To be Los Angeles

About six weeks ago:

My friend takes a bite of orange as she hovers over her cubicle trashcan, a clumsy attempt to avoid sugary and sticky dribbles of orange juice smearing over the creative pieces that lie scattered on her desk.

“Joanna, you would like him. He’s in his mid-thirties, lives in Santa Barbara most of the time, but has an apartment in Venice. He’s real business but he’s a schmoozer, too, you know, he works a crowd.”

I’m indifferent. I’m hardly listening. I’m staring at her picking orange seeds from her afternoon snack; she pecks at it and tends it as though a hawk nibbling on a snake. The way she hunches over the trashcan might make one think she were heaving up lunch if they weren’t paying attention. I wish I knew how to peel an orange like that. I can’t even peel a damn orange…

“He’s from Texas, so he’s got a bit of a drawl. He’s Texas, he’s a gentleman.”

I nod.

“He was a good manager when I worked with him. He surfs. He’s a vegetarian.”

I grimace. She’s peeling back the rest of the rind, almost done now.

“He’s laid-back. He’s close to his family. Texas, but you know, he’s also a bit Los Angeles.”

What exactly does that mean, to “be Los Angeles?” I’ve been wondering that since before I moved here. The people of Los Angeles drop that term like they drop pounds and inhale chicken tacos and let the sun stain their pretty faces.

I’m not sure I’ve completely figured this one out, but I’ve made a few observations. Natives of Los Angeles are tied to this city like it’s their umbilical cord; for the remainder of their lives they will feed the traffic that congests the 405, turn a smile to the face of smog, and worship the waves that lap at the coast. They may never know what it’s like to enjoy the crunch of fall leaves, run through a pumpkin patch or make angels in the snow. Beyond that, the non-natives and other such Angelenos make up a diverse sea of folks. They are the converse-clad men that walk into my office, their sneakers offset by a too-short tie that somehow looks okay on them anyway; the women walking down Wilshire in oversized sunglasses and flip-flops and outfits that don't match in the traditional definition of the term.

Angelenos do not walk fast, they are unhurried as opposed to our east coast companions, New Yorkers. Angelenos stroll like grass might sway in the wind, their yoga pants falling loosely over their hips, a short dog on an even shorter leash at their sides.

Angelenos live in their cars. They may struggle to pay rent month to month, and work assistant jobs, but they still toss the valet keys of their Lexus and BMWs to the valet guy on a Friday night.

This is not to say that Angelenos aren’t down to Earth. In some ironic way, these same Lexus types can still be found with a chili dog in hand, fresh from a street vendor. They’ll still shop at Albertsons versus Ralphs to get the better deal. They let the salt water bathe them on weekend mornings all year long, allow the sun to forever nurture their tans as they jog on the beach, and ride with surfboards sticking out of car windows and sunroofs.

Their calendars are colorful. From punk music venues to Friday nights at the Getty, where they sip wine and let the images of art percolate their brains, I’m finding many Angelenos are chameleon-like in their agendas, if not natures.

Angelenos are educated about movies; perhaps snobby in film taste. They refer to the television and movie industry as “The Industry” as though there is nothing else.

They like their organic foods, their Whole Foods, their Real Foods, Their Urth Cafes and Literati Cafes and farmers markets. They enjoy their Trader Joes. I went to Trader Joes a few weeks ago and made the mistake of being nice. I said “excuse me” and “sorry” and “thank you” but those TJ bitches ran their carts into mine; the joggers were more aggressive than I with the fruit; the wine aisle too crowded for an Arizonan like me to peruse. “You gotta always keep moving,” my roommate told me when I explained that I was bullied at the supermarket. “Always move.” But what if I don’t know what I want? What if I don't know where the pita chips are located?

Los Angeles doesn’t care; the city will not wait for me.

They are aggressive drivers. At every single intersection, at least two to three cars run the red light. This is normal, almost to the point of being safe. When traffic gets so bad that there is no where to move and you’re left in the intersection, they will either let you in or just wait. And there are many occasions, many, where some idiot in the back honks, as though the noise might create precious space.

Although completely and utterly dependent on cars, Angelenos walk often. They walk to lunch and to the market and to coffee shops. They walk to farmers markets and to the beach and the shops on Third Street in Santa Monica.

Angelenos are obsessed with health, at least the ones in my office. Each lunch brings conversations of how many calories in that, and this is bad for you, that’s not and blah dee dah. That’s not to say they don’t enjoy their chocolate chip cookies catered in, specialty cupcakes delivered in a dozen different flavors and French pastries from down the street. They do. They eat all these things. And then run it off later.

I have a new bag that I bought from a boutique in Westwood. Los Angeles is supposed to be best in the nation for boutique shopping. I’m proud of my honkin’ big blue bag, large enough to slug someone with. Angelenos, they love their boutiques.

A friend’s mom went to school in Los Angeles and seemed to enjoy my Brentwood stories this past weekend. I told her I won’t be here forever, but it’s good for now; it’s temporary, I figure.

She oooh’d and ahhh’d over my bag and gave me a tight hug goodbye.

“You’re Los Angeles,” she said. “You’re an LA girl, Joanna. I know this.”