And so it begins... again.

"I was thinking to myself, ‘this could be heaven or this could be hell,’"
~The Eagles, Hotel California

I made it to Los Angeles! Here are the deets, in case you’re just tuning in: I am in LA for the summer because I have an internship at Immortal Records... I am living at a hotel downtown, which makes me feel extremely glam and more than a little like Eloise. (Sidenote: if I am living in a HOTEL... in CALIFORNIA... does that mean it’s THE hotel California? I mean, I did check in but I can’t ever leave– at least not for the next two months.) After I arrived yesterday morning, I dropped off my stuff in my room, danced around the room like Orlando Bloom, and hit the pavement.First impressions of Los Angeles: Perhaps I just have a really good imagination, but it seems that wherever I travel always looks exactly as it is "supposed to" in my head. There are palm trees, tall buildings, lots of Spanish music playing, and lots of Mexican food. What I didn’t expect was that this is THE flattest place I have ever seen in my life (and I was raised in Central Florida, elevation +.2meters above sea level). And, adding to the flat appearance of this place is the fact that southern Californians are, apparently without exception, extremely short. No, really. Like, UNBELIEVABLY short. I mean, we are talking, like, my shoulder is AVERAGE for the women AND the men I’ve seen thus far. (I, for the record, am only 5'9".) Hopefully in Beverly Hills, where I am working, there will be taller people, because I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise, considering almost all the shoes I brought are heels.

I had never, before yesterday, been to California. Perhaps later in life I will think about that and consider myself brave, but right now it is just a fact of my life. I also know NOBODY in Los Angeles. I did not view that as a problem as I was packing my bags and getting ready to come– I didn’t know anyone at Emory when I started there; I didn’t know anyone in Paris, and look what happened both places. I’ll make friends, I am not worried about that... But the thing about moving somewhere where you don’t know ANYONE is that you don’t have anyone to answer your simple but pressing questions, such as:Where is the closest Metro station and why is there no office inside where I can buy a ticket?How does the bus system work?Where should I look for another job?Do people in this city EAT?

"A Publix, a Publix, my kingdom for a Publix..."
This last one is perhaps the most important– I arrived yesterday and was so jetlagged I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I needed to make a visit to a grocery store to get dish soap, dishes to use said soap on, and, oh yeah, food. And though there are donut shops and Mexican food stands on every corner, I CAN’T FIND A GROCERY STORE TO SAVE MY LIFE. Which is slightly discouraging, but the thing is that I just need someone to ask "hey, what is your version of Publix in this state?" the other questions I can ask the concierge at my hotel (I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when I walked in yesterday, slightly sweaty and with two huge suitcases), but I can’t figure out a NORMAL way to ask about a grocery store. (I asked where a close one was and they directed me to an alimentation-type place next door. It had most of the groceries I needed, but a box of cereal was $5, and I thought I had left those prices in France.) So I bought the necessities, and I won’t tell you what they are because they would depress you– heck, it depresses me that a week ago I was eating magret de canard aux ananas and drinking bordeaux, and now I am here, eating take-out cashew chicken from the Rene Café next door. I was so tired by the time I sat down to eat that I didn’t even bother with the fortune cookie, which I found this morning on the desk.

"[Keep going] West, Young [Wo]man!"
I got directions to the closest Metro station (I’m actually only about a ten-minute walk from THE central Metro stop of LA, which is nice... though I keep having to push thoughts from my mind of the Metro stop that was less than 100 yards from my door when I lived in Paris), walked there, and got on the red line. There are no validation machines, so I’m not entirely sure what the point of having a ticket at all is. I am also not sure what the point of existing in So Cal is if you don’t speak Spanish. Both times I got on the Metro, I was the only person in my car speaking English. This doesn’t bother me, because I came directly from a place where every time I got on a Metro car I was the only person who spoke English fluently, but it’s still a little weird. I feel like I went from being one linguistic minority to another, but the thing is that on the PARIS Metro (my only other real experience with the dreaded institution of public transportation), everyone is so used to it that we have all perfected our tough faces and no one in Paris makes eye contact on the Metro– it’s considered extremely bad etiquette and it just doesn’t happen. Here, every time I looked up while waiting for the train someone was walking past and staring at me from under the edge of their hoodie, giving off their best "I’m-going-to-intimidate-the-heck-out-of-this-French-speaking-emo-looking-chick" face. But what they didn’t realize is who they are messing with: I didn’t live in Paris for a year for nothing; I didn’t survive night bus rides home at 330am alone and learn nothing; I didn’t go clubbing at MONTMARTRE (the worst neighborhood in Paris) and come out stupid. I can handle your stupid intimidating faces, and if that is all you’ve got, Los Angeles, then BRING IT. (Plus, as previously mentioned, I wouldn’t even break a sweat stepping on you. I GOT this one.)

I got on the Metro and then the bus in the general direction of the office where I’ll be working. (I credit Paris 100% with my ability to get around in a brand-new city at all.) The Metro here is kind of laid out like London’s– the map actually looks a lot like London’s system. But once I got to Santa Monica Blvd, I realized I was still MILES away from the office. So I boarded a bus that I didn’t know the route of and just paid attention to where it was going (luckily it stayed on Santa Monica Blvd for miles), but taking that route took me over an hour to get to the office. I have to figure out something more practical. After figuring out where I would be going on Monday, I started walking back... passed a tourist info place, got all excited, until I realized it was closed (which makes sense, I mean obviously what tourists need info on a SATURDAY AFTERNOON?).

On the way to the label office, I crossed Rodeo Drive, Wilshire Blvd (which I live off of), and the place where the big farmer’s market is. Down the street from the Farmer’s Market is Santa Monica, which is where Pride Weekend is taking place next weekend, meaning not only is the metro closed for the weekend, but it’s also at the same time as the "piesta," which is something that seems like it belongs in Kentucky and not So Cal. (It’s a pie bake-off. I mean, what?)

In other news, remember how I always say that I can’t do anything Simple? Yeah, think about this: I flew out of Paris the day before or after that TB guy flew through CDG. I flew through Phoenix the day they found that other TB guy there. I flew into LAX the day that terrorist plot was foiled at JFK (meaning security is now madness). And the day AFTER I flew into LA, a Southwest jet’s (the airline I flew in on) landing gear failed and it nearly wrecked on the runway. Not only can I not do anything Simple, but it would also appear that my luck is better than... well, I don’t know, some kind of leprechaun.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for 30 hours now, and I haven’t seen a rockstar yet. That had better change soon.
~B