World Cup Revelations in LA
I’m sitting in a cafe in Santa Monica watching Belgium and Egypt play each other in the World Cup. The score is 1-1, and there are twelve minutes left in the game. I love to hate Belgium. Until I remember how I cried two nights ago, coming back to my friend’s studio apartment drunk and debating a call to someone over in Belgium, that is, until I count on my fingers and get to the number 9. Nine-hour time difference from the West Coast. Imagine a call from your ex-girlfriend where she is drunk at 3 a.m., and you’re nursing a hangover at noon on Sunday. And you haven’t spoken in nearly 10 months.
When I landed at LAX, I saw a diverse group of arrivals. People from a multitude of countries are coming to support their country in the World Cup and see the American dream in all its glory. Maybe they found a house of cards, but maybe they are enchanted by the Santa Monica pier, and they drive up to Malibu for a beach day, coasting down PCH as if in a dream. The surreal nature of the drive incites a feeling of intense nostalgia, even if seeing it for the very first time.
When I lived in Madrid and frequently mingled with an international crowd, their first comment upon learning I’m American was, “I need to go to Los Angeles.” This idyllic vision of life in California is the epitome of America to the exterior world. As I made Los Angeles my base for the summer, I’ve vowed to see it through their eyes. I’ve only ever been to Southern California as a child, mostly San Diego, Disneyland, and Newport Beach. But, as locals know, that is vastly different from Los Angeles proper. And each facet of the city is divided into subcommunities, neighborhoods with varying styles. I'm vowing to romanticize Hollywood Boulevard and Erewhon with the nostalgic flair of flower crowns and a Chainsmokers song. Maybe even take a selfie with the dog filter on Snapchat.
I’m staying with my best friend, Cole, in his one-bedroom apartment just nine blocks from the beach. I brought my Rainbow flip flops, bikini, and most laid-back clothing options in hopes of achieving that effortless California bohemian look. I'm here for 4 days until I go back to work as a flight attendant, and then return next week after my tour is complete. Then repeat on loop for the foreseeable future, I guess, or until my friends figure out how to politely ask me to leave or get my own place.
My other best friend, Shannon, surprised me, racing from work, still in her hospital scrubs, we screamed, jumping in circles, hugging each other, like girls do when they haven’t seen each other in two years. To properly catch up, we headed to the Proper Rooftop for a beverage. Utilitarian on the exterior, an unsuspecting passerby would not expect the interior to be the rich, warm interior and funky textures of a luxury hotel lobby, so divine they envelop up to six senses.
The rooftop was chilly as the June gloom lingered overhead, a typical LA phenomenon to describe the overcast clouds that beam on and off throughout the day.
We went to Tu Madre for fish tacos and more drinks. To our surprise, the pitcher of margaritas arrived with sparklers flaring from the top of the large, faceted carafe, as if we were ordering bottle service at the club.
That evening was supposed to be casual, as we just had plans to go to a friend of a friend’s housewarming party. The idea of purchasing a home, at this age, in Southern California, is shocking. Although something to be completely proud of, the last few months have been a jarring awakening to the reality of drifting into your late twenties. I'm more alarmingly aware than ever that 27 years old is quickly approaching.
I mingled with friends of friends that I will never see again and made acquaintances that gave me disgusting looks for being from Oklahoma and referred to me as “the help” when I told them I'm a flight attendant. I got strange remarks of “oh, I'll call you soon when I book a PJ” as if they were somehow above me for working as an intern at a tech startup. I just drank my spicy skinny margaritas and smiled as people from the Mid-West lectured me on the bliss of moving to the West Coast, speaking in newly acquired valley girl accents. LA in a nutshell.
The next day, I awoke to the sun shining in through the blinds and my air mattress subtly deflating. Saturday morning was for a Trader Joe’s run and catching up on Love Island. By mid-afternoon, we headed to Venice Beach to watch the World Cup games and drink Hugo Spritz in the sun. I caught up with even more friends and therapized people on the current state of their romantic relationships as if my one heartbreak now makes me a guru. I can give my advice with the strict verbiage of someone who has been celibate for a year and has forgotten it’s not that simple when feelings are involved.
