March 10th: Despite my shock at Corey Haim’s death, I move on and we sunbathe by the pool, flipping through a monstrous collection of this month’s fashion magazines, as provided by the two College of Communication students on the trip. Go figure.
Saman is golfing at the Beverly Hills Mountain Gate Country Club, and he invites us to see the course. Libby, a Connecticut native and daily embodier of a J. Crew catalogue, advises us on appropriate attire (NO JEANS!) and we head to the Hills for an afternoon of golfing. Saman is wearing white pants, an orange polo and aviators. Perfection.
He happens to be golfing with Josh Duhamel, as in Mr. Fergie Ferg. As in Transformers, Tad Hamilton, and man who golfs a lot. OH NO BIG. Josh Duhamel shakes our hands and knows we come from Boston. My right hand remains unwashed. Grouchy Country Club employee man kicks us off the course, we practice our swings elsewhere, and stuff our faces in the Clubhouse.
We head to Urth Café to channel our inner Ari Golds and meet up with Joanna! Her fruit plate takes irrationally long and we joke about them going to farms to pick the fruit. They totes forgot about her order. The waitress comes out and attempts to save herself: “Oh, well the fruit just takes some time to slice so it’ll be another ten minutes…” This wouldn’t be as dreadful if it hadn’t already been 25 minutes since the order was placed. The fruit plate is not sliced so fantastically upon arrival. Fail.
For the night, we drive to Huntington Beach to go to some friend’s beach house. We had made a list long ago of contacts in SoCal and we have actualllllllllly gone through the whole list and met up with at least 60% of it. Win. Libby performs card tricks that are wildly impressive. It is the last night that Whittney and I will be in LA, though Sarah and Libby are staying through the weekend. Libby explains, “We’re leaving on different days. Cali needs to get used to our absence, so we leave in shifts while the state adjusts.” This would be funnier if it weren’t TRUE. Woot woot.
So as we leave LA, I feel perplexed. No, I have seen it all. No, I’m not missing something, though this is how it feels. Yes, you NEED TO DRIVE EVERYWHERE. LIKE ACTUALLY. Touché, Carrie Bradshaw, for cars ARE to LA as purses are to New York. While my parents were so dreadfully concerned about losing me to the West Coast, I find myself disturbed by the isolation of never really feeling like you’re ever IN a city.
Los Angeles seems like a series of strip malls/ too spread out/ so much time spent on the 405. However, this explains so very much why celebrities CAN wear heels daily. They are driving everywhere. They never walk. Sure your feet can hurt if you’re only walking the 4 feet from the curb where valet takes your Audi to the table in the back corner of Area. I realize you can’t be poor in LA. I realize I may not be moving out here as fast as my life plan had assumed.