A Hostile City Shows Off Its Gentler Side

When friends in London heard that I would be visiting Los Angeles for an extended holiday, they were lavish with warnings and advice about how to survive the hostile environs of a city they believed to be festering with drug pushers, racial tension and gang warfare.

“Remember most people will shoot you for just looking at them for too long,” was the tip from a much-traveled journalist colleague.

“Don’t speak to strangers. If they hear your accent and know you are a tourist anything could happen,” cautioned my father (who has been nowhere) before he put me on the plane.

So armed with these impressions and other parental instructions such as, “Look left before crossing the road,” I arrived at LAX in search of adventure, but filled with trepidation.

Nevertheless, I decided to bypass the long queue of taxis waiting to whisk me speedily and luxuriously into the city in favor of a bus journey to my hotel in downtown Los Angeles.

Heaving two heavy cases and an equally burdensome piece of hand luggage, I boarded the airport courtesy bus, which dropped me off at the nearby public bus terminus. Here I was assisted by a hungry-looking youth carrying a boom box, who directed me to the appropriate stop and carried one of my weighty bags.

I was already breaking one of the “never-do” rules--putting trust in a man who clearly had the ability, at the very least, to make off with my purse. My only excuse for my cavalier attitude was that I made him carry the heaviest tote bag and there was no way he could sprint off with all that weight. As for my purse, it was clasped so closely to my bosom only an earthquake could have torn it from me.

Unfortunately, in my haste I had forgotten to change any of my traveler’s checks before leaving the airport--a realization that only hit me as I boarded the local No. 42 bus and approached its burly driver.

I put my best foot forward. “Erm, excuse me, Would you possibly accept a traveler’s check?” was my sheepish opening gambit delivered in a crisp British tone.

The man gave me a look which seemed to say: “Puleeze . . . lady. Get outta my face.”

So I tried the sympathetic wide-eyed female appeal: “Look, I’ve just arrived from London and forgot to cash my checks. Would you please just take me into town? I’ve got all this luggage, and . . . “

It didn’t work. “Sorry ma’am, no can do.” He began what in Britain we would call the “more than my job’s worth, luv” speech. The scene was taking on the appearance of a Tracey Ullman sketch, as weary traveler pleaded with disgruntled driver while bemused passengers looked on.

Beaten and dejected, I started to disembark when a petite Asian woman stepped forward and offered to pay the $1.10 fare. It is hard to say who was more surprised--the driver, me, or the other passengers.

It was a most unexpected welcome after a grueling 11-hour flight--warmth and generosity from a stranger instead of an attack by some crazed psychotic.

Cynics may say she just wanted to go home and thought the additional cost was worth paying to get things moving. I like to think this was one of those rare acts of humanity found in even the most spiritually debilitated atmosphere.

Later, on recounting this tale to several Angelenos, their reactions were ones of utter amazement. “You mean she just upped and paid your fare?” was the most frequently asked question, though at least one person said he had seen similar acts of generosity.

But it is not just that the woman came to my rescue. It emerged that their incredulousness stemmed primarily from the fact that she appeared to be Korean and I am black. At that time, Korean shopkeeper Soon Ja Du, later convicted, was on trial, charged with killing a black teen-ager, 15-year-old Latasha Harlins.

As this is a city with a reputation for serious racial conflict and there appears to be little love lost between these two minority groups in Los Angeles--and in other U.S. cities--the assistance from this stranger seems indeed incredible. It is encouraging to see that there are still people willing to jump the color divide.

The following morning, I waved down an independent cab. I mention the fact that the driver was white and middle-aged only to help build a descriptive picture. Let’s call him Sam.

As we drove toward Mt. Washington, where I was to view a room for rent, Sam and I spoke at length about crime in certain parts of the city and he gave his view on places to stay. But on approaching the mountain, it became clear that he had no idea how to find the right street.

Pulling over to the curb, he searched his road map, which seemed of little help. After about three minutes, he looked up and, much to my amazement, said: “Look this is not fair on you. I’ll switch off the meter while I search the map.” He put the meter back on once we started up the hill.

After several wrong turns, he declared: “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t think it would be so difficult to find. Why don’t we just stop the clock (it was at $13) and continue looking.” It was another five minutes before we found the address.

Someone told me that I should hoard my courtesies, and spend them frugally each day during my stay, like a tourist husbanding his traveler’s checks. But the welcome I received my first days here has left me, though still realistically cautious, feeling magnanimous.