Yoga in LA, Part 2

Path to my AirBnB

Coffee Intensity on Abbot Kinney

Pretty LA

When I found out I had to go to LA for a quick work trip I started planning what yoga classes I could slip in.

I would take Annie Carpenter at Exhale as soon as I landed, and Vinnie Marino at Yoga Works right before I flew out. With filming all day Tuesday in Glendale, east of LA, and meetings on Wednesday, there wasn't going to be time for much more.

And so I went for the high notes: two yoga world big shots who both taught in an area of the yoga world that is sometimes called The Mothership: Venice and Santa Monica.

For the few days I was working, I was psyched anticipating Vinnie Marion's class at Yoga Works before I returned to New York. I knew he had become somewhat of a celebrity since I was last in LA, in 2008, so I checked the schedule obsessively to make sure he would actually be teaching on the Thursday morning I had available.

I spoke to Joni Yong, L.A.'s Accidental Yogist blogger, who said she'd join me there. She warned me to arrive early since Vinnie's classes---even at 80 people in a room, and one inch between mats---sell out.

"Get there thirty minutes before. And bring a towel. You are going to sweat, and Yoga Works doesn't rent towels.

"Duly warned.The next day, I was up at 6 and already strategizing how to handle Vinnie's class.

I couldn't reserve a spot online—the YWMain web site was not set up for that—and I didn't have a towel. I didn't want to eat too much before class. But more to the point, I didn't know where to eat.

My friendly AirBnB host pointed me to some coffee shops along Abbot Kinney and Main Street. That's how I ended up at Intelligentsia for an over-the-top experience of a latte.

It was just after 7am, and the glass and steel cafe, set back dramatically from the boutique-filled boulevard, had only 4 or 5 customers.

("I never go there," said my host, "The lines are out the door. And it's such a scene. But at this time you should be fine.")

I parked right out in front and walked up into the recessed space. The guy ahead of me paused at the threshold. "PLEASE WAIT HERE" said a sign, "Your friendly barista will be right with you."

"You have to wait?" I asked the guy. "Right here?"

"Yeah, it's weird isn't it?"

It felt like being summoned before the royal court.

For their roles as courtiers, the four baristas, men and women in their late 20s, wore ties of a hipster persuasion: short, or frayed, or exactly matching material, or tucked in between the buttons of their shirt. They had determined but relaxed expressions as if gracefully embarking on difficult and highly important diplomatic missions. They were ambassadors, we were foreigners, and coffee was the king.

My courtier, once I was called to the bar, looked like he could be a cinephile when he wasn't pouring milky drinks. He had that wiry look (and scrubby facial hair) of the very smart and hyper active. He complemented my necklace and named the metal. Then he disappeared and two young women took over.

Caffeinated, I remembered I needed a towel. So I asked the baristas where, at 7:30 am on a Thursday, could I buy something, anything, even a face cloth or a dish towel.

"I'm about to take a really sweaty yoga class." I said, "And I'm getting on a plane right after."

They paused their creative work mid stream. "I think there's a CVS down on Main Street, not far away," said the younger-looking one. "They should have dish towels."

I found the CVS. It did indeed have dishtowels. I bought a package of 3 for a mere $2.99. Things were going well. And I have to say that the latte was delicious. Milk counts as food, I thought. This smooth and creamy beverage can be breakfast.

It was now 8:30.  I drove to Yoga Works and parked, proud to have found a spot (finding parking is an art that, as a car-less NYer, I needed more time to master). I was also way early, not my usual style.

Yoga Works is in a low building right on Main Street, with a small clothing boutique in the front and a lot of cubbyholes for shoes. The people waiting for class chatting comfortably with each other, like they might have known each other for a long time. They might have lived near the beach in Santa Monica for a long time, too. They were sunburned, fit, older, standing around  with their mats rolled under their armpits.

"I'd like to take Vinnie's class," I told the fresh-faced woman behind the desk

.And then I heard the words I most didn't want to hear.

"Actually Vinnie is not teaching this morning."

Argh! I'd booked my flight around his class. I'd arranged my schedule just so I could be here. I'd even checked the schedule repeatedly. How could this be happening? "But the sub is someone he's handpicked to teach for him."

That might be true, I thought, but she wasn't Vinnie.

I noticed that Joni, a self-described short Asian woman, was not there among the students waiting to take class. Later—too late—I got her Tweet: "Just found out Vinnie's class is subbed out this am and I've never heard of the sub teacher..."

There would be no happy pictures of this New York yoga blogger and that LA yoga blogger chumming it up at Yoga Works Santa Monica. Not today.

I had a few minutes to decide what to do, but I was pretty much backed into a corner. Classes at nearby Exhale were starting in 5 minutes, but I didn't know those teachers, either. Plus, I'd wanted to have a total Mothership Experience, so if I abandoned Yoga Works now, my experience would be lopsided.

