Los Angeles Notebook

The great wave of Summer Vacation rolls onward. My brother John and I, determined to reach the crest at just the right moment, paddled our proverbial surfboards headlong into the swell as July arrived. We headed to California last week, with abandon, carrying little more than a few baseball tickets and a relentless, patriotic optimism.

The plan was simple: four baseball games in four days, Dodgers versus Cubs, to experience the last great series before the All-Star Break in person. For these two Oregon boys, it was a chance to become temporary citizens of the second-largest metropolis in America, and to cheer our boys on to victory. We were naive, open-minded, and hopeful.

By now you know that the Dodgers took three out of four of those games. In all three wins, the starting pitcher made it to the 8th inning, shortstop Rafael Furcal continued his month-long hitting resurgence, and the California sun set beautifully over an exuberant ballpark. It was a wonderful time. We had four separate vantage points: up from first base, in the famous "Bleacher Beach," the All-You-Can-Eat Pavilion, and the uppermost frontiers of the top deck. Throughout, we experienced the third-oldest baseball stadium in the majors the way it was meant to be enjoyed. We ate peanuts and hotdogs. We howled and cheered. We shouted taunts at Cubs fans. And at the end of the series, we felt like we were leaving home. When Hong-Chih Kuo got the last out on Sunday, we both stood in our aisle for a few moments, watching the stadium empty in the soft gloaming. It was a brief snapshot of Paradise, and we had trouble descending the stairs to the parking lot.

Of course, the games lasted only a few hours a day. The rest of the time, we ate at "Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles" in Pasadena; or at "My Dung," a great little Vietnamese place down the street from our motel; or at "Larry's Chilidogs" in Burbank. We also sat by the pool, or talked with bass fisherman at the "lake" across Highway 60. We read books and we drove around, just looking. In many ways, it was a perfect trip. With only the ball game on our daily agenda, we did as much or as little as we wanted.

To me, this blissful little sojourn was exactly what Summer Vacation should mean. It was a trip marked with serendipity. I enjoyed being surprised at whatever celebrity would throw out the first pitch: one day it was David Duchovny, the next it was Landon Donovan. American Idol winner Jordin Sparks sang the National Anthem one day. Each time we found the correct exit or onramp in the city's serpentine freeway systems, it felt like a minor victory. Each time we were handed a promotional poster or a free pair of Dodger flip-flops, we felt triumphant. The City of Angels lived up to its beatific name that week, and the golden sun never shone brighter.

The best moment, for me, was after Friday's game. We took the wrong exit from Chavez Ravine and were headed west down Hollywood Boulevard. John was fumbling with the atlas, trying to see if it held clues for us to get back to our motel in Rosemead. The lanes merged into one, and I let in a white car with darkly tinted windows. Soon it became clear that the lanes had merged into a mandatory sobriety test stop, directed by the LAPD. John pointed out that the white car was a Rolls Royce. We were stopped by police; I passed the test. Ahead of me, the car's windows rolled down and I could see the driver in the mirror. My jaw dropped. I had let in Rafael Furcal, he of the .335 batting average who had just been named NL Player of the Week and would be named to the All-Star Team a day later. Like a child, I hollered out the window, ignoring the officer next to me. I pumped a fist in the night air. The other officers took notice, and as I rolled past they asked me who they had just stopped. I shouted the answer, laughing, and wheeled away. It didn't matter then that we were lost in a seedy part of an enormous city on a Friday night, or that I had just been hanging out of my car in front of a dozen LAPD. I'd made room for the Dodger shortstop, and that joy carried me back to the Pomona Highway, and back home.