A cobblestone street dotted with lampposts enchants me.
This strip lies at the center of the luxury fashion flagships that lines downtown Beverly hills and attracts visitors from all around the world every single day. As I walk past those well-curated shop windows and step onto the cobblestones with my floral open-toed heels, the wind picks up and stings my cheek, dances along my décolletage and prompts gooseflesh over my entire body.
I drape my dusty pink shawl over my shoulders but internally welcome the breeze, imagining it will transport me back in time in a Midnight in Paris sort of way—a midnight in 1940s Beverly Hills.
I’m properly dressed for it: dawning a champagne-colored satin gown at dusk. The a-line, sleeveless dress hugs my curvy figure, also meant for another time. With it I wear a glittery mask, which acts just as much as bifocals to this fantasy world as it does a way to shut out the one I am currently in.
Just for this one night. Just for this one night. I slow down. I watch the sun descend and douse the street in hues of tangerine and grapefruit. Gradually, because the sun is in no hurry while the people below it are: The natives of Los Angeles whose dreams turn into strides, that distort into stress until they forget what it was exactly they were dreaming about in the first place.
I hear Nat King Cole’s molasses voice play on the loudspeakers of this makeshift alley, and I dream. I dream. I time travel. I imagine. And while I have to leave such bliss behind, I shall return to it soon so that I do not forget my dreams that prompt my daily strides.
Pictures by my best friend, fellow fashion blogger and fellow dreamer Mari Makatsaria
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