I have been trying to enjoy Los Angeles. Or at least dismantle my aversion to it. It all started in January when my L.A.-based friend, who knows I’ll find any excuse to decline a visit—impromptu family reunion, cardiac arrest—gave me two robust months’ notice for her 40th birthday party. I was going whether I liked it or not. And besides the two-plus hours of stop-and-start maniacal traffic, I think L.A. finally broke me.
Truth be told, I avoid Los Angeles like the plague, and I only live 90 minutes away. First reason: the oppressive traffic (Seriously? Only two lanes on the I-5 with construction that hasn’t budged since the last time I passed through two years ago?) Second: There’s only one topic of conversation: “The Industry.” Third: The type of car you drive automatically dictates your social position. (Ten years ago I was openly mocked at a valet station for having a station wagon.) Nonetheless, a family get-together had me planning a weekend in L.A. and, naturally, I intended to eat my way through it!