A City of Angels

This column was written back in April last year, having arrived in LA for the first time. Re-reading this has made me super nostalgic and hungry for a burrito.

“So it turns out LA really is just like the movies. The streets are lined with palm trees exuding a buzz of Hollywood glamour, down by the beaches boys whizz around on skateboards shouting “Gnarly dude!” and everybody’s hair is ridiculously shiny. Near enough all of the people I’ve met so far are something to do with the entertainment industry; nobody is just a waitress in this town. What I didn’t comprehend about the City of Angels however is just how ridiculously vast it is, you need a car to get anywhere as buses appear not to exist and crossing the road is scary enough to warrant heart palpitations.

Our hotel is situated in the Anaheim district just a few miles from Disneyland, so naturally this was the first thing to be checked off the itinerary having never been as a kid. The park is bright, bustling and the smell of popcorn wafts throughout. Apparently there’s a not-so-secret members only bar/dining club tucked away in the New Orleans Square area and at $25,000 per membership, one imagines it’s suitably decadent inside. After spending the day surrounded by childhood dreams a stiff Cosmopolitan was in order, followed by three more and a flirt with the bar tender.

The following day was dedicated to exploring Huntington Beach; a beautiful spot, youthful and reminiscent of the swinging sixties with vintage stores nestled in amongst ice cream parlours, surf shops and biker bars. The air was hot and heavy, laden with incense, steel drums and summer loving. Zack’s Shack down on the oceanfront is highly recommended for the biggest and best burritos you’ll ever encounter, just don’t expect to finish it all in one go.

After recovering from a vicious batch of sunstroke that wrote off 48 hours of fun in the sun, I sat solo by the pool eating a giant slab of pizza and suddenly realised that for the first time in months, I was completely alone. No managers calling to ask about overtime, no dinner dates with the girls and no Swede. This was the first opportunity to sit with just my thoughts and process what had happened between us. Suddenly the urge to talk to him became unbearable, I flipped open my laptop and began to type. As the mouse hovered over the ‘send message’ button debating the consequences, my phone vibrated. It was a text from a guy called JT, a surfer/movie producer local to Laguna Beach “Wanna hang out tonight? I’ll come pick you up, just say the word.” His timing was impeccable. I hit send and ordered another slice of margherita.”

Originally published via Jones and Jones, April 2014

(jonesandjonesfashion.com)

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