I lived in the US for 8 years, six and a half of them
in my little NYC, and eighteen months in LA, which I never had any interest in
moving to, but did so because my husband got a great job offer there and since
our next move was to my land on the other side of the world, I figured I owed
him at least that.
LA is a funny town. Owing to Gregory’s insane work
hours (chefs do not understand work-life balance - an executive chef isn’t
aware the concept even exists, and kitchens operate rather similarly to the
military – ‘yes sir, no sir,’ and there is no time for discussion because your
lavender infused béchamel sauce is about to boil over) we lived near where he
worked, which meant we shacked up in a tiny seaside cottage in the tourist
hotspot, Santa Monica.
It wasn’t a bad life. I took a break from performing
so I could write (and be near my new husband) swam in the beach every morning,
rode my bike to work in a nearby fancy restaurant, and earned a quid doing what
I do unfortunately well – seating the people.
Gregory and I would meet at the end of the evening and
wine and dine the night away with our other hospitality friends.
It wasn’t a bad life because it is very easy to love
that sort of life - you know someone at every joint you enter, there is a lot
of fresh seafood and a stupid amount of gin.
It is fair to say I started to resemble a juniper berry.
I drank so much of the stuff over those 18 months that
I haven’t touched it since.
I would argue this excessive intake was necessary
because while the friends we made in LA were fabulous and are some of our
dearest, the pervading culture of that town is more toxic than the plastic
filling the chests of most women.
Almost everyone who lives there is waiting to become
someone. And if they’re not, it’s because they already think are someone, which
comes with it a sense of entitlement so outrageous and misplaced, I was forced
to fight fire with fire and between the hours of 6 and 11 in the evening I
became a hostessing vigilante, informing people with just a look and a well
raised eyebrow that they are, in fact, one of the most wretched people in the
world, that it is just dinner they’re waiting for and that conventional manners
suggest that if someone is in front of you, they will be addressed first.
Still, I missed it when we left. The excellent
weather, (I am sorry to say that it is superior even to Sydney’s) the Santa Monica farmers markets, well
attended by locals, celebrities and the ever-following paparazzi, and the
odd-bods who make the sands of Venice beach their home.
Apparently
if you are released from re-hab and have nowhere to go, you are issued a
one-way bus ticket to Santa Monica and Venice.
It’s very kind of them really. If I was going to be
homeless I’d much rather do so under a palm tree than above a subway grate in
NYC. Particularly in winter.
These delightful characters can be found sitting in a
circle beating drums as the sun sets, chilling quietly on a grassy knoll, or
(as I witnessed this time round) performing a bizarre sand-dance with
arabesques and pirouettes, dressed in ragged shorts and bike helmets with
antlers sticking out.
You don’t get that sort of entertainment at Bondi.
I ran a lot in LA. So I saw a lot while I was there.
And it inspired this piece about plastic surgery, Hollywood wannabes and the meaning of life.
I hope you enjoy it.
Now the days Surgery plays important role in the life of couples. Peoples would require beautiful face that's why they will not get embarrassed in parties.
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