Los Angeles. Land of hopes and dreams. Home of the sun and everything under it. Hollywood. Bear in mind as I go through this, I was once Los Angelese. I bear no ill nor think no wrong. But they are truly out of their minds. It's funny, when I lived out there or when I visit, I don't run into the natives all that much. My experience is of the immigrants, the transplants and the lost. Not the natives. I know nothing about them. I see Los Angeles as an island destination for all of those who want to create their own reality. Who are fed up with the truth and the sane. Who wish instead to tailor their existence. Their personified entity, of course, is Hollywood. A land of make believe that, on one side of the scale, is a mere representation of reality and on the other, a complete removal from reality. Think Midnight Cowboy versus Avatar. Likewise, the people seem to create an image of themselves and then proceed to live the image. Sometimes that image is closely related to who they are, but I'd wager that most times it is not. Either way, it's not real, in the truest sense. I'll never forget my trip to the Los Feliz Seven Eleven during my second year there. I was going to grab a Coke and a processed tuna fish sandwich. The typical lazy afternoon snack in those days. Anyway, just as I turned the corner, I saw, there, next to the entrance, a bearded man with long brown hair, standing on top of his red convertible, playing a Jimi tune on his electric guitar, dressed in a toga and a crown of thorns. It wasn't so much what I saw, but how I reacted to it. I didn't. I went in and got my Coke and exited right by Jesus, the rock god. If that had happened anywhere else, I would have stopped dead in my tracks and looked around for a reaction. But I didn't because it was LA. While LA didn't fit with me (or I didn't fit with it), I must admit, I truly do love this quality. I do, but still. Let me speak bluntly. The truth of the matter is it's based in lies. This is not to say there are no real people. I know a few of them, but they're the exception to the rule. That's not the city's personality. And it's not what the city thrives on. Just like the movie sets that are scattered across town, it's a land built on false fronts.
San Francisco. City on the hill. Home of the hippies. Wear those flowers and keep your heart there safely. I was fortunate enough after my time in LA to spend a summer here, so I'm speaking from a little more than just the two day exposure I just experienced. The comparisons to its second cousin, twice or thrice removed, are endless. So let me speak of one. Los Angeles is a city that was created from nothing. A brand new reality based on dreams and irrigation. In essence, it's a city without foundation, floating in the clouds. San Fran, on the other hand, seems to have grown from the land. From the hills it rolls over. From the bay it embraces. And from the Redwoods that surround it. The people, whether they come from near or far, seem to have grown from the city just as the city from the land. Not to get too hippy, but there is a peace that flows through everything. Land to city to people. It's a true ecosystem of civilization. And because of this, there is foundation and, just like the giants that populate the hills, it's rooted in reality. The art, the music, and even the colors seems to come from the nature they call home. The buildings seem to bow to the terrain while the streets roll with the hills. Nothing is cut into, shifted or altered. It is what it always has been. Just with a city on top. Now, just like any urban area, it has its crime and dirt, but it's not threatening. Never menacing. Mischievous perhaps, but safe. A safe haven for all wandering souls looking for a home. I suppose that's what it feels like to me. During our time there, we spent the day at a party in a Victorian mansion up on a hill. Friendly folk, plentiful grub, and never-ending music. The house itself held our friend's parents, our friend, her husband, her son and her brother. One happy commune. But there was one room in the house that was called the Bluegrass Suite. It was a place for traveling musicians to stay as they come through town. In its simplicity, that, to me, is San Francisco.
Two cities. Two worlds. One state.
California.
- snook.
Location:California, USA
