"You're a happy little vegemite, aren't ya?" twanged my customs officer, verbatim, like something straight out of a "Discover Australia" travel brochure. Hark! After a glorious three weeks rediscovering Sydney's leafy streets, pastel-coloured terraces and myriad cafés overflowing with sartorially-gifted patrons, (in 26 degree heat, thank youuup) I was LA-bound and stoked.
The penalty paid for dual citizenship, that said, is that I always leave Sydney with a dull ache in my gut, like I forgot something... and I sort of hope I always do. Good friends, good thai, family dinners, salted caramel everything and the realisation that you really can have two homes, even when you haven't lived there in years.
Back to see old mate, Kingsford Smith. Remedying my booklessness with the purchase of a Jonathan Safran Foer novel en route to my gate, I anticipated 13 hours of feeling super virtuous about reading the whole thing in one sitting. This idea was swiftly shelved, however, in favour of the impressive line-up of movies available, including - but not limited to - a trip down memory lane to my first serious crush with 10 Things I Hate About You.
I can't sleep on planes. It's therefore the most bizarre experience to be awake for 32 hours straight and to find yourself roaming Whole Foods in Pasadena at what feels like 4am with a beloved old friend. I bought ("HIGH-PULP") orange juice that said "Kosher for Passover" on the label. It was roughly around this time that I started to believe I was back in America. The next four days comprised the obligatory tourist missions to Hollywood and Santa Monica Pier, unexpected reunions with an NZ colleague mid-Urban Outfitters-raid (classic), and slow attempts at kicking my plane-acquired headcold to the kerb.
Here is something about Los Angeles that is not a cliché: everything is bigger, shinier, and smilier than you thought. It also has much whiter teeth. Here is something that IS a cliché: it is always hot. I beg to differ, good sir, for both times I've been there it has rained and I've resorted to wearing enough jumpers (sweaters!) as to appear caricaturely rotund. The movies; they lie.
Next stop: dawn alarm, New York City, surviving a stopover via Dallas, Texas. This time, ol' Safran Foer got a look in. Luckily for his sake, he didn't have to compete with Heath Ledger again.
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