The Urbane Indian - Is the grass greener on the other side?

Just from the smell I could immediately tell by the combination of sea air, smog, and silicone, I was back in the city of Los Angeles. Beverly Hills to be exact. The reason: I was there to accept an award from the First Americans in the Arts for my book on Native humour, ME FUNNY. They are an organization set up to help foster, develop and promote Native participation in the arts. Luckily for me that included Canadian writers. I always love coming to Los Angeles but I will hold judgement on whether I could live there or not. So many pros and cons. But Beverly Hills, let me tell you, if there was ever a place I wanted to stake a land claim.
I knew I was living the cliche when a woman in a Saab convertible picked me up at the airport and drove me to my hotel by the ocean. Things were off to a good beginning I thought. I could get to like this. Briefly put, the awards were fun and fabulous, though a bit long. Unfortunately, two thirds of the winners weren't there.
The event was held at the Beverly Hilton, an amazing hotel. It is the kind of place that convinces you your shoes would and could never be shiny enough to walk their marble halls. It was a pretty special evening with the cream of the artistic Aboriginal crop wandering between the tables, exchanging cards and daily rates. Gary Farmer was there in the thick of things. Adam Beach was also supposed to be there because he was receiving an award for his work on Law & Order: SVU. I tell you, I never saw so many young lady's head swivel every time a young Native man walked in through the door. And a few men's heads too. But alas, he was a no show. So they had to settle for Gary and me.
The whole evening was quite the experience for this little boy from Curve Lake First Nations, population approximately 1200 ­ depending on what's playing at the cineplex. You have to imagine the scene. Four hundred of the best dressed Native people in the country making small talk. There were tuxes, bolo ties, shined cowboy boots, immaculate Stetsons, black dresses, and surprisingly, plenty of plunging necklines (on the women, not the men). That's what really caught my attention for several reasons. First of all, the obvious. Secondly, that's not something Native people are particularly well known for. In my travels I've noticed Native women are usually more reserved (no pun intended) about the wonders that exist in the valley between the mountains.
But not here. There were lovely black dresses on a multitude of lovely Native women, showing off their multiple copper coloured assets. I guess I shouldn't have been so shocked, after all, this is Beverly Hills, and most of the people here worked in some fashion in show business. When in Rome. Still, it was unexpected and admittedly breathtaking. I kept thinking two things; maybe it could catch on in Curve Lake. And also, for some reason it kept reminding me that I must remember to bake more bread.
Unfortunately, there was one draw back to the trip: trying to figure out what to bring back for my cousin. Her name is Laurie and I always make it a point to bring her a gift that was culturally unique to what ever area of the world I was travelling in. When I went to Milan, I brought her some authentic Parmesan cheese from a nearby cheese shop. From Germany I brought her some cider. The Czech Republic ­ beer. China ­ green tea. Etc. Etc. I do this because she doesn't get the opportunity to travel like I do ­ what with having a job, a husband and kids. I'm told they can interfere quite substantially with a person having fun. So instead, I try and bring the world to her. In small increments.
Being the sweetheart she is, she's often offered to reciprocate as best she can. In a few weeks she's off to Nashville for some country music festival, and she's offered to bring me back a souvenir or something indicative of the area. From the state of Tennessee. All that came to my mind was moonshine. And the Beverly Hillbillies.
Still, it's the thought that counts. So there I was, at the Beverly Hilton, circulating amidst the beautiful Indigenous people, holding my stomach in, wondering what to get my cousin back home. What says L.A? What says Beverly Hills? Oranges? Kelp? Cocaine? Then, from all around me, the answer came with a flash of lightning. I was blinded by the solution.
On my return, I brought her back a set of fake boobs from a nearby clinic. I guess you could say they were more for her husband Danny, but he can thank me later. Maybe she can use them in Nashville.
There is a possibility that I might get a chance to go to Russia in the near future. I wonder how hard it is to get an AK 47?