California. Cali's not for Sallys after all...

I have always been skeptical about the west coast. For no reason in particular. My skepticism was founded mostly on a "why-not-hate-it" kind of reasoning. I had never been there and felt that my disdain would not have any real blowback. Perhaps it is just easy to disregard and judge something that is far from you. Also, I grew up in a coastal land full of palm trees, sand and heat so why visit something I know about. However, the main difference between my hometown and LA was that in LA there are, surprisingly, an inspiring array of cultural epicenters. Back at my hood, the closest thing to an art scene was the spray-painting of the word "shrubhumper" across the cement guardrails on a bridge down the road from my home. This exhibition did in fact have a lasting effect on me–partly because the hilarity of this new term and party because it was accompanied with a visual: a stick figure doing the do with a curly shrub, all in red acrylic. Although it was nonsensical and opened my eyes to the underground world of dendrophilia, it still felt a little amateur. So the idea of both sunshine and a blooming artistic environment never really coexisted for me–that's why I moved to NYC, where shrubhumper artists can not only make a buck on the street exploiting pussy-willows, but could potentially be sponsored by the MTA as well. And after living in NYC for a few years I finally got an opportunity to visit California with an old friend who has lived out there long enough to supply ample tour-guide-like feedback about the area. Florida? got it. New York? got it. LA? why not visit it? At this point I was looking forward to experiencing this sandy hot coastal land.

There was much to check out but my intention was to enjoy myself, not swallow the entire county whole. After arrival at LAX, I was brought by my friend to her home in Burbank. During this 45-minute traffic-filled ride I was given a brief description of the surrounding area which included some mountains, Century City, Downtown LA, more mountains, and even Warner Brothers studios (which has it's own backdrop of mountains). Burbank itself was clean and (even though I feel like an assuming snob saying this) it looked safe. Also, the beautiful mountains that cradled this cute area gave me a sense of tranquillity.

After dropping my stuff off at my friend's beautiful one bedroom pueblo, we established our prioties by quickly getting back into the car to get something to eat. But it was not just "something", it was an In-And-Out Burger.

Now, my aunt had some reservations about food from an establishment whose name suggests an undesired aftermath, but I assure you, this food remained in my stomach, happily. For me, and I am sure other East-Coatsers, this burger has a legendary status pertaining not initially to its succulent taste but its prestigious association with the Cohen Bros. film The Big Lebowski. The protagonists of the film repeatedly recognize this west coast fast food joint as an imperative stop amongst their otherwise flawed and hazardous venture. Their characters are moronic and daft, and I hold them all in the highest regards. Their endorsement was an easy sell.

I hadn't eaten all day save for a banana, ginger snaps and some Pringles at the airport. But more food was soon to come and that was all I could think about. We arrived. The place was busy. We were hungry. I spotted others eating. I was happy. I order. She was number 5. I was number 6. We sat down. I took a bite. I started to feel more human. The burger tasted glorious and divine in its greasy assembly. At this point I could only assume that it was the body of Christ. And I ordered two–and fries, which I guess could assume the role of the Holy Ghost in this tasty trinity. My friend and I caught up while we both responsibly maintained a respectable does of attention to the juicy, meaty morsels that plastered our chat. It was a pretty damn good time clearly a good start to this trip.

This first night was a laid back introduction to the neighborhood (we decided this trip would flow to our own discourse). We returned home and spent the rest of the evening caressing the keys of my host's recently tuned piano. Whilst formulating our ad hoc itinerary, we agree and establishing the next day's kick-off point: breakfast.