After a lovely six days in Thames, it was eventually time for me to say goodbye to my family, a melancholy event as we were unsure when exactly we would be reunited and one that was made worse by my beloved Benson purposefully ignoring me, having seen my suitcase re-packed and ready to go.

When the time came to catch the Intercity, Alice dropped me off at the bus stop as she had done right at the start of my Kiwi trip, only this time I would be heading off to America and not to see the rest of New Zealand. I watched her go and hopped on the bus, which quickly conveyed me to the buzzing hub of garlic and grumpiness that is Auckland, ready to catch my flight the next day.

I caught the airport shuttle the following afternoon, which was quick, but my relief at making good time was short lived as I was greeted at the airport by long queues and spent ages standing waiting to check in, only to clear security and find my boarding delayed. On a positive note, I managed to blag a seat with extra leg room on the plane for free, with an extra-visible tube sock and some A Level drama skills, using a slow gait, closed posture and pained expression to emphasise my swollen ankle (which by now was almost healed) and achieve my character’s aim of bagging an upgrade.*

Once we finally got up in the air the journey itself looked set to be pleasant, aided by the fact I had now perfected the art of dozing upright over several long Kiwi bus rides. Having been lulled into believing that this flight would be free of Shoesan-esque menaces, I was peeved to find myself plagued by children intent on playing games on their glaring interactive TVs during the SLEEPING period where all the lights were turned off and vexed by a woman who insisted on letting her infant crawl around where the air crew were trying to work. Baffled why anyone would want to embark on a long haul flight with such noisy, crawling creatures, I could only assume that the owners were flying to America to release them into the wild like Virginia Mckenna and her hand-reared lions at the end of ‘Born Free’.

I arrived at LAX at around 3pm and having expected a Disney World-esque welcome with jolly, bordering over-friendly airport staff, I was very shocked to find myself being glared at by the guards, as if my stepping off the plane was a direct threat to their constitution. Their customer service training had evidently been led by Brad the Kiwi bus driver and inspired by Bridge On The River Kwai as they barked ‘THIS WAY! NO NOT THERE!!’ Not that scanner I SAID THIS ONE!’, ‘FOUR FINGERS ON THE SCANNER!! and this warm welcome was furthered by an hour and a half long wait to clear border protection.

Frustrated and sore from a long time on my feet, I began to consider pointing out to the staff that they should probably open a few more of their half occupied desks and that with my Paddington Bear voice and lacrosse tour bag, I was hardly terrorist material. I also toyed with the idea of bolting through the barrier on the grounds that being apprehended and interrogated would at least grant me a seat, but was fortunately directed to a customs booth before I could enjoy the full American experience of being tasered.

When I finally made it to the other side and out of the airport, all I wanted was to get to the hotel and unlike Miley who ‘hopped off the plane at Lax with a dream and a cardigan’ (bloody queue skipper) I was armed with a sweaty puffa coat, a heavy suitcase and a rapidly dwindling will to live. I jumped in a taxi in the hope that a Britney song might be on to raise my spirits and that I might finally get to my hotel, however my driver seemed to have other plans and rather disappointingly, no music. Having made several attempts at describing my destination, by the third go I assumed he just about understood and we set off. Despite claiming to have lived in LA for thirty years, with his poor English and mumbled replies he could have been the brother of the Mongoose man in Fiji, with our disjointed small talk going something like:

Me: Where do you live in LA?

Mongoose Man 2.0: Yes.

Me: Here is my hotel address, it’s on Venice Beach.

Mongoose Man 2.0: I drop you at the beach.

Me: No it’s not the beach, it’s a hotel NEAR the beach.

Mongoose Man 2.0: Venice Beach.

Me: No NEAR THE BEACH PLEASE.

Having refused to use the GPS ( I’m not confident he knew how to operate it) and a considerable period of me repeating ‘Not the beach but NEAR THE BEACH’ like a increasingly panicked Mr Bean, he insisted that I had arrived at my hotel which was only ‘a few blocks away’. Beginning to feel for the second time in this trip that I had been kidnapped by an actual fruitcake and not wanting to be dropped on the corner of what looked like a pretty seedy block, I persuaded him to key in the address into the SatNav and we drove for a final five minutes until we finally arrived at the hotel- a bit further than ‘a few blocks’, particularly with a heavy suitcase and limited local knowledge.

