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Venice Beach, the first. An Approximation to Los Angeles.



I’ve been a busy girl, so forgiveness on your part is a virtue. Almost one year after my wonderful yet devastating critique of Superman, my sarcasm is still intact, undiminished by American health care grotesque and the arrival of hashtags. #shit

As some of you know, I have decided to pack my life into three boxes and leave to be with the rich and famous and beautiful peeps in Los Angeles. Apparently, I am convinced I have stories to tell, and why on earth would I tell stories if nobody hears or sees them? Now, that would just be stupid.

So here I am and you are here, too.

Here’s my first blog entry from my first day of the rest of my famous life. How hackneyed and utterly untrue.
Anyway, American Airlines is where it all begins.

New Orleans International airport is neat, usually. You consult a little touch screen, touch it accordingly, it spits out your boarding passes, you drop off your bag, you leave New Orleans by means of physics stolen from Mother Nature.

Today’s a bad day for New Orleans International airport and especially American Airlines. Something’s not working and nobody knows what. My partner’s parents try their Southern charm, while I believe in serenity, and quite frankly, I just cannot be bothered. After all, I have only missed a flight once – but that was London Heathrow. Also, I’m tired and a bit hungover.

I have to go through security nearly naked. They are making extra sure I did not hide anything anywhere, them optimists. I grab everything they took off my body and run to the gate.
And then, I reach my gate, panting, and the gate, the gate is closed.

I have a fit for about one second.
American Airline man is so nice and changes my booking on the spot and puts me on a plane to Dallas. Solution oriented at his best. 
My bag, however, flies with the other plane to Chicago. All alone, all vulnerable, so helpless out there.

Next to me on the plane: a cute, neat, perfect family from Dallas on their way to Hawai’i. He reads the Lord’s something, she reads “To Love how Jesus loved”, and their simple yet delightful enthusiasm is unstoppable: “We’re flying over a mountain range! LOOK AT THE MOUNTAIN RANGE!”

I arrive in LAX – a loud, honking monster of an airport – three hours prior to my original arrival time and, of course, without my bag. But American Airline woman is so nice and promises that somebody will bring me my bag real soon. I have to describe the innards of my bag. “Don’t just tell me female clothes – that’s not useful. Give me specificities!” the uniformed woman says, and obeying uniformed women, I coyly tell her of sweat-stained University of New Orleans basketball shorts and Converse with the Union Jack print, and I feel a little raped having to lay open my personal wardrobe preferences in front of her.

All in all, I think it’s been a pretty successful day so far.

The people here talk awfully fast. Their speech pattern is light speed or Spanish. They’re equally difficult to understand, so who knows at this point?

My rental car is a sooper kewt Kia Rio, stick shift for clumsy European hands, gratis GPS for clumsy European heads, entirely adorable. It’s a lot of fun driving and I fly towards Venice Beach. I cannot wait to stick my feet in the sand, the ocean, the soothing quiet of the Pacific, gathering the spirits of the screenwriting muse.

Upon reaching Venice Beach, one thing crystallizes quickly: This is clearly no God’s country. I am okay with keeping God at a distance for a while. She’s been looking down on me with more than one eyebrow raised in New Orleans, so really, gimme a break, grrl.

But this is terrible, just terrible. The hostel is in the utmost worst location for anybody with a car: directly on the beach.

And Venice Beach, man, Venice Beach. I mean, there is clearly sand. But Venice? Ohno. This is no where close to anything Venice. It’s dodgy and overpriced, and no muse would ever set a foot on Venice Beach. Damn, did I plunge head first into a bucket of poop.

I drive around for one hour, looking for a parking spot. I find a wee slot for my wee car a mile away from the hostel and thank American Airlines that I don’t have to drag my heavy bag that mile to the hostel. I would literally die. I also don’t know whether I’m parked legally – I guess I’ll see tomorrow if my little Rio is still there.

The hostel is functional enough. The girls at the reception are sympathetic - they give me a towel for free.
I am in a room with a boring boy and two pretty Russian girls: Olga and Natalia. They have won the green card lottery and work in New York. They plan on going back home, though, right after they have successfully gone rid of their accents. Which, lezbe honest, will perhaps never happen.

What I wouldn’t give for a shower and fresh underwear. It’s the small things, folks.
And have no fear, LA, I am creeping closer. I’m not beaten; I’m lurking.

It’s late. Not really, it’s only ten PM, but my biological clock is two hours ahead, so I am tired when I get an email from American Airlines, drawing my day full circle:

 “Welcome to WheresMySuitcase.com!”

Good night.

Today’s links:

Venice - it's a lie.

 
Wee bit of sunset kitsch. We learn: photogeneity does not equal reality.

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