I decided to stay. The nice desk girl gave me a free mat. I went into the studio and sat on the large, golden-colored floor imagining it covered, mat to mat, with sweating and grunting yogis. The Hispanic-looking cleaning ladies, in smock vests, were busily Swiffering the floor and ventilating the room with multiple fans. If Vinnie had been teaching, I knew I'd be one of those puddles they were now mopping up. My arms were still shaky from the Kundalini class I'd taken the night before in Hollywood, and my abs were totally wrecked.

Vinnie’s sub taught a muscular class that began with a quick Rumi quote and a long abdominal sequence. We were 10 sweaty folks instead of the rumored 80. Shortly after, she was calling out big poses that I didn't feel ready for. The general tone of the class was 'push your body.'

Maybe because I'd already done a yoga class each day for the last 3 days, or maybe because the rumor is true that in New York, yoga is not as hard as in L.A., I wasn't into working on such a purely physical level.

And, I thought, it was probably just as well that Vinnie wasn't there. He might have driven me completely into the ground.

Towards the end, the sub asked us to do more abdominal work, 20-30 "reps" of boat-pose to half-boat-pose and back. Instead, I sat cross-legged on my mat. I didn't want to, even to make her feel okay about her difficult position of subbing for a yoga celebrity.

Disappointed, tired—and frustrated by my incomplete Mothership experience—I headed to the showers. I was thinking about my flight back,  contemplating the differences between NY and LA, both culturally and yogically, as the water cooled me down. I got out, toweled my hair and wiped down my face, arms and shoulders. A woman from class was talking to me about the shower, was it warm enough, or cold enough, wasn't the temperature impossible to regulate? Were they going to fix it etc.

Half-listening, I looked back into the mirror I noticed my face was covered in pils of blue fluff. A slight blue tint was showing on my arms: the dishtowel was disintegrating on me. The more I wiped, the more the fluff appeared.

I switched to paper towel—but the fluff and the blue die was everywhere and I couldn't get it off me.

Naked, and a mess, I threw out all the towels and got back into the shower. This time, I wiped off with my dirty yoga clothes. It wasn't perfect. You know: their stretchy, wicking fabric is designed *not* to absorb water.

The best method, I realized, was to let the California air dry me. Maybe this is the updated version of letting it all hang out.

Yoga in LA, Part 1

Santa Monica has Yoga Works (Main Street) and Venice has Exhale Center for Sacred Movement, and between them they have Vinnie Marino, Sara Ivanhoe, Kathyrn Budig, Sarah Mato, Kia Miller, Sean Corn, Erich Schiffman, Shiva Rea, Annie Carpenter, Saul David Raye, and Hala Khouri. This is a phenomenal number of celebrity yoga teachers just a few miles apart.

In fact, I've heard people joke that if a bomb took out that 1 mile stretch between Venice and Santa Monica the American Yoga world would be significantly diminished. (Others don't think that would be such a bad thing.

No one is comfortable pairing "celebrity" with "yoga teacher" in public, although that doesn't stop thousands of new teachers secretly hope for a similar fame.)

I decided to start my LA yoga tour at Venice's Center for Sacred Movement.

I just landed in LA, picked up my white rental car, and drove to the beach. Well, I drove to the sand-colored, two story shopping complex that houses Exhale, among other shops and restaurants (including a sketchy CVS pharmacy, a Subway, and a nice-looking organic restaurant) parked underground, paid for my class, and took a walk.

I had interviewed the owner of RAWvolution, a raw foods restaurant, for a piece I wrote a few years ago, and knew it was in this general area, so I decided to check it out. The friendly Exhale desk folk assured me I could get there in 10 minutes, but at a leisurely jet-lagged pace it took me 20.

On the way, I passed cute boutiques selling loose white cotton shirts and dresses, Frye boots, and sun glasses. Familiar brands such as Free People, Patagonia, and American Apparel popped up here and there, and there were a number of “eco friendly” places such as the Natural High Lifestyle Shop, The Green Life, and One Life Natural Foods Market.

Plus, there were places that suggested everything that happened in this 10-block strip was carefully considered, including Mindfulness: Adornments for Your Home, Body & Soul, the Animal Wellness Centers, and the offices for Medicines Sans Frontieres.

There were plenty of coffee and teashops: I counted at least 8, and that didn't include what I glimpsed down the side streets. Not a lot of people were out mid-afternoon, but one guy I walked behind as he assessed the architecture of a bank with his buddy was wearing a standard issue LuluLemon jacket.

Once I got closer to Santa Monica, the loose and flowing clothing stores changed into edgier surf shops and skater supply stores. Younger boys in baggy pants starting appearing, as well as older, iconic buildings such as the Village Car Wash, and Surf Shore Motel, still very much in operation.

At last, I came across RAWvolution, a stone-floored cafe with comfortably mismatched tables and chairs and a big kitchen at the back where the foods were dehydrated and prepared. Everyone working there seemed extremely happy in his or her choice of employment, and everything there was expensive.