My hotel was a strange but pleasant place, comprised of rooms either side of one long corridor running from the back entrance to a door opening right onto the famous Venice Beach boardwalk and I was greeted by a friendly receptionist, who I’ m 99% sure used to be male, her makeup immaculate and her outfit consisting of a tight t-shirt and tiny sport shorts.

She gave me my room key and showed me to the original 1920s elevator, reminiscent of the rickety lift in ‘Thoroughly Modern Millie’, which requires the user to tap dance. She explained that it was known as ‘Betsy’, pulling back the glass door and the folding iron guard rail (a little too flimsy for my liking) and ushered me in with my suitcase, instructing me to slide the rail shut. ‘She rides a little fast’ she cooed as she shut the second door and giggled at my face as I discovered that ‘a little fast’ meant zooming up with the force of a Chessington World of Adventures ride, the floor bucking as it reached my stop on the third floor.

I dumped all my stuff in my room, relieved to have finally arrived and after a refreshing shower and a change of clothes I ventured out to scope out the Venice area. As soon as I stepped out of the door straight onto the main street, I was met by the musky stench of marijuana, now legal in California and was promptly run over by a middle aged man on a scooter**. Having thought this man a lone oddball, nostalgic for childhood memories of the breeze in his hair and the sweet sting of a scooter hitting his ankle, I was surprised to see herds of people, many trying and failing to appear edgy, scooting around from A to B, all also seeming to lack a sense of spatial awareness and apparently keen to mow me down for my ignorant belief that these were vehicles reserved for people under the age of eleven.

As I made my way along the main strip, gazing at the numerous basketball courts, benches, wall murals and tacky souvenir stalls that lined the tarmac, while constantly checking for bikes and scooters, I was horrified by the huge homeless population encamped on Venice Beach. Having heard from friends about LA’s large homeless community, I thought I would be prepared, however the sight of the huge camp constructed from tents, cardboard and tarpaulins running along the side of the boardwalk still proved quite a shock.

Surprisingly, many of the people seemed fairly content in this cardboard construction, apparently enjoying life smoking marijuana by the sea, however there was also a large number of individuals who definitely displayed behaviour indicative of addiction to stronger substances or severe mental health problems, which made me question how a city renowned for being glamorous and affluent was failing to take care of some of its most vulnerable inhabitants.

For the first time since Nadi, in Fiji (which even then wasn’t so bad as I was accompanied by my friend Simon) I began to feel intimidated as a solo female traveller, as the men and women from the cardboard camp often approached tourists with wares or pleas for money, something that I might have found less worrying had I not been alone. While I didn’t feel threatened, I also did’t feel completely comfortable as it began to get darker and having scouted out a Subway, headed for a quick dinner and then to bed ready for a busy next day.

I woke early the next morning and headed out, keen to make the most of my little time in the city. It was strange going from chilly New Zealand winter to the hazy humidity of California, and as I walked out to the famous Venice canal district, a series of artificial waterways built in 1905 in an attempt to mimic its Italian namesake, I realised the day was only about to get stranger.

Now lined with luxurious houses, Venice is one of many expensive Los Angeles neighborhoods where gawking at the houses of the wealthy is a perfectly acceptable activity- almost encouraged by some homeowners who decree walls made of glass necessary in their palace right next to the footpath; needless to say it felt very surreal strolling along looking at the faux-Italian villas/ contemporary mansions only to make direct eye contact with a family supping on their gluten-free organic croissants at their marble breakfast bar, forcing me to scurry away on many an occasion like a lowly serf from Imperialist Russia too scared to look the nobility in the eye.

People here certainly seemed to tempt fate with their sculpture collection or Steinway piano clearly on display in their glass living rooms, counteracting this risk by hammering signs reminding passers by that an armed response unit will descend on their property in the event of a burglary, into their lawns. Indeed locals seemed more concerned about the health of local ducks than the people I had witnessed on the beach. This blatant and tasteless flaunting of wealth near such an impoverished group of people I’m sure would turn even the most conservative person into a raging Marxist.

As I wandered along, a humble gap yah student ‘realising things***’ and pondering whether I considered these people immoral due to my personal perception of right and wrong or jealousy (dear God I want a swan boat and a bright yellow Spanish-style house) I remembered the fact that I was yet to be catapulted into the water by a passing scooter and on discovering signs explaining an official scooter ban along the towpath, I decided that this was in fact one of the most upstanding Los Angeles neighbourhoods and that I liked the people very much. Having had my fill of manicured lawns, fairy lights, star-spangled banners and large pool inflatables, I headed back to the boardwalk ready for the 45 minute trek to Santa Monica, a nearby neighbourhood recommended by the receptionist.

