You can't teach an old dog new tricks

A week in LA for work

I saw the best girls of my generation destroyed by Los Angeles.

Growing up in Long Beach, I avoided the freeway like the plague — but it was unavoidable this trip as I was needed in West Hollywood for work. On the 405, I thought about how it’s ridiculous to assume 2 things in LA:

You can get around without a car

You should wear a blazer to work

Image c/o Paloma Wool.

On Monday, I drove to the Verve on Melrose. 5 minutes from the office. There was a full staff inside but they regretted to say they were closed for an obvious renovation. They told me to go to the Verve on 3rd Street, a 10-minute drive away. It took me 20 to park.

The cashier rung me up for $600 worth of coffee to be used at props for the shoot. $500 of that was single origin.

“It’s a Kenya roast. So it’s going to be brighter. Is that okay?” Yes. Yes, Jeremy. Gesturing to one of the 5 lb. bags — “This one has the oldest roasting date. So I’d suggest using it first.” My heart seized in infidelity as I promised, Yes, we would!. Jeremy loaded the 30 pounds in my backseat.

Other expenses:

Rush mat from Nickey Kehoe ($500 after the unspoken discount)

Parking ticket. $60. The price of doing business on La Cienega.

Whenever I am home, I wear my mother’s clothes. Exasperated as I pick out things and disorganize her racks, she points out that that top I grabbed was a “reject” from last trip. She can’t truly ever declutter but more-so wisely knows the cyclical nature of these things.

I pack light with clothes to leave in Long Beach and return with clothes to try out in New York. Some last longer than others in my closet in the East Village but a lot of them know my suitcase intimately.

I still panic over never having anything to wear when I travel but know when I come home, I have full access to a complete wardrobe. But the real panic is that the wardrobe is not my own. Wearing my mother’s clothes makes me feel like a young professional. Moving to New York at 17, I’ve had to develop a wardrobe for the city. But my Catholic school uniform and Brandy sweaters still exist at home. Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have my own sense of style here. I see the cool LA girls with the Brooke Callahan pants and Cleo bag. Is that really me? Would that be me, living here? My black Comme looks so depressing in full sunlight.

L: Analuisa Corrigan in a BC pair. R: I still think about this photo from MNZ fittings circa 2022.

The only thing I purchased was indeed a black dress by Maria Bianca Nero at Scout Vintage. The store manager and I both had never heard of the designer before. She rung it up as a “little blk dress” in the Square system.

On Thursday, a co-worker and I went to the Urth Caffé on Melrose for lunch. Her first time being in LA, she admitted to me she would live here. Girl. This is West Hollywood. You don’t even have a car here…

I went to Urth earlier in the week by myself and was struck by how nice the girls with lip fillers are, happy to show me where the menus are. It’s the straight white men with their dogs that are the rude ones.

Number of men that have my criticized my driving this week: 4

A scentscape I will never forget is visiting a private rose garden in Pasadena, where the roses bloomed 8 ft tall. In an effort to “smell better,” I dug up an archival ITG article that reminded me how Diptyque’s Eau Rose is the best to wear when it’s hot out. I got many compliments from strangers, family, and hotel receptionists.

On Friday night, after trying a hand roll place in Culver City my dad and I checked out Erewhon. My mom and I got drunk off of a bottle of sake. As she slept in the car in the parking lot, inside Erewhon I panic-bought her a sandalwood neroli candle for Mother’s Day.

We drove past Dear John’s getting onto the 405. The only thing I love more than a NY steakhouse is an LA steakhouse.

On the way home, my dad told me Erewhon spelled backwards is Nowhere.

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My Long Beach remains largely unchanged, with its gas stations and smoke shops untouched from the 1960’s. I adore going for brunch at home and love the boys who still wear their Vans and trucker hats. Except now they’re wearing raw denim. Some of my haunts have a different look, though I happily discovered the wine shop, Buvons, opened an all day Euro-style cafe next door. I am just out of arm’s reach of walking distance, otherwise I would be there every day. A touch of Gjusta energy in LB.

I woke up at noon on Saturday, my last full day. My dad and I drove to Mangette (again) in our Ford Explorer that’s older than me. I joked earlier to my boyfriend that I’d have a dumb vintage convertible if I lived in LA; the Explorer, I finally realized this trip, is so much better. I told my dad that he and my mom could never get rid of this car. He said they probably wouldn’t since it was a gift from my mother’s father.