but that is another essay. As we pass the lobby we come to the Alta Med Health Center, manned by an extremely helpful and pretty woman named Rosa. When I have the time, I drop by to shoot the breeze and trade jokes and anecdotes with her. Right next to the health center is a shoe store owned by an aged Chinese couple, still trying to hold on to their long gone youth. Both dress fashionably y... ...r refurbished goods. Reaching the corner there is a coffee shop, owned by an old Korean woman. When I began my first semester at LATTC I would stop there and grab a cup of Joe. After a few weeks of seeing me on a constant basis, she began to question my coming and going. I explained to her, "I am a student." To which she replied (in broken English), "You good boy". Being diplomatic, I attempted to explain the politics of referring to a grown black man as "boy". Either not understanding or not caring, she chose to continue to refer to me as boy, so I stopped patronizing her shop. This ends our tour through Hell. It's funny. I kind of like this area because it reminds me of New York, but it lacks that "savoir-faire." It's more like "New York meets the third world", or what would have happened had the Spanish, and not the English, taken New Amsterdam from the Dutch.