the union house

when i was in los angeles i lived in a house on union street.

located in historic filipino town (hifi, per the locals), it was the self-proclaimed up-and-coming place to be — not as basic as silverlake, but more accessible than highland park. the echo park reservoir was a twenty-minute walk away (i told my parents ten), and there were not one, not two, but three different coffee shops that all served matcha within a walking distance of the house.

to say it was a gem would be an understatement.

lay of the land

from the outside, it was difficult to get a good look at it because the gate surrounding the property had a crown of overgrown ivy. through the thicket, however, one could see a bright red door that shone like a crown jewel.

we never remembered the gate code, but punching the numbers in became a dance my fingers quickly learned the steps to.

two beeps, and two steps later, you were on the front patio. dressed with a hummingbird feeder and a small wooden table with chairs to match, this was not only a sanctuary for the birds, but also for us.

wednesday was always laundry day, and i would celebrate the occasion by dressing the bare benches with a necklace of damp clothes to bask in the sun like my father would in july.

i would often go outside and sit, either with a book or just my thoughts, but never for long because the chairs weren’t that comfortable and neither was the temperature. with so much sun at my disposal, basking in moderation was the only sensible way to go.

taken on a wednesday

silence was rare in the union house. the floorboards were so creaky that words were not needed to know who was home. the depth of the creak gave more than enough information as to whose company you were in.

silence was also rare outside of the union house. especially on sundays. off the top of my head, i can count five different churches within a five-minute walk from our house. six if you counted to the congregation of individuals who would meet every thursday in the korean church parking lot to sing, dance, eat, and exchange what i would assume to be blessings with one another.

i am positive that there is more than what meets the (google maps) eye

there was always something new to discover in hifi. little wanders around the neighbourhood always gave me new details to colour in the canvas of my little life in la.

there was the orange tree on welcome street whose branches were so heavy with fruit that come march they drooped all the way down to kiss the pavement; the bench that boasted a view overlooking downtown la; the footpath that yawned over the freeway; the discovery of a post box tucked behind the medical centre — a critical find because the one i had been going to was at the bottom of a hill that was a bit too steep for my knees.

from a walk that took me over the 101 freeway

to be able to step outside my front door and hit pavement — one that actually had quite a bit of foot traffic, especially on sundays — was a real luxury in LA. i became acquainted with neighbours whose own walks coincided with mine. after a certain number of smile-nods, we would exchange one-word greetings, and then those words grew into sentences, and then blossomed into conversations.

mr. belmont was one of them. he always sat behind the elementary school on his namesake street, yet he never told me his real name.

not mr. belmont, but most likely an acquaintance of his

he was always found in the same spot on the same street, but there was one instance when i saw him leaving the pale blue house across from his perch with an armful of avocados. in march, i saw the same, but with oranges.

regardless of his state, he always bore the same toothy grin whose sincerity was refreshing in a city of too many empty how are you-s.

other notable neighbours

my move back to los angeles was tough. i spent the flight there trying to subtly hide the continuous stream of tears with a pack of tissues tucked under the sleeve of my sweater. my move was not by choice, it was circumstantial — making it evermore difficult to accept.

as someone who can’t seem to stay in one place for longer than a year, unpacking my bags is always done under the pretense that they will soon be packed up again. its all fun and games until i realised that home would always be a place that was far far away.

but,

something was different at the union house.

tokyo is, and will forever be my home, home; but the union house became my home.

mornings at union

it was also never my plan to live in the house on union street. my original housing plans fell through and somehow i ended up moving in with people i had never lived with, in a neighbourhood that i had never heard of, but in a house that had one beautiful red door.

for the first time in a long time, coming home was something i could look forward to doing each day, rather than something that i had to wait many months for.

just because my stay was temporary, doesn’t mean it was any less meaningful.

thank you, hifi, for letting me be a part of your song and i know i will always cherish the interlude you had in mine.