Everyone left town for the holiday including the local concierge doctors and at least one colleague, but an equal number of travelers arrived, so I was busy.
A Virgin-Australia flight attendant was vomiting at the Warner Center Marriott twenty miles to the northwest. At midnight an Emirate Airline crewlady suffered the same symptom at the Hilton in Costa Mesa fifty miles southeast. My heart sank when I remembered that the freeway to Orange County closes from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. for major construction, and the long detour is always jammed despite the wee hour. My heart leaped when, checking traffic, I learned that the shutdown was suspended for the holiday.
The parade of upset stomachs continued at a home near the beach in Venice. This is a delightful, funky area that brings back memories because my wife lived there when I met her during the Ford administration. It’s packed with small houses and shops built before World War I, so no one has a garage. Everyone parks on the street, and on Saturday afternoon the beaches and shops are crowded. The rule on parking (like the rule on difficult spinal taps) is: keep trying. After fifteen minutes I found a spot less than half a mile away.