I arrived in Los Angeles just one week after finishing the series finale of Mad Men. When I touched down at LAX, though I had been there once before, I was ecstatic. I felt new. Driving through Santa Monica and Venice was like entering the set of Mad Men: old, baby blue Corvette Stingrays, vintage T-Birds, and tricked out 1970s Cadillacs rolled by, all in mint condition.
I happened upon some sort of alternate reality where the line between retro and contemporary was blurred. At last, I was in the land of The Beach Boys and the Kardashians...and I could not stop smiling.
For two weeks, I stayed with family friends in an ocean view condominium unit blocks from the Pacific. The air was fresh in the mornings and I made it a ritual to open the doors. That salty, sour smell of the sea poured into the duplex and mingled with my sourdough bread, browning in the toaster (which I ate every morning...from Gjusta).
Traveling alone is special. It allows for space, wonder, and an all around prolonged dream state. It gave me the chance to soak everything in and a lot of the vacation ended up feeling more like an ongoing meditation than a "trip." I spent many days wandering the city on my own, but am thankful that I had friends with whom I dined and adventured.
