Notes from the Road
Part Twelve: Los Angeles
There’s no ice in the freezer, so rather than drink my cold crew without ice, or walk a couple blocks to the nearest coffee shop, I’ve decided to hide in my room instead. Complaining that there’s no ice for my cold brew is the grossest thing I’ve done in a while, I think.
I’m stuck in L.A. until Saturday. I bought my flights here and back too quickly and should have waited until I had a better idea of my shooting schedule. As it turns out, I’m not in the episode after the one I shot last week. So, I’m just sitting here in L.A., waiting to go home.
Someone once told me that Los Angeles is an awful place to be if you’re not working. It’s true.
Yesterday morning was hot enough that I decided to take myself to the beach. I lived in L.A. for nearly 13 years and went to the beach maybe a dozen times. It took about an hour to get to Santa Monica. I passed by the three-hour meters on Ocean Ave. thinking I’d want to give myself more time. I went down to the beach parking lot. $14 flat rate. I went back up to Ocean Ave., parked at a meter, and set an alarm to remind myself to feed it at 5pm. By the time I put my towel down on the sand it was 2:30 and overcast and windy. A straight couple was doing gross pda in front of me, a gaggle of girls was shrieking behind me, and I was too obstinate to move. I ate some of the food I brought, and even though nothing had touched the sand, I still ended up biting down on sand. I read my book. Zipped up my hoodie. Tried to nap. Put my socks back on. Finally, at 3:45, I gave up. It took me an hour and a half to get back.
And then I remembered why I never went to the beach when I lived here.
I have friends out here whom I dearly love. There are a handful of restaurants I really like. But I do not understand the appeal. If I hear one more person in line behind me talk about their diet, I’m going to implode. I heard a woman casually (and loudly) give plastic surgery advice to her (very young) waiter. Stereotypes exist for a reason. Everything here takes an entire day to do. The incessant driving. Always the driving. I don’t know how I normalized this lifestyle. The only upside to living here (besides the weather) is the convenience of keeping all your crap in your car. You can change your shoes, grab your tiny bag, take a sip of water, and flounce away from your car to your ONE THING you have to do that day, light as a feather. In New York, you have 18 things to do in one day and you have all your crap in a backpack, a tote bag, a purse, and a grocery bag. We are experts at weight distribution. We’re like urban Sherpas. Oftentimes, we’re also juggling a child, or children.
New York has become a luxury mall that smells like piss in the summer, and I still prefer it to Los Angeles.