Headed out to the Rose Bowl Flea last weekend. It was a glorious Southern California Winter day. The Air was crisp and cool and the sun shone clear through blue skies. Fluffy white clouds floated overhead and drifted on the light breezes. The drive was uneventful with just about three slow and goes on the interstate, but the drive was worth it. I arrived on Seco Street and pulled into the line that led to parking. Once the line moved and I was positioned to enter parking, I was able to cut across the green expanse of lawn and find a great space fairly close to the entrance. The grass was soggy from the past weeks of bountiful rain and mud oozed through where heavy cars and trucks had pulled in and down the rows to find the best parking. The Rose Bowl; designed by the great architect Myron Hunt and completed in 1922, rose above the tents and flags. A white coliseum for modern gladiators. A huge neon rose embelished the cement facade. It’s proportions were perfect and graceful and the building was set out at the base of the canyon in the center of nature. Those architects of the newly settled California had loved nature and sought to place their creations within the center of it.
I got my umbrella for shade and my bag for any goodies I might find and marched up to buy my ticket. The venue was filled with people out for an exciting and fun day filled with anticipation. People were out to explore and to look for vintage treasure and funky clothes that you could only find at a Los Angeles flea market. Just watching my fellow human kind was entertainment enough. We humans came in so many shapes and sizes, personalities and characters. People were dressed in all kinds of gear. A couple; impossibly thin and chic ambled by dressed to the tee in Rockabilly style. Their outfits consisted of matching rolled Levis, studded belts and immaculate western shirts. There were gorgeous women who looked like they had just hiked out Laurel Canyon. Their skin pale and untanned, long flowing tresses with the perfect California beach wave, they walked slowly and floated in their patterned skirts and peasant tops. A seven foot cellist in black combat boots with four inch platforms and a kilt had stationed himself in front of the bowl. He serenaded the crowds with futuristic and dramatic compositions that echoed through the canyon walls.
I wandered around, the sun beating against my parasol, the heat settling into my shoulders. Vintage was everywhere and it was more than enough to make for at least two full days of shopping. Thousands of items, each with it’s own unique history and so many stories to tell. The fact that it was so much, created the atmosphere of treasure hunt that could be relished and allowed to slowly unfold. It was a perfect day in nature, a perfect day for relaxing and letting history emerge and entertain.
