It is 9:00 AM and I am on my way to return my rented car, a little, white, brand new Corolla that feels remarkably underpowered on LA’s fast-moving freeways. I’ve rented the car from Midway, the company from which I leased the SUV I drove during the months I was in LA for shooting; they’re a pleasure to deal with, and have cut me a great deal, but sadly don’t have an office at Long Beach Airport, the closest place where JetBlue flies. So I am returning the car to their corporate headquarters, on the corner of Sepulveda and Santa Monica Boulevard.

I’m supposed to head back to near the Beverly Center, to meet the girl I’ve been seeing for breakfast before I head off to the airport. The Midway folks kindly offer to drop me off, and though Jorge, the mechanic who takes me, speaks absolutely no English, we make it through the twenty minute drive talking non-stop, he in Spanish, I in Italian. By and large we understand each other, yet Jorge is particularly enamored with most of the women we pass, and offers a running commentary I’m afraid my rather G-rated textbook Italian leaves me ill-prepared to follow in great detail.

Breakfast itself is excellent. She and I eat outside at a small caf