Loveletter: Los Angeles, California
Falling in love with LA over and over again
By Patrick janelleIf you didn’t know better, you’d think that Los Angeles is nothing more than a blisteringly hot, non-stop stretch of freeway, silicone, and movie lots. That was my perception of the city, a vision ingrained during childhood visits to LA suburbs and from glimpses of the city on movies and TV, when I moved to Los Angeles at 23 years old. I had just finished a cross-country Vespa trip, the golden glow of California my destination. The vision, in some ways, was—and still is—accurate. But it doesn’t account for the darling areas of Hancock Park and Larchmont, the tidy, tree-lined streets of West Hollywood, the steep, wild hills of Silverlake and Echo Park, or the sharp, narrow, European streets of the Hollywood Hills—all charming neighborhoods tucked between the freeways and behind the spiritless storefronts that line the major boulevards. The common vision of the city doesn’t account for the cool evenings when, even though you’re dining al fresco in June, the heat lamps are still on and a light jacket is necessary. And there are plenty of ugly strip malls—but some of them contain the best new restaurants in town, an example of the hi-low contrast that shows itself in many ways across the city. There may be a little nip here and tuck there on the beautiful bodies of the other patrons, but not as much as you thought you’d see.
Now, on any of my visits back to Los Angeles, I delight in playing tour guide, like my own version of the double-decker Star Tours busses. Most often, my points of interest tend to follow restaurants, neighborhood landmarks, and former haunts. I’ll ride the rolling curves of Sunset Boulevard as it dips and turns through leafy Brentwood and Bel-Air, eventually pouring out before the candy-hued Beverly Hills Hotel and past the tree-lined avenues of Beverly Hills. Heading east, I pass the Gaylord Hotel in Koreatown, where I once lived. I used to slip down to the adjoining watering hole, the H.M.S. Bounty, a Korean-run, ship cabin-themed bar that has a back entrance directly from the lobby of the Gaylord. The formerly quiet neighborhood is now busy with speakeasies and cute hotels worth exploring, like the Line Hotel and The Walker Inn.
I lived in Los Angeles during the time when Britney, Paris, and Lindsay were the center of attention, and when Myspace was turning over its social control to Facebook. Instagram didn’t exist. I would hop on my mint-green Vespa, ready to get lost in the meandering streets of the city. A favorite pastime was sneaking into parties that were not my own, or patiently waiting outside a club, line adjacent, until the perfect gaggle approached the bouncer at the front of the line. I would sidle up to the crew, as if I were one of them, gaining entry with a small pack of strangers. There was something about illicit entry to a party, that sparkling moment of success tinged with adrenaline, that made it even more enjoyable than being invited—as if entrance were truly earned. Later, back at home, I would pull out my Thomas Guide, the spiral-bound bible by which one would navigate the sprawling city, and trace back my steps, thereby cementing my knowledge of the city with a first-hand, multi-sensory education.
Just past Koreatown, the soapy smell of laundry and fabric softeners release their fragrance into the shimmering air, as you pass one lavanderia after another. The effect for me is a Proustian sensation that yields memories of evening Vespa rides past MacArthur Park, Echo Park, and other east-side neighborhoods. In general, LA manages to never change. Celebrities, partiers, and models (not to mention wannabe all of the above), eternally flock to Chateau Marmont, the Spanish-style hotel nestled into the West Hollywood hills. Runyon Canyon is the place to go on a steep walk (which locals refer to as a “hike”), see celebrities, and be seen yourself. Strip mall businesses come and go, but you’ll always find the donut place, the laundromat, and a nail salon anchoring the nearest corner. The Getty Museum, a stoic Richard Meier-designed structure, stands guard over the westside, high above the 405 freeway. In Hollywood, the Magic Castle, a sort of social club for professional magicians and mentalists, maintains both its anachronistic dress code policy (men must wear slacks and a collared shirt) and its credibility as the home to the most talented of performers.
During recent years, however, I have noticed slight shifts. Venice Beach’s main thoroughfare, Abbot Kinney Boulevard, was once a sleepy neighborhood street dotted with a few restaurants, but now features a crowded lineup of chic retailers, hard-to-get-into restaurants, and mass-market brands, all vying for space. Downtown LA, a desolate part of the city that developers and city planners have been banking on for decades, is finally showing signs of life, with hip hospitality brands like the Ace and NoMad hotels setting up shop—blocks away from what is still Skid Row. Resplendent year-round with the most delicious, fresh produce from the state’s central valley, California offers Los Angeles chefs something special, almost magical: fresh ingredients with the most intensely gorgeous flavor and color. This small fact alone has bolstered the LA culinary scene, continuing to draw chefs who make the city a formidable leader in the food world. The creative scene is stronger than ever before. The entertainment industry may still dominate, but photographers, artists, and makers are finding support in technology, social media, and a broadening social culture.
Living in LA year-round, there will inevitably be a moment where you read reports of Boston blizzards in early February or hurricanes ripping up the south in August. You might remember some subtle, fuzzy fear that eventually an earthquake might hit or that the state of California is supposed to fracture off and drift into the ocean. But any worry is diffused by the endless sunny days that hint at only the brightest future. And any fear slowly melts away beyond the hypnotic visions of heat rising off the pavement atop the endless streets of Los Angeles.