Big City Love

As the plane descended I saw them. Lights. Millions of them. They spotted the ground like little fireflies swarming in the darkness.

My heartbeat began to gallop and I knew immediately that I would return to Los Angeles many times. In my mind, I was already planning a trip back in the summer with Prissy. I knew she would love the lights even more than me because she her inner child adores shiny things. We'll come back and scope out where she could get an apartment and I will drop off my second demo and we. will. SHOP (my favourite verb). I couldn't wait for the plane's wheels to connect with the tarmac so that I could see the nine miles to my hostel a little closer to the ground, in a taxi.

Santa Monica. I had not read/heard/watched anything about you but I was enthralled. There was no major difference between this city and many others, with the graffiti and highways, but I shall risk sounding cliché and say there was a magic, a particular vibration, in the wind that resonated well with me. Ladies and Gentlemen, I could live there. I told my father the same the following morning.

When I finally arrived at my hostel I was unsure what to expect. I was made to wait about ten minutes while the Nigerian took over his shift. I took a minute to observe the premises and it more than met my approval. It seemed clean and popular as people young and old wandered through the doors. I made my way to my dorm on the fourth floor and fumbled in the darkness to get ready for bed. Two of my unidentified roommates had horrible coughs and took turns spreading the germs all night but they failed to keep me awake; I slept like a log. It's strange sleeping in a room full of strangers. I really had no idea who these women were - I hadn't even seen their faces. It didn't seem to matter much at the time, though. I slept like a log, I said.

In the morning, I shuffled to the communal bathrooms and met one of my mysterious roomies. Actually, I was introduced to her breasts before I knew her name. (In places like these you can't be shy of your body. It's a temperate version of a nudist camp so love thy naked self!) At breakfast, I sat next to her, learned her name and that she was from New Zealand. She was a calm and soft spoken woman in her late forties, I guessed. She blinked her big blue eyes slowly as she listened to me ramble on about my island in the *sun*.

The other roommate, who won the coughing contest the night before, was not quite as quiet. She was Canadian and in our first meeting she explained to me that the reason Greyhound Bus drivers were such "son-of-a-bitches" was because "they're angry at life and have to take it out on women because they don't have enough gumption to take it out on each other." She had gotten on the wrong bus (one headed to Salt Lake City instead) and the driver cussed her out before he dropped her off at the previous station. They still had her luggage. She told me she was angry at men. I told her she wasn't alone. Then she realised how young I was and commented that guys must line up around the corner to date me, "such a beautiful girl". I didn't deny that ;-). The deep wrinkles in her face, which almost seemed like tribal carvings, tightened when she smiled at me. "Boy do I wanna talk to you! Cayman Islands? You should charge people to talk to you!" I considered that for a while afterward...

Then I met my Belgian roomie. She was the other half of the coughing duo and a "music interviewer". I told her about my demo and plans to drop them off at Ellen Degeneres' studio. She suggested I put a label with my contact info on it and encouraged me to send another one this summer. I was tempted to give her one of my demos but I wished to keep it for my trip to Hong Kong. After all, I had told everyone I was bringing a copy.

I decided not to take the bus by myself in search of Warner Bros. Studios without knowing for certain I would be successful in leaving my demo with someone from Ellen's show. The plan seemed nice at 2am but I fear being lost so the following day, I FedEx-ed them to Flavor Unit instead. I'm still waiting to hear from them but I'm good at keeping my hopes reasonable.

From FedEx, I strolled down the shopping promenade that was just a block away from my (extremely comfortable, friendly, clean and well-recommended) hostel. I was more tempted to shop than I imagine Tom Cruise must have been to jump on Oprah's sofa a dozen more times. I did well, though. Just kept my thoughts in 'Future' mode. Repeated over and over how much I would spend in the summer when I returned.

On my second and last night, I met an Italian, a Briton and two Aussies at the dinner table. I agreed to go out for a Guiness with them afterward without giving a second thought to my age. They were all above 21 and here was little old me, stuck in legal-age limbo. But 'almost' doesn't count, right Prissy?

I decided to try my luck at getting into a pub anyway. I was met by a punk-ass door whore who had a bad attitude because I didn't bring my ID. Alas, I still got to drink... at a real Irish pub at that! I threw back two Guiness that my lovely Italiano bought for me. He wasn't very easy on the eyes but he loved life and had rhythm so we danced the night away. The DJ fell in love with me (not the other way around) and played about 10 Michael Jackson songs in a row and my favourite Bob Marley tunez. I met a few other characters that night. Honorable mentions; the drunk New Zealander, who seemed to drift rather than dance, and the young fella with a crush on the chick with a big boyfriend. He asked me why white girls always went for the ugly, old guy. "I dunno, buddy. I'm not a white girl."

And so LA was a great success! Grew on me faster than body hair after a testosterone shot. (Ew!) In the morning, the airport shuttle driver, like everyone else I met in LA, was friendly and asked me if I was Ethiopian like him as he carried my backpack out for me. I introduced myself and island once more and he told me about him playing calypso music in Martinique, and then vowed to move to Cayman to find a wife. Then he turned up the music because the only good song that would play on the ride to the airport had just started. We talked for the rest of the way.

I should have charged him to talk to me.