Los Angeles, I'm [temporarily] Yours

I was afraid I'd like it. I hadn't spent much time in Los Angeles, save for several visits to Magic Mountain, since I was a teenager. Back then, LA was a glittering refuge glowing two hours from my stiflingly cultureless hometown. It had vintage clothing stores and vegetarian restaurants and record shops. It had a dozen concert venues featuring bands I actually wanted to see. It also had a certain inaccessible allure, because my parents would not allow me to drive myself (or be driven by any friends who happened to be female) there. 

As a result, I'd beg the driver-licensed and car-having boys in my life - who, let me tell you, were some of the worst drivers on the planet, putting certain troubled child actresses to shame - for rides to LA whenever I could. We'd go to the Roxy to see the Donnas and Bratmobile play; we'd get henna tattoos on Venice Beach; they'd wait patiently while I thumbed through racks of decades-old slip dresses at the now-defunct Aardvarks. Those rare visits made life in Palm Springs bearable. 

Once I entered college, the gender ban on driving to Los Angeles was lifted. It had become especially absurd by the time I had my own apartment and had driven my little red car from Palm Springs to Santa Cruz and back a few times. In those early years, I took road trips with friends to Magic Mountain, and to see Sleater-Kinney play the Sunset Junction Festival for six dollars. I even drove to Hollywood solo to see Lisa Loeb one night. Somehow, though, a decade passed before I set foot in LA-proper again. That all changed when Bobby and I decided some sunshine was in order. 



It was late when we arrived. Our plane from Portland was delayed, and it took more than half an hour to reach the rental car lot. We finally pulled into our gracious hostess Milena's driveway a little after 1:00 a.m.  The next day, Magic Mountain awaited. We stopped for disappointing breakfast at a Sherman Oaks cafe, which got a Tom Petty song stuck in my head for the duration of the day thanks to its location on Ventura Boulevard. Seriously, they had the audacity to call these hash browns?



Though low-quality, our breakfast certainly beat amusement park food, where my lunch consisted of french fries and an overcooked churro. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Magic Mountain held the promise of an event I'd wanted to attend since my very first visit - Fright Fest. It lasts but a few October weekends each year, and it includes trains run in reverse on the classic Colossus, as well as pitch-darkness on all other rides. I could not wait. We had originally planned to buy the flash passes that allow you to skip lines, but there was no need due to the park's sparse population. We started with Goliath, which is the first ride one encounters if one turns to the right after the entrance. Goliath looks like this. Since there was no wait, we went for the front row.



Next was Colossus. If you've ridden it before, you know the train is supposed to be facing the other way. I can assure you after two rounds on the backwards version, it's the way to go. I was concerned it wouldn't live up to my 15+ years of expectations, but it far exceeded them. Poor Bobby, with my banshee-level screaming I probably sounded like I was being murdered all day long.



Here we are right before the train left the loading station. Look at the grin on me!



Following Colossus, we headed for Batman, which had zero people in line and let us get right on the ride. We paused for a photo op in front of a fake Batmobile (with the Green Lantern in the background) before moving on to the Riddler's Revenge and Apocalypse.



After shoveling bad park food in our faces, we hit the left half of the map. Revolution (my lifelong favorite, only because of the name):



Tatsu - which invariably makes me want my mommy because it is just stupid-terrifying - Viper, which gives me a terrible headache every time (and is why I always carry a bag of Advil to the park), and X2 - which also makes me want my mommy while wondering when I became such a wimp. This video of the ride in its previous incarnation/color scheme will help explain why:



We ended the night with one more run on Colossus and Batman, and set off in search of tacos with Milena. 



The next day held visits to the Elliott Smith memorial wall on Sunset Boulevard:



To LACMA for the Robert Mapplethorpe exhibit:





And to the car museum, because Bobby deserved a break from doing stuff I want to do all the time:



We had some crepes on Melrose, drove down Hollywood Boulevard, and ate dinner at a hot dog place specializing in vegetarian chilli dogs. We stopped at a bar in Silver Lake before heading back to Milena's.The last day of sunshine came too quickly, of course, but took us to Venice Beach. I'm sorry, Oregon, but your freezing rocky coast cannot compare to this. I still love you, though, ok?



Because no trip to Venice is complete without stupid henna tattoos, Milena and I got these:



With a flight to catch, we made the last stop on our LA journey: an awesome taco/burrito joint in Santa Monica. I had a potato burrito with a bunch of other delicious things in it. The thing was the size of my head, but I have no photos because I ate it in approximately three seconds. Here's a photo of me outside, though. Tacos, por favor. That's pretty much my mantra.



I'm back in Portland now, where the weather is grim for the next six months and the Mexican food should always include quotation marks. I love LA, sure, but this dreary, burritoless city is my forever home. Fortunately flights are cheap.