What I like about L.A.: there's such an easy friendliness here. You go to a trendy pizzeria and the hostess raves about your dress. The only compliments you'll get in NYC is from the gay guy at Saks. And then it's with a tinge of jealousy and a flavor of "I'm not complimenting you -- just your raincoat". NYC is more like Paris -- if a girl likes what you're wearing she'll maybe give you a sidewards glance or even deign to talk to you. Like the hostess at L'Atelier de Joel Robuchon who let us in on a conspiracy against an annoying guest. Of course in London no one notices what anyone else is wearing -- unless they're an expat. Too much gloom and rain and booze -- everyone has a perpetual hangover. And a holiday brochure. Fleeing Ol' Blighty is a national obsession. Eleven years stuck in the UK and you too will catch the cultural fantasy of immigrating to Australia. Maybe that's what it is -- the sun. It must do something to you in L.A. Life isn't so threatening when the sun is shining and there's this dry ambient heat like a dream of lost paradise versus the gritty, disease-ridden sauna of NYC or Seoul.
You do get occasional unpleasantness. Like when Intelligentsia first opened in Silver Lake. But then you find out the Hipster staff had been recently imported from Seattle. Probably all got sunstroke the first day. Takes time to get used to so much sun.
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