The First Day

Ultimately, the trek to LA is unimportant. It consisted of three dull plane rides and thirteen hours of wanting to stab my eyeballs out with my own finger. I was apprehensive to arrive, but desperately wanted to rid myself of planes and airports. Don’t get me wrong, being up in the sky and spying on the world below is one of my favourite experiences, but I hadn’t slept at all the night before and was absolutely exhausted. Not to mention I had to pay an extra $130 to check my luggage which, combined with my exhaustion, put me into Super New York Mega Bitch mode. After all that, I still had to cart around a heavy, broken carry on that demanded I bend practically over sideways at the waist to drag; plus a bag draped over my shoulder that was so damn full of random crap it was threatening to rip at the seams. Despite all of this trauma, I did, in fact, manage to land safely and on time to the Burbank airport without much damage to my psyche. Don’t talk to me about my ruined shoes though, that’s another subject entirely. Stacy London isn’t my hero for nothing. A girl’s shoes are important to her!

The first day wasn’t really significant to my life. LA looked just as it always had, sunny and fake. At least in New York everyone is real, although this luxury of attitude is often marred greatly by rain, prolonged winter, and blaring horns. When I attempted to walk to my favourite diner in my new home of Toluca Lake/Studio City, I decided that LA is a far cry from New York all together. A mile and a half is not far for New Yorkers to walk. That’s like deciding to walk from Penn Station to Central Park; a fete no New Yorker would think twice about. In New York, you are granted the entire world in the radius of a single city block, and all it’s treasure is delivered promptly on a silver platter. It’s absolutely sane, and even encouraged in some neighborhoods, to decide to schlep on over to your local bodega at 3am for ice-cream and cookie dough. California? Quite the opposite. As once said in one of my favourite movies: “Nobody walks in LA.” And that my friends, is a statement true to it’s word. Nobody walks in LA. It’s like saying “Nobody puts Baby in a corner”. I mean, it’s just an accepted fact of life. I’m not entirely sure if people in LA really know what this particular style of movement is, exactly. They just don’t do it. Well - I suppose I should say we just don’t do it. There go my Michael Kors boots, because they surely won't be needed for walking all over anyone anymore.

I don’t mean to insult Los Angeleans, I’ve noticed that most everyone here is stunningly gorgeous and ridiculously kind. The baristas at my local Coffee Bean (aka, Miley Cyrus’s local Coffee Bean, as I’ve discovered) are pumped with happy, fun, ecstatic-to-be-alive energy. I actually had to take a step back and analyze the situation as I ordered my first Caramel Ice Blended - these local SoCal Guys and Gals are actually more polite and respectful than me, and I was born and raised in Alabama. Let’s face it, they are better equipped with the term “Southern Hospitality” than even I am. I was shocked. Enthralled, but shocked. Paula Dean would be shocked. PS, I adore you, Coffee Bean. Why aren’t you alive on the East Coast? I’m pretty positive Coffee Bean consistently kicks Starbuck’s ass in the coffee chain department. Oy. Anyway.

In all seriousness, I simply adore my roommate. I think she is a wonderful, sweet amazing person, and to my knowledge we get on rather well. She’s very funny with a wonderful laugh. She showed me around and I became minorly acquainted with my new neighborhood. The rest of the evening is but a trifle, and has completely slipped my mind. I have no conclusion statement, other than to let you know I do actually like it here so far, but getting over the shock that this sunny land is not New York might take some time. Stay tuned for more updates. <3

(Post written about Day 1, May 2nd)

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