I wake up this morning still thinking of cowboys. It’s glorious sunshine here in Fort Worth and the storms that plagued Nashville and Dallas have blown off into Oklahoma somewhere.
I’ve somehow managed to cleverly book my flight to LA out of Dallas’ lesser know Love Airport, which means a good 45 minute cab ride across town from where I am as there’s no trains on Sunday.
Fortunately my cabbie, Hector is a pleasant enough companion and points out the Cowboys’ stadium, Six Flags, and the overflowing Trinity river as we pass by.
He gives me a great recipe for Mexican baked beans; and teaches me some Texan lingo (them there is fightin’ words!!).
I get to the airport quite early for my flight, so there’s not much to do except pitch up and start drinking (when in Texas…).
Finally my flight is called, and I roll aboard slightly wine sleepy and nap my way across the time zones.
We touch down in LA early evening and LAX is heaving. The people are different here. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I can definitely tell I’ve left the sweetness and subtlety of the south long behind me.
I hop in a cab and we race down Sepulveda Avenue, past golfers at Westchester driving range, and along the Vietnam Veterans Highway, turning down Lincoln Boulevard. I arrive at my Venice destination, and my cabbie takes doesn’t bother giving me any change, taking himself a nice tip (yep-California!).
I drag my bags upstairs to the apartment. I’ve splashed out and taken a cute little studio by the beach for a few days, and inside it’s gorgeous.
I drop my things and take an evening stroll. The weather is a little chilly as I walk the streets past hippy cafes and their artsy patrons. I hit up the store and bring back food and water to my pad.
I’m actually pretty sleepy (in my mind it’s two hours later still) so I head to bed for a good night’s sleep before exploring tomorrow.
I’m excited and nervous to see what this giant city has to offer, and hoping it doesn’t swallow me up whole.
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