We headed back to Santa Monica and prepared for a festival block party on the promenade. The sense of community was palpable, and my old community from college was also palpable, but not palatable. I was around an old flame from college.
A person included in my peripheral friend group during my senior year of college. Back then, I was constantly battling between self-respect and calling a man who didn’t like me on Snapchat, of all platforms. At 21 years old, I always chose the latter. When the prospect of being chosen, even if for nothing more than fleeting intimacy, was far too tempting.
Four years later, and seeing him again, I found that he still activates that wounded part of my soul that has been rejected and manipulated countless times before. I now see this dynamic through a fully developed frontal lobe, and pity the same self-centered shell of a man who hasn’t managed to grow in the four years since graduation.
Not being chosen is, in the general sense, a devastation that follows you into your next choices subconsciously. I sought to be chosen for so long that I never considered whether I had any say in who I was being chosen by. I thought somebody, anybody who could love me would feel really good. Good enough to love myself too. When the wounds from my past didn’t choose me, I began missing the last person who did. The haunting feeling of being across the globe, but a phone call away. A voice would soothe any cries for attention. I haven’t been dating since we broke up a year ago, if that’s not abundantly evident. Prior to my ex situationship/unrequited crush from 4 years ago proving he is still in fact a clueless narcissist, I met a guy at the bar who I gave the best flirt of my life. The connection seemed magnetic and instant, like my brain entered a flow state of charm so irresistible, there was no doubt he would find me the single most special woman he’s ever talked to for 20 minutes. This banter was so well played and hilarious, it has only ever been rivaled by the energy of the night I first met my ex-boyfriend. Insinuations of a grand evening and stolen kisses later, I find out he has a girlfriend. After lecturing this relative stranger on the absurdity of his entertaining me for the entire evening and how inappropriate it was, I left.
The evening needed a change of energy, so we went to an “afters,” an event space/house in Culver City,live-streaming the DJs at all hours next to a fridge fully stocked with tall-boy hard kombuchas. I danced it out to house music and practiced my Spanish with unwilling visitors and forgot about work for a while.
Cole and I headed to Malibu beach the next day, needing the ocean to wash off our misfortunes. The laughs that followed on the Sunday morning debrief were worth the trouble and self-reflection.
We stopped at Erewhon before, which is probably the most expensive grocery store/hot food bar/cafe in Los Angeles, and notorious for its Hailey Bieber smoothie. At $22, it was just as good as I expected, but it was the most frivolous purchase of the weekend.
In Malibu, the beach was bustling with people, and the sun was shining down. The June gloom had disappeared for a day to shine down upon me. It felt like a gift until 3 hours of sun later with no sunscreen, the state of my skin had turned to lobster. As I’m sitting and writing this, my skin is hot and dry with stinging pain, soon to peel. The thing about the California sun is its deviousness. The breeze by the water masks any physical effects of the sun in the moment, causing a borderline chill. After I jumped in the ocean, which was more of a cold plunge, my teeth were chattering, and I didn't warm up again until I got in the shower later that evening. By that point, I had turned an unnatural shade of red that made the water shooting down into my nerves feel like needles into my epidermis. The evening concluded with more Love Island and more belly laughs than I’ve had in an entire month.
And that leaves me here, writing in a cafe, watching a World Cup game, which, ironically, is Belgium vs. Egypt. My ex-boyfriend and his country have gained someone with a valueless infatuation with them for the rest of my life. Belgium is my frenemy. When they come up, I have a lot to say, but it feels like a mocking synchronicity that I now see in places I shouldn’t.
The game I was watching in this cafe is now over and ended in a tie. There has got to be some dramatic symbolism in that, no? There is no winning; whatever we decide, to move on or stay in the past. It just is. I used to believe there was some set path before me, some hidden code I was to follow, and I was petrified of having been on the wrong one. As my momma says, we always have the power to make another decision.
I will be in Los Angeles for the rest of the summer, and I can only hope it improves from here. The beauty of Southern California may be wasted on ungrateful transplants who turn into monsters with a social media following, but I’m here to tell you it can also be enjoyed by the regular person, from any country. Contrary to popular belief, the charm of LA is still very much alive and working in tandem with the American dream.