I had decided, as a special treat, I would indulge my fondness for kale chips no matter how much they cost. I just suspended all judgment as I handed over $7 for the 2 oz, the size of a small bag of potato chips (that in NYC go for $1.50).

With the help of the milk-skinned staff, I also decided to have a shake---something I could digest quickly before class. The Chai Milk Shake with coconut water, chai spices, almond milk and cinnamon would be too sweet, they told me, and so instead I ordered the Aztec Maca Shake: a low-sugar drink, said the menu. It had cacao, maca powder, coconut meat, coconut water, and mesquite. Maca was a Peruvian root that could boost dragging energy.

"Are you a raw foodist?" asked the wide-eyed guy with the thick bowl haircut behind the counter.

"No, just in town and wanted to check out your place."

"For work?" He asked, and I wondered if that meant I look old.

"Are you a yogi?"

"Yeah," I smiled. Yogi undercover."

“And you work out, you're into fitness?" He asked and I wondered if I looked buff to him, or just skinny.

"No, just a yogi," I smiled.

He looked hopeful for more conversation. I had the feeling he wanted me to tell him something extraordinary, like how I was raised by raw foodists on a remote island long before anyone had heard of raw food, or how I'd had a vision at the age of 3 and knew that I would never eat meat or cooked foods again.

Alas, I am just a curious but confirmed skeptic.

And, ironically, around the time I'd interviewed Matt Amsden, the founder of RAWvolution, I'd had such intense —and regular—stomach pain that I could *only* eat cooked food. Everything raw hurt me. For his part, Amsden admitted that he had just kicked his addiction to Doritos.

I sat at the communal table. In the middle had once been a bouquet of spring flowers, but they were now very dead, stems drooping, and the water mildewy.

Nearby was a deck of cards to accompany the popular New Age book by Don Miguel Ruiz, The Four Agreements.

Around the cafe a few people were reading, a couple of friends were playing cards, others were working at their laptops.

Distracted, I picked up the top card of the deck. It said, "stay in the present moment." That must mean stop making so many judgments. Because as much as I wanted to like the Aztec Maca Shake it was unpleasantly thick, kind of gravelly in texture, and so free of sugar that it tasted almost bitter.

It also had an unappealing near-chocolate color. "Carob brown," I thought. It tasted "good for you."

Still, it cost $7.50 so I intended to drink it all.

As I sipped, I glanced around. The walls were hung with framed prints of monks in orange robes and Acro Yogis in partner poses, set again a brilliant blue background. Someone had touched up photographs so that the figures looked smudged and lively, like they were still moving. Robert Storman was the mixed media artist, I read from text on the wall, and his bio said he was the "official artist of 2005's 47th Annual Grammy Awards" and that he's created a "body of work celebrating asana and soul."

I was officially in L.A. now.

+   +  +

"Namaste, yogis!" said Annie, a former dancer, walking off the stage in Exhale's large Sun Room. "Tonight we're going to do forward bends."

Great, I thought. That will totally pacify my nervous system after a long flight and all the work it took to make this trip happen.

The practice space at Exhale has a seasoned wood floor and a wall of glass brick facing Main Street. The side door was open while students filed in, and a pleasant early-evening breeze—and childrens' voices—wafted in, bringing a promise of long lazy summer evenings ahead.

Once we got going, I realized I was being too literal, thinking "forward bending" meant "seated poses."

What Annie meant was deep hip flexion: all those calming forward bends were happening in standing poses. And to do those, we released hamstrings and hip flexors—which after sitting and frowning over manuscript on the plane for 5 hours, were pretty tight on me.

As a former dance mistress, Annie's instructions were all business, and she held us in the poses FOREVER.

"I know, I know," she said, "I did this myself earlier today, just a few more breaths."

And for the first time in a good long while, I broke a sweat in a very slow and precise, alignment-oriented class. It was uber satisfying to feel my scattered, whiny mind focused, and my jet lag shift under the pressure of my concentration.

The class was deep and quiet, but *big,* with 40 or 50 people in it, very few men, and lots of 30s-40s age women with long brown hair.

Annie herself was a dynamo—insightful, thorough, fun—though so skinny that a few times I found myself wanting to feed her a heaping bowl of ice cream.

Maybe because she gave such super subtle and detailed instructions, at one point found myself much deeper into a standing forward bend than usual. Or maybe it was her adjustments. Somehow, in such a big class, she managed to make it over to me once or twice.

In cool down poses my mind was literally blank, and in savasana totally silent. Yum.

I left wondering why the alignment-oriented classes in New York have to leave me feeling like I still need a workout. Annie had worked me well.

After, I still had some kale chips left from my earlier snack. I could've eaten the whole bag on the spot.

In fact, the only thing that stopped me was that 3/4 of the bag were crumbs and hard to eat without spilling them all over myself. I waited to do that later in the privacy of my car.

When I did, I got crumbs all over myself and the car. I thanked the pros at Avis—in my mind— for vacuuming up the sea of small green flecks that decorated the seats and the parking brake.