A Love Letter To LA, From A Brit Who Never Thought She’d Fit In

That first smell of the air — it is sweeter out here, I swear. The feel of sand in my toes. My first farmers market with coconut tortillas and jackfruit carnitas.

From the time we landed, I was hooked.

I’d grown up in London. I’d been happily living on the East Coast for 10 years. The L.A. I thought I knew was for other people, not me. But the minute we arrived it felt like I’d stumbled on paradise.

Gone baby, gone. It’s remained this way ever since. A decade in, I still look up as I cross the street and wonder — wait, who put those palm trees there? And I clutch myself with glee.

The miracle of backyard oranges

That first week is still vivid. Each morning I’d get up, pad outside in my bare feet and stand there, face turned up to the sun, marveling that such a life existed.

No wonder Californians seemed so damn happy and healthy all the time! The young me back in damp, cold London could only have dreamed of such things (and did, enviously watching Baywatch and 90210).

The oranges in Suzanne's yard the day her family moved to L.A.

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Suzanne Levy/LAist

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We’d moved into a house that had an orange tree in the yard — a miracle. In England, oranges strictly arrived in supermarkets, slightly sullen from their arduous journey from Florida.

Back home, they were reserved for unimaginative fruit salads or quartered for mid-game refreshment at cricket matches. Here, the lushness, the proliferation, the goddamn extravagance of the fruit — I mean, you could just reach out and have one for breakfast!

Which brings me to food. Such a variety! Yes, I’d lived in New York with its plethora of choices, but somehow here there was a glee about the diversity, a pride in all the different cultures rubbing up against each other.

Japanese and Korean and Ethiopian and Persian, as well as more tacos than you could possibly try in one lifetime. And the pushing of food frontiers, the willingness to blend, the “Hey, why not mix Mexican and Korean food?” When I first saw a Kogi food truck I stood in disbelief …and reverence.

LAist editor Suzanne Levy on the beach in Santa Monica

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Julie Leopo-Bermudez for LAist

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Ditching the stereotype

Over the years I’ve learned to let go of my preconceptions. On the East Coast I grabbed my husband and said, “I can’t move to Los Angeles! All the women are so gorgeous! I’ll just never fit in. They’ve all had work done, and their teeth are so perfect!” (Actually this is true — I’m still embarrassed by my British teeth and somehow Angeleno teeth gleam whiter in the sunshine).

Then we moved to the Westside and suddenly I’m awash in yogis in leggings and no makeup, wafting through the farmers market holding a perfectly situated bunch of sunflowers, with little thought to fashion or dressing up.

In fact dressing up seemed to consist of stepping out of Birkenstocks and putting on some Uggs. (My favorite look remains a fleece and flip flops. What would be an unimaginable combo in, say, New York or London just seems to make perfect sense here).

When I did finally make it to Beverly Hills, I found the L.A. of my imagination. Walking behind women in Chanel suits, men in cashmere sweaters and dogs in sequined collars and realizing … aha ... It’s all about the neighborhoods. There are so many. And each is different.

Downtown with its lofts and the Eastside with its hipster enclaves and Pasadena pressed up against the mountains and up through the 405 to a vast landscape of valley-ness laid out below, and out east to the desert … what an array of different experiences. I had no idea. How can you reduce 10 million people to a stereotype? You can’t.

Collective marveling

There are some ways, though, that Angelenos who grew up here do betray themselves. Early on I was in Starbucks when the barista paused mid-pour. “Wow,” he said, staring through the big glass windows to the street. “Is that what I think it is?” Customers around me right and left turned to look, and each, too, became awestruck at the sight. What was it?

Rain was falling from the sky.

(As a child of London, I spent so much time in the rain that my shoes constantly squelched and my umbrella became surgically attached to my hand.)

Still, to be fair, my family had arrived during a period of drought. I, too, had grown unfamiliar with the appearance of rain. But even now, when we’ve had plenty of rain-filled winters, it seems to catch people off guard. I’ve become so assimilated that one day I actually thought, “Wait, what is that water falling from the sky?” and looked around to see if any sprinklers had gone rogue.

L.A. lessons

What else have I absorbed? That a 6 p.m. dinner reservation is perfectly acceptable. That going to sleep at 10 p.m. on New Year’s Eve is fine. That it’s not a big deal to stay inside for three days straight because hey, the sun is going to come out tomorrow anyway.

The view from a hill near Suzanne's house.

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Suzanne Levy/LAist

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That there are seasons here, and that during fall, the colors of the changing leaves on the trees can be as beautiful as Vermont, and that during winter it can feel damn cold because homes have no insulation.

That people really do surf before work, sun-silhouetted palm trees will make an appearance most nights, the impossibly good-looking waiter is likely an actor and that if you have to go somewhere five blocks away, driving is totally OK.

That there will always be a food truck wherever you go, there are geckos hanging out in the sun outside your house, and yes, the produce really does taste much better here — especially strawberries, even though there are two painful weeks each year when they’re just not available at farmers markets.

That there will always be someone grilling at the park, that skateboards are a legit form of transportation, and vegan soul food is not an oxymoron. And ultimately, that the sun makes you happy, the mountains are often snow-capped, and the wide horizon of the Pacific gives you room to dream.