My Final Thoughts on L.A.

23 Jul

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(Apologies for the tardiness of this post.)

Last week I was in love. My relationship with LA had just started and I was in the honeymoon stage. She was beautiful and kind and gave me chances to do things that I had never done before and opportunities that Manhattan never did. I could go for a walk and not have my t-shirt morph into a darker shade. I could stroll down Rodeo Drive and see a glorious vehicle called The Monkey Mobile* parked to my right, and in front of it a Porsche, and in front of that a Mustang, all lined up, as if the garage you imagine Mike Tyson having had been brought to life.

Monkey Mobile

* I’ve always had an infatuation with our furry, hairy ancestors, going back to when I was a kid and was so attached to a Curious George stuffed animal of mine that it would have been hard for someone else to differentiate between that, and any other of my limbs. So you can imagine my excitement upon spotting this car.

Everything was going great, and then Wednesday happened. It took less than three full days for me to loose the twinkle in my eye, for the spell to be broken. Yes, the weather in L.A. (not to mention the people) is beautiful and intoxicating, but after that, well, I’m not so sure. A relationship with a city needs more. It needs substance. It needs idiosyncrasies to love. It needs some form of useable public transportation so that you can to get to a beach on the other side of town without having to decide between a 90 minute bus ride or a 30 dollar cab ride. It needs you to be able to order a slice of pizza without having to wait 15 minutes to get the cashier’s attention, and then another 10 for it to come out, and then have said slice of pizza come out cut in two halves—as if you just jumped out of the ball pit at the Discovery Zone and are now sitting around the table for Pizza and cake at your friends eight-year-old birthday party.

pizza

When it comes to judging a city, convenience should never be overlooked. It’s the trait that that makes a city what it is, that gives a city its personality, and L.A. is about as convenient as a case of kidney stones.

Last Wednesday night, at about 10 p.m., I got a deep, deep craving for eggs. Toast and hash browns, too. I hadn’t eaten a thing for 24 hours, thanks to Judaism’s insistence on instituting a yearly fast day to commemorate nearly every bad thing that’s ever happened to us Hebrews.* (Though, in the Rabbi’s defense, it’s is a pretty long list, and so I guess I can go a day without fulfilling another sacred Jewish tradition—eating.) So there I was, in the W Hotel on West Hollywood Boulevard, at 10 p.m., starving, desperately wanting to satiate myself with some eggs, a food that I was sure would be easy to find.

*Tuesday night I turned down an oppurninty to cover some event at the Playboy Mansion because it was Tisha B’av, which meant that I had to go to temple. This decision, I feel, should absolve me from having to observe any other mourning ritual on the Jewish calendar for the rest of the year.

Down the elevator I went, out the lobby and a left on Hollywood Blvd. One block, nothing. Two blocks, nothing. Three blocks, nothing. There didn’t appear to be anything ahead of me either.

So I backtracked, walked past the hotel, and in the other direction. Still nothing. I checked Yelp. Only then did I learn that I was looking for a unicorn, that late-night diners in West Hollywood didn’t exist. In Manhattan, this quest and craving would have sent me on a two minute walk and it would have cost me six bucks, tops. Here it was a 25 dollar delivery that I had to wait 45 minutes for.

I loved L.A., and I could definitely see the appeal. For me, though, the decision between it and Manhattan boils down to which of the following do you value more: Weather or midnight eggs.

I truly, truly hate sweating.

But I also really love late-night eggs.

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