So, I'm here.
It took a while and a little self doubt to finally get out of London, and I can't help feeling slightly empty-handed about something, like I've left a crucial element undone. The prospect of this trip felt like a Porsche behind a plate glass showroom window at times, something you can go right up close to but you can't touch it, much less drive the thing. But I landed in LAX last night, bought a burrito as big as Julio Chavez's forearm, and crashed in a very trendy but ridiculously cheap boutiquey hotel on Lincoln Boulevard. They were playing Beatnuts in the lobby this morning.
LA from the sky as the plane landed was one of the most ridiculously beautiful cities from the air I've seen. It burnt Paris. I suppose it must have been rush hour or something, but the city twinkled on and on as far as the eye could see, and the burberry check of the grid system was slashed with these solid white and red streams of headlights and tail lights, It looked like it would be a great place to be stuck in traffic.
This morning I walked 4 miles in search of an adaptor for the laptop. Should have really sorted that out before I went. They were right, all the people who said you dont walk in LA. Pedestrians and cyclists are on the whole, nutters, or the dispossessed. I jaywalked dangerously. I gots ta get me a whip.
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