To Los Angeles

A long steady flight: Heathrow to LAX. Soporific hang time.
Spanish Inquisition research intercut with headrest cartoons.
DVT film time. Diversions you’d never leave the house for.
Blades of Glory wins the Stan vote.

We scramble to the windows, miss The Hoover Dam but spot Las Vagas, stripped of its neon, just another rock formation in the Navada Desert. Immigration non-plused by the theatre notion, customs too weary to bother with our blue crates. Shannon waits with her cardboard sign. Crates are thrown in the pick-up and nd we’re off to Studio City.

Craig, Charlotte, Karen and Robin circle the airport three times before displaying fine local knowledge with a flawless drive in. Graeme, Jake and Jo fare better out of the airport before inadvertently detouring through Compton – “looks a bit rough”. I’m with Shannon and the pickup; hooked on another new city unfolding. Low and flat, freeways and palm trees and the light straight off the cover of Hotel California.

Our accommodation is beautiful, a proper L.A. pad on a hill overlooking ‘the valley’, endless sofas and arches, a spiral staircase, stunning views, a patio, a walk-in fridge waiting to be filled. A place in which no-ones can pretend to be some-ones until the advance runs out.


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