A bit bedeviled by the City of Angels
My dad warned me about California.
He knows the hazards of this state — home to wildfires, floods, earthquakes and a drought that forces my roommates and me to time our showers in the morning.
I didn’t listen. Here I am, a small-time Arizona State University junior trying to find my way around the bustling streets of Los Angeles in my humble Ford Focus. It’s a place unlike anywhere else, where adventures and hazards lie around every corner.
I ventured out here as a USA TODAY reporting intern with shiny expectations of a sparkling city. Then came the rude awakening, the disappointing realities of bumper-to-bumper traffic and outrageously expensive rent, not to mention the disasters constantly shoving this tourist town into the national spotlight.
There’s a very real pain at the pump here. The locals fume dayto-day when we have to pay nearly a dollar more per gallon than the rest of the country. We feel these pains not because of the dynamics of supply and demand, like they taught me in economics, but because of a sensitive market with jumpy investors that can react to a single refinery shutdown.
This isn’t my first go-around in the Golden State. Having spent a childhood in Hayward, near San Francisco, should have prepared me. But my experiences as a wide-eyed kid — our family moved to Arizona when I was 12 — proved no help for my now 19-year-old, solo-living self.
The people are different here. Walking the grocery store aisles for the first time, I was bombarded by clerks asking if I needed anything. It was as if they sought reassurance that I wasn’t a lost kid in a candy store. They appeared to do it simply out of courtesy — and whether they were sincere is probably up for debate, but at least they were consistent.
That courtesy can be infectious. I discovered that if I’m nice to someone on the road, that favor will probably be returned later.
Asking for directions in Phoenix is nearly unheard of. The city was built on a grid, so it’s not hard to find what you’re looking for. Navigating L.A. seems next to impossible without the guidance of my digital companion Siri, but most locals will tell you to get with it and use Waze.
I absolutely refuse to play the parking lot lottery. Though Californians may make a sport out of finding the closest parking spot, I refuse. If there is a parking space in the general vicinity of my destination, I park there. No more thoughts of “maybe there’s a spot closer.” (There never is.)
“At least you’re not too far from home,” Dad says every time I call to vent about my living conditions. It’s true, I could just pack up and hit Interstate 10 to escape the madness of this town. But since this state is calamity-prone, even that option temporarily evaporated when a summer flood caused a bridge to crumble to the ground. That same flood came two days after wildfires swept across the state’s only getaway to Nevada, Interstate 15, turning about 20 vehicles into nothing but ash.
It’s a trade-off to live here, the traffic for the experience. After all, what’s not to love about a locale where you can kayak in Marina del Rey in the morning, catch up on your tan on Santa Monica Beach in the afternoon and listen to tunes under the stars at the Hollywood Bowl amphitheater in the evening.
The culinary possibilities are infinite, and usually delicious. I stick to my favorites in Phoenix, but I challenge myself to try a new spot every time I’m out to eat here. Any local knows that’s not much of a challenge. There’s a hole-in-the-wall place you’ve
got to try on every block. This city has allowed me, or rather forced me in some instances, to grow as a person. So thanks, L.A., I guess I owe you one. But Phoenix, the land of cactus and lizards, still calls my name.
I absolutely refuse to play the parking lot lottery. Though Californians may make a sport out of finding the closest parking spot, I refuse.