My walk took me along the boardwalk and towards the Santa Monica Pier, passing several parks, including one containing two dog owners having a stand off, clearly lapping up the attention of embarrassed onlookers, and avoiding many bikes as I went. Thus far I was disappointed by the lack of celebrities out and about, instead graced by the presence of ugly men in flashy cars and young women with beautifully highlighted hair talking about their relationships, yoga or walking their dogs together in gym kit- the stereotypes are indeed real.

I passed the uneven wooden pier, home to crowds of tourists and a plastic looking theme park, the thick humid air infused with the smell of cheap hot dogs and popcorn. I strode purposefully away having had a quick look, deciding that a year’s imprisonment looked more tempting, fortunately happening upon the main shopping street of Santa Monica a few streets over. This was a pleasant respite, with its bushes cut in the shape of dinosaurs, beautiful trees decked with purple flowers and air conditioned stores and I spent some time perusing the shops and indulging in a few purchases, my ‘I shall reject all material goods, moments are more precious than things’ gap yah awakening thrown out the window.

I ducked into a cafe, ordered a cold smoothie and watched the world go by, reflecting on how nice it was to sit in the sun and shop at a leisurely pace- an experience that would soon be tainted by a shop assistant who used the word ‘dope’ unironically, making me die inside on her behalf, unsure if she realised that she sounded less edgy and more like Regina George’s ‘cool mom’.

All shopped out, I decided meander back, even managing to catch a local bus back to the hotel. Proud of my new efficient self and this impressive feat of adulting****I decided to treat myself to an ice-cream, made even better by the man behind me in the queue kicking off because he was served his ice-cream in cone (which he asked for) that he ‘wasn’t expecting’- it was a waffle cone clearly displayed in a no longer idiot proof case so who knows what he was expecting…

I spent the late afternoon wandering around the neighbourhood, looking at the houses and the street art, later settling in a restaurant where the theme was Communist China for a solitary dinner of tasty noodles.

On my return to the hotel, I was greeted by a new receptionist, who after a friendly very brief chat, asked for my social media and inquired what I was doing later, apparently unfazed by the fact I was eighteen and he was over the age of thirty five. Peturbed, I made a hasty retreat to pack my case ready for my departure tomorrow, terrified that he A, knew where my room was and B slid something under my door. He was quite an…individual… character and concerned it might be used underwear/ a poem/ a pound of human flesh, you can imagine my relief to find it was simply a copy of their departing guest survey.

At this point I felt rather relieved to be leaving, not only due to my admirer on the desk downstairs, but I was also keen to be somewhere where I wasn’t constantly sweaty and on my guard. While LA was really fun and definitely worth a visit, I had no desire to linger longer, ready to trade this arid dustbowl where everything seemed to be an imitation of an original, for the refreshing green woods and lakes of Minnesota, now fully understanding Nick Carraway’s pull to the more wholesome Mid-West at the end of ‘The Great Gatsby’.

The next day I called a taxi ahead of time ready for my early flight, which helpfully didn’t show, cutting my timings a lot finer than I would have liked. Waiting for my new taxi, I was accosted by Creeper Number 2, a random twenty something year old man who decided to quiz me on my time in the city and wished me farewell as if he himself was the mayor of the city, furthering my suspicion that I appear to be catnip for strange international men over the age of 25.

Panicking that I would miss my flight and keen to avoid more strange men, I nervously hung on until another taxi could scoop me up, owned by a driver whose idea of a joke was pointing out that my name sounds like ‘lychee’- which it doesn’t….Worried he had offended me when I didn’t laugh, I didn’t have the heart to point out to him that I didn’t laugh because I would rather he focussed on helping me catch my flight, that my ten year old cousin has better banter and that he clearly has a problem with phonics if he can’t tell the difference between ‘lu’ and ‘ly’.

Will I make it to the airport in time? Will I get attacked by unexpected waffle cones or get accosted by more creepers?

Find out in the next installment!

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*I didn’t think Max Stafford Clark’s actioning would be as effective

**Ok so I wasn’t actually run over but it was a close call

***Jenner, Kylie. “KYLIE UP CLOSE: My 2016 Resolutions.” YouTube. January 20, 2016. Accessed July 05, 2018. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZyHiFvbFJE.

^The original queen of woke gap yah thoughts

****I got dropped at the right bus stop by a kind bus driver after waiting at the wrong one and had to ask each driver that pulled up if they were going to Venice before I caught the right one