L.A baby

If we rocked those five days any harder we would've broken something.

L.A was bittersweet and the taste still lingers in my mouth. L.A's flavor is alive, even if it's a little artificial.

I tasted the new fall lines for many American clothing lines, stacked into show rooms in a tall building. My mother was there on business with her friend Helen. I tried to help, but the clothing was like porn to me. So many well dressed people, so many trends, so little time. At night time the conversation was as rich as the food, and flowed as easily as the wine.

I tasted the sea air as my cousin and her fiance drove me along the Santa Monica coastline. Beautiful surfers climbed out of their cars and I squirmed in my seat. I tasted greasy seafood at a biker hot spot, an old diner up the coast. Sat with a biker gang called the Iron Pigs, and felt comfortable in my non-leather clad innocence.

I tasted Melrose, lined with only the latest in fashion. I was disappointed when I bought nothing, but the clothes were cheap in quality, and I'm not. Every store had a variation of the same thing, fluorescent bohemian skirts and studded belts galore. I've seen more sequined boleros in the past few days than I've seen Paris Hilton in the tabloids.

And I tasted, sigh, Rodeo Drive. Windows done up as beautifully as a Chardin still life. Every store was labeled with another designer's name that's been deeply engraved in my heart. Price tags surpassing all my paychecks combined. Handbags worth more than a car.

All in all it was "fabulous". Good times and a taste of sunshine.

Here is a photo diary to give some visuals to my words: