Los Angeles
CJ and I are exhausted.
Completely.
Which must serve to explain how we ended up on the pool patio, overlooking the Pacific, drinking margaritas and ogling young bronzed men in tiny bikinis.
We started our morning by having breakfast served in the room, complete with New York Times--none of this upstart Los Angeles Times for us--and coffee, before driving through Santa Monica, Westwood, Beverly Hills and West Hollywood on our way to the Valley. I decided that we'd do the Valley and Pasadena today and the Westside tomorrow, figuring that we'd be completely exhausted (or, in the case of one of us, severely hungover) and would need a break.
So far I've gotten a lot of mixed signals about where to live. LA is, in case you haven't heard, a big place. USC is in the center of LA, close to downtown, but there isn't anywhere near USC that I'd want to live. (That's the first thing out of everyone's mouth when I mention I'm going to USC: "Oh, you don't want to live there." Thank you, I know, I've looked at the map, okay?) I asked three people who have lived and worked in LA for their opinions and gotten about 14 different responses.
Okay, not that many. But here have been my target areas:All of those places are to the west and/or north of USC. I know people on the west side; Darin's friends and the studios (or most of them) are in the Burbank area. Darin prefers the Burbank airport and that's where I'd go get him when he does come in to see me. Also, he would feel better with me living in a more suburban environment (Burbank, Pasadena) than in an urban one (Santa Monica, West LA). This is not trivial information when it comes to apartment hunting. After all, I am begging Darin's indulgence in a big way when it comes to this little graduate school adventure of mine.
When I stared at the map it looked to me that all of these places were more or less the same distance from USC.
Hahahahahahahahaha.
In my dreams.
All distances in LA are measured in time and freeway access, not actual mileage. What you hear is, "That's about fifteen minutes/half an hour/an hour away," not how many miles it is. Several of these areas/suburbs lose currency because of their freeway access (or lack thereof) and accessibility to the outside world.
One of the things CJ suggested we do during today's jaunt is measure the time from Place X to USC. (I knew there was a reason I was glad to have a bright friend along.) We drove around Studio City some (a nice area; definitely rates a "+" in my book) and then drove to USC. At noon on a medium-busy Saturday it took 20 minutes, which isn't bad. I won't always be driving during commute times.
We then tried to find Glendale using surface streets and the 2, but failed miserably. We finally got on the 2 and I said, basically, "To hell with Glendale, we're going to Old Pasadena and getting something to drink." I know a couple of cafes around there. We sat in a cool, shaded cafe for quite a while and tried to collect our thoughts in the 95+ heat. (What was the reason I bought a black car?)
We walked around Old Pasadena a lot. Despite the heat, CJ said that if I found somewhere around there I'd have scored big-time, and I agreed. Scoring AC turns out to be quite key as well, however. We dragged ourselves back to the car and drove to South Pasadena, which I'd heard was nice but I found less than impressive. Of the places we saw today I'd have to rank them:
When we returned to the hotel, our room hadn't been made up yet. We both felt tired and grungy, but waiting around for the maids to show up and deliver fresh towels sounded extraordinarily unpleasant. "Let's find an outdoor cafe," CJ said.
"One with margaritas?"
She shrugged. "But of course."
We went upstairs, books in hand--she's reading a Saint Camber novel, I'm reading the latest installment in the Masters of Rome series, Caesar's Women--to the hotel bar and got margaritas.
Two margaritas cost $13.
I should have been ready for that. Last night, when we were returning to the hotel room, we passed a waiter who held a tray bearing two large goblets of a dark red wine. "How much for the wine?" I asked. $22, he said. I didn't believe him; he whipped out the leather receipt holder and flashed me the receipt to prove it. Must have been a damn fine vintage of Louis Jadot Beaujolais Villages, I guess. I did not order any wine when CJ ordered some late-night room service.
When we sat down under an umbrella at our poolside table holding our margaritas, I said to CJ, "I think it would be expensive to be an alcoholic in LA. At least, at this hotel."
She nodded and sipped her margarita.
One of the nice things about hanging around the pool at this hotel was watching the extraordinarily beautiful people walking by. All of them young, all of them buff. (Except for the Germans, who were, I'm sorry to say, incredibly fat.) There was one guy I couldn't stop staring at who was not only in great shape but wore a Bulls cap and was reading a book. Modelesque AND literate. Who knew? Mind you, I couldn't read the title of the book, but who cared? He held it right side up. There were also some very statuesque blonde women who walked by. Everybody's thin, everybody's fashionable.
I have no idea how I'm going to fit in down here in Los Angeles. I can just see it now: the cop pulls me over and says, "I'm sorry, we only let the beautiful people into this part of the city. Get your body fat to under twenty percent and we'll downgrade this to a warning ticket."
Maybe I'll just tell everyone I'm German or something.
Last Updated: 29-Jun-96
©1996 Diane Patterson