Having recently been issued a New York state license, confirming my permanent residence in the greatest city in the world, I packed a little NYC hubris along with my cell phone charger on my way to Los Angeles. I would tell friends that I was heading out to the city of angels, and almost in concert they’d say, “Oh, the traffic is just terrible. You have to drive everywhere!“. My expectations were low, and getting off the plane I imagined I’d walk into a field of liposuction ridden former model/actresses all vying for coveted spots on the LA freeway system. While it is true that the fastest way to get around LA isn’t exactly carbon neutral, the city so much surprised me with its gorgeous architecture and stunning geography that I quickly forgot about the traffic. And when you’re stuck in traffic on a cloudless day with a breeze coming off the Pacific, where else would you want to be anyway? Most surprising, however, was how much of the city could be accessed by my own two feet. I put my legs to work to find out just how far I could get fueled only by two bowls of Cheerios. It was certainly cheaper than a tank of gas.

My gracious host Rachel swept me up from LAX late Thursday night, after a mere 4 hours on the tarmac plus 5.5 hours in the air. I could have been having brunch in Bangkok by the time we arrived, but inclement weather plus the tortuous, Beckett-inspired runway waits at JFK delayed my arrival significantly. After waking up in my eastern time zone frame of mind, I decided to make of day of it, thereby maximizing my exposure to sun, palm trees, and celebrities. I would have no trouble finding all three.

Rachel lives on the glitzy line between West Hollywood and Beverly Hills, a delightful intersection of palatial houses, nightclubs, and rainbow flags. Armed with fresh socks and comfortable sneakers, I strolled down her street until I reached the epic Santa Monica Blvd, an east-west thoroughfare that cuts through the entire city. Traveling east on Santa Monica, I explored West Hollywood, a neighborhood so gay that even the cop cars have rainbow flags on them. Passing underwear boutiques, coffee bars, and pet stores, I ambled slowly popping into bookstores and thrift stores along the way. Most excitingly, I picked up a book called Queer 13, a collection of stories from outstanding authors about their experiences in 7th grade. I think it will make up for the undeniably heteronormative collection currently in place.

Thirsty from schlepping around LA’s gayborhood, I ventured into a juice bar. Electronica music blasted from the ceiling speakers as beefy tanned men ordered smoothies infused with protein powders and steroids.  I placed my order with a gentleman wearing bright blue contact lenses and spiked blond-tipped hair.  My carrot ginger juice burned a little going down, but I did my best to fit in among the California crowd.  Coming from New York, where service with a smile is just about as rare as an empty subway seat, I was almost thrown off guard by the “How are you doing today?” comments from the staff.  Full from the juice and the chit-chat about Michael Phelps, I soldiered on into the wilds of Beverly Hills.

As thousands of cars whizzed by me on Santa Monica Blvd, I was the only person walking on the broad Beverly Hills sidewalks.  That is, besides the bevy of crazies spewing incomprehensible epithets on park benches.  The mix of wealth and poverty was as shocking as the fact that no one else was walking along the same street as me on gorgeous Friday afternoon.  I imagined Broadway empty at lunchtime and thought it only possible in some sort of Vanilla Sky-esque science fiction scene.

I walked through the fancy streets of Beverly Hills, taking in the tourists and the astronomical prices of Rodeo Drive.  Not quite having the necessary $3000 for a new sweater, I continued my trek west toward the ocean.  A half a mile outside of Beverly Hills and kind of manifest destiny settled over me, and I decided that my journey would not be complete until I saw the bright blue Pacific from the shores of Santa Monica.  I’d already made an ambitious walk of it, striding through WeHo and Beverly Hills, but the need to “go west” was too strong to keep my lanky frame from stopping.  I thought that Santa Monica Blvd would take me to Santa Monica, and it did.  The only small catch was that it took 9.4 miles to get me there.  Here is a map of where I walked.

For any New Yorker reading, I walked the equivalent of going from the World Trade Center site in Lower Manhattan to the Cloisters on 205th street near the Bronx. The walk wasn’t as interesting as it would have been in New York, but it wasn’t too dangerous (only 1 man tried to follow me) and I got to see the Pacific Ocean at the end of it, something the Cloisters just can’t offer.  I wouldn’t exactly call LA pedestrian friendly, but I honestly think that has more to do with the fact that no one wants to walk, not that walking isn’t an option.

My next move is to start a tourist business/weight loss program that makes people hike dozens of miles through Hollywood, simultaneously star-searching while burning calories.  That has to fly in LA.