Finding Charles Lindbergh

I boarded the 4:40 Metro-Link from the Oceanside Transit Center. I needed to distance myself from San Diego and visit the downtown L.A. Library and my West L.A. daughter. I needed to nap and read another book, "We" again. It had been written by "Lucky" Lindy after his daring flight across the Atlantic Ocean in May of 1927.
  I carried my book, The Spirit of St. Louis, inside my nap-sack along with other stay-over items like underwear, toothbrush etc. Again, I wished to visit the downtown central library to find out more about Charles Lindbergh. It felt great to drink pure air and leave the driving to Metro-Link. I napped, read to wait for Mr. Sun to arrive.
  In other blogs, I mentioned that Lindbergh  had slept in the one dollar-a-night Army and Navy hotel off of Broadway to save money. "The Lone Eagle" had arrived in San Diego and got what he wished, a plane to be made to his specifications at Ryan Air, just bought by the new owner. He told "Lindy: he could build the plane in less than two months.
  Of course my interest in Lindbergh did not come about by accident.  His Spirit haunted me ever since I had been given room 204 in what is called today the 500 Building or Y.M.C.A.  I  heard strange noises ever since the day that Sir Thomas Cartwright allowed me to stay in the Section Eight second floor.
  A piece from another book mentioned he stayed in this hotel in either February or March of 1927. So of course when unhinged doors banged, floors creaked I thought it might have been Him. Instead it usually was a lonely spider or cock roach dancing over my skin. The filthy Broadway air with planes circling my building made me take the #992 downtown bus to Lindbergh Field.
  Four years ago, before the name was changed to the San Diego International Airport, I loved the scenery of the coastline and the little eateries inside. The shoreline must have been beautiful to Lindbergh and he even took off from North Island's, Rockwell Field.  Now I hope the above did not bore you, but I became a addict when it came to "Lucky" Lindbergh. The picture to the side is one of


Charles Nungesser  The  picture above was a French War ace during the First World War., Charles  Nungesser . The World War One ace had shot down  47 German planes and was decorated with the French Legend of Honor. Unlike Lindberg, he took a chance and took off with another from Paris. They were not going for the $25, 000 prize as "Lindy" was to be the first to fly from New York to Paris.

   The French were stunned that their ace pilot had been lost and never recovered  the plane. Yet the fact that another one took his place and the French and world had another hero to hang their hat one. Lindberg took no chances.

   As always, the train ride to Los Angeles gave me the opportunity to become Charles Lindberg. Two books checked out of the new San Diego library kept me company on the plane ride. Just like Lindies flight over the Pacific, my train began before the sunset and it was not until Fullerton that the signs of dawn interrupted my reading. My first stop would be the library before heading to West Los Angeles to marvel at my second daughter. My own life began in Los Angeles where Pico Blvd played  role in my daily living.

  Since it was early, I grabbed a bite of breakfast at Peat's Coffee across from the library and then walked to the underground food court off of Flower Street. The library opened at nine thirty and I asked for the March of 1927 editions of the N.Y. Times. The elevator took me down to the fourth floor to the microfilm area. I continued my journey to discover Lindbergh from the New York Times microfilms.
  In no way was it luck when the one engine plane made it over the Atlantic to Paris even though he distained carrying a radio.   one engine plane without a radio to Paris, France. The new Wright engine with free-higher-octane gasoline provided by Mobile Oil and Standard got him across the ocean in record time. The Spirit tagged along with a tail wind all the way from Newfoundland. Lindbergh had studied the weather reports and carried a rabbits foot for good luck. A new compass did not deviate from its desired course.

  Enough of Charles Lindbergh, I needed to get to my daughters apartment in West Los Angeles. As it was still early and not the rush hour, I jumped on the 720 Rapid, across the street from the library, and took it to Western Avenue. Up the street was the Rapid Blue stop. The every-thirty-minute bus came in a few minutes.
  I climbed aboard and tried to put the fifty cents into the machine. A gentleman in back me screamed, "hurry up."When I turned around I found it was the same man trying to illicit money from the ladies earlier. A bus trainer yanked me aboard before the other could further abuse me.
  The Rapid Blue made a left and and a right and we were on Pico Blvd. The bus stopped across from the Glatt Market and I walked up Pico to my daughter's apartment. Across from it stood-tall the Museum of Tolerance. (Not edited and more to come.)