"The bigger the water bottle, the better you are"
And 8 other observations from a week living in West Hollywood (that's WeHo to us locals)...
The occupational hazard of being a British journalist in LA that every so often the opportunity to interview a really fascinating, very famous person arises. At very short notice. And next thing you’re binge-reading their memoir and preparing some burning questions like nothing else in the world matters.
That’s my way of saying, I’ve had a bit of insane week and time has run away from me. But rather than not bringing you an instalment from LA this week, I’m sharing a guest post, written by a wonderful journalist and writer called Harriet Hall.
Harri is the Features Director at Cosmopolitan magazine in the UK. She’s one of those journalists who is as equally at home interrogating Andrew Tate as she is being interviewed for Women’s Hour or writing about London Fashion Week. She always has A LOT to say. And what’s more, she’s very funny.
Recently she came to LA and stayed in West Hollywood for a week. So I asked her to jot down any observations she had, as an outsider looking in, because I knew they would be on point. Enjoy! But not too much - I don’t want to be out of a job…
The bigger the water bottle, the better you are.
Water bottles are a status symbol. I’m not talking brands. Although here, your Stanley sippy that us Brits only recently started going wild for on TikTok are on every aisle in Whole Foods and cradled under arms of endless passers-by, so I guess that’s a good gateway bottle (despite being a dedicated Frank Green girlie, I was tempted). But anyway, I’m talking size. To Angelenos, a water bottle is a sports car, a penis, a wad of wellbeing cachet. Like the athleisure that clings to perfectly glowing and sculpted bodies everywhere in the city, you must wear your wellness on your sleeve. Got a 1L bottle? Pussy! Your life means nothing unless you’re carrying around at least a 2L keg.
A hike is a walk.
When you come to LA, something everyone talks about is the hikes. “You gotta hike in Griffith Park!” “You gotta hit Runyon Canyon for a hike!” I must admit, I was a little intimidated. Sure, I own a pair of Salomons and wore them at Glastonbury like every other self-respecting slave to trends, but was I about to actually put them to the test outside Worthy Farm? No, as it happens. Because a hike is a walk. Sometimes the walk might be at a slight incline, sometimes people on the walk are carrying sticks as if they are off to conquer K2. They aren’t. They are going for a little walk. With sticks.
There is no colour.
It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot. But if you’re tempted to wear a floaty tea dress or channel your inner Romeo Montague a la Baz Luhrmann and whip out that ironically cool Hawaiian shirt from 2015, well, don’t. Grunge is still really the only vibe here. Grunge in a glam way, obvs, in a “I’m off to the Viper room” in a pre-Depp v Heard way, but not a legitimately grungey way. Don’t be foolish. These people are far too clean cut for that. It’s a pre-faded band tee, a Maria Tash septum ring and Dior sunglasses sort of situation.
If you walk, you die. If you drive, you die.
Getting around LA is like dicing with death on a daily basis. I was warned multiple times that “we don’t walk in LA”. Once, after a particularly boujee (extremely expensive) facial, I asked the receptionist if I could walk the 10 mins down the road to another boujee location. She had to check the map and advised against certain routes (sorry, row-ts). As a European this is straight up crazy shit. I miss using my legs.
There is an underground! But it is also certain death, apparently. One shopkeeper told me about his mate who visited from Japan and got robbed at knifepoint on the Metro, so that was out. Cars are the only way to get around here. But have you ever driven on a five-lane highway on the wrong side of the road where you can turn right on a red light but not if pedestrians are crossing and also not if it’s one of the reds you can’t turn right on?
It’s a dog’s life.
Maybe I am just missing my own pooch back home (shout out to chihuahua, Frida Kahlo!) but LA feels deeply… doggish. Dogs are allowed in way more places than in the UK. There’s a doggy daycare on every corner, dogs are in handbags, in prams, sniffing their way around the fresh food aisles in supermarkets, trotting along in the airport, living their best lives at the beach and an optional travelling companion in most hotels and air bnbs.
At a popular West Hollywood vegetarian Mexican restaurant, I overheard two women having lunch. One of them announced: “my dog’s a vegetarian”. Mishearing this, presumably having picked up the word ‘daughter’ the other one replied: “oh, when did she decide to give up meat?” The first woman, totally deadpan, said: “I think she just knew it was right”. Simply glorious.
Erewhon is everything.
Want to buy a tiny box of pre-cut fruit or a box of dried kale for $12? You think you don’t, but when you go to Erewhon you will realise you really, really do. Is the homeless problem in LA down to the disgraceful acceptance of overpriced wholefoods? Quite possibly.
Uber drivers are also everything.
Uber in the UK has really gone downhill since the panny d. I don’t know if this is down to Brexit or tackling the much-needed under-paid issues of the gig economy. I occasionally Google it but I am none-the-wiser tbh. Uber is mostly hit-and-miss in London now. But in LA? Uber is THRIVING. And the Uber drivers are all incredible. One woman gave me a little political history lesson on a trip to Venice and even stopped to show me the high school from Grease en route. Another bloke refused to let me change my destination and tried to chuck me out on the freeway (ok it wasn’t chill but I respected his DGAF vibe). But my favourite was the bleached buzz-cut singer with neon green sunglasses and a tiger-print shirt who wouldn’t speak a word as he was a “performer on vocal rest.” I tipped that guy.
Gratuity! Tips! Service charge!
At this point it almost feels as though US tipping culture is purely designed to flummox idiot tourists. And it has worked for me several times. Since I came here last (in 2016) all coffee shops seem to have installed iPads as tills so when you buy a $6 chai latte you can also have the pleasure of being guilt-tripped into adding another 20% on top for the thrills. When you buy anything from anywhere you will be given the option to tip and people will stand there while you have an internal breakdown triggered by your British need to be polite about how much is generous but not ruinous. I don’t know what’s real anymore, I am bankrupt.
Everyone is a contact.
Networking culture is wild here. I kinda love how no-shit open it is but it also makes you wonder what is genuine and what isn’t. As a Brit, we don’t dole out compliments easily. Here, every person I’ve met has beamed, “love your shirt!”, “love your bag!”, “love your hair!” Am I fabulous? Or am I a sucker? Hey, at least I made some new contacts…
If you like Harri’s writing as much as I do, you can find her on Instagram @harri_grace. Her book, SHE: A Celebration of Renegade Women is out now.