A Weekend in L.A.

January is hard. 

The first month of every year is full of goals and aspirations that are perfectly juxtaposed with seasonal depression and cold, dismal days that are better spent tucked away in bed. It can be exhausting to fight to see the light, which only exists between the hours of 8 to 3:45 sometimes. It is easy in January to think to yourself, ‘do I really need to wake up at all? What if I just hibernated until the snow melts, like a bear?’ 

To make the beginning of the year easier to get through, a little vacation was damn near perfect in every way. 

When Sierra, one of my absolute best friends in the world, invited me on a trip to L.A. for a Harry Styles concert (yes, you heard me), there was no way I was saying no. The thought of escaping the snow globe I’ve been living in for the weekend to explore sunny Hollywood was just too good to pass up, and it was the promise of the weekend being filled with Harry Styles and One Direction that really did me in. 

On a Thursday afternoon, I flew into LAX with only my carry-on and my purse, and the knowledge that I would be spending the next 60-ish hours in the L.A. scene with hardly any sleep. Upon landing, I met up with Carly, a friend of Sierra’s cousin whom I had never met but whom I would be getting quite close to over the weekend. We picked up the rental car, got to know each other a bit, and drove through the palm tree-covered streets of Inglewood in fading daylight. 

By the time the sun set, we had made a pit stop at the hotel and picked up Sierra’s cousin, Cailey, and headed back out for the evening. For dinner, we found ourselves in Koreatown at a restaurant called The Prince—a dark and moody Korean restaurant that was actually the setting of The Griffin, a fictional bar in New Girl. We had tteokbokki and fried chicken, and I drank a little bit too much soju and accidentally wandered into the men’s bathroom once. It was quite perfect. We took our full and happy selves back to the hotel room after that. 

FRIDAY

Sierra, ever the working girl, went to the office on Friday morning while Cailey, Carly, and I planned a full day of sightseeing. I kicked away the remnants of a headache from the night before while we drove down the 110 with the windows down. 

In the early morning, the neighborhood of Hollywoodland is stunning; While further away from the ocean than we were before, the palm trees were in abundance and the architecture made us feel like we were in Santa Monica as we drove down North Beachwood Drive, coming as close to the Hollywood sign as I’ve ever been. In fact, it felt like we were on the hill right beneath it when we stopped for breakfast. 

And thus commenced our first stop on the Harry Styles/One Direction L.A. tour. 

For those who aren’t familiar, there is a number of stops one can make in California that will directly correlate to some of the biggest sensations in music in the 2010s. One of these is the Beachwood Cafe, a little trendy, blue cafe tucked away in the hills of Hollywood in which the coffee was out when Harry was apparently there, as he stated in his 2019 song “Falling” from the Fine Line album. The cafe at one time was probably a quiet spot for him to relax when in the city, but when we pulled up, the sidewalk in front of the cafe was lined with patrons so easily recognized as Harry fans: strawberry crochet hats and patchwork cardigans, blue and pink outfits with ‘Love on Tour’ and ‘TPWK’ merch, even a few “But Daddy I love him” tees. Thus marks the uniform of a Harry Styles fan. 

Cailey (L) & Carly (R)

Breakfast was delicious. It hit me in a strange moment when I was shrugging off my jacket and enjoying the feeling of wearing shorts and a tank top while sipping an iced coffee, that it was actually January. The heavy chatter and heavenly scent of fresh pastries decorated the inside of the Beachwood Cafe, and our waitress told us that we were sitting at one of Harry’s regular tables. 

With sustenance (and pastries in to-go bags), we drove down to the Hollywood Walk of Fame, an obvious L.A. staple. I was just there to see Norman Reedus’s star, which we found amongst the multitudes of faded stars. He was sitting beside Fleetwood Mac. 

At this point, I realize how incredibly lucky I am to have been seeing Los Angeles with two girls who became such fast friends. Having never met prior to this trip, the anticipation of getting to know one another and hoping that you get along was in the back of my mind until we finally came together; after that, all anxiety I had about meeting new people flew out the window. We laughed, we took stupid pictures, and we listened to 5 Seconds of Summer with the windows down on the way to the bookstore, which we spent at least an hour and a half in. How could I have asked for more?

The Last Bookstore was arguably one of the most unique bookstores I had ever been in. Sculptures made of books jutted out from the walls and created tunnels to walk through; shelves upon shelves of classics, modern and contemporary fiction, graphic novels, and poetry were stacked between tremendous marble pillars; Upstairs, an art gallery stood between more sections where books came nearly overflowing from the shelves. I could have been there all day. 

When the lull of Friday afternoon finally hit us, we drove in a happy quiet back to the hotel, where Sierra was waiting. We refreshed with more coffee and a dip in the pool, before getting ready for the main event of the night: the Harry Styles concert. 

I won’t attempt to explain to you the chaos that was in our hotel room while getting ready, nor will I extrapolate on the mania that we experienced upon arriving at the venue, taking pictures, buying merch, and then astral projecting during the show. It is too difficult to put all of those feelings into words, and I’d rather not try lest it takes away even an ounce of magic from that night, but you can only imagine our hysteria. When the show was over, we pulled our aching feet out of our heels and collapsed in the parking lot before dragging ourselves home. 

SATURDAY

The next morning, we regretted. 

Booking an early tour at Warner Bros. Studio the morning after the show seemed like a good idea at the time, but heaving our sleep-deprived selves out of bed the next morning was a difficult task. Without coffee though, we were up and out in 40 minutes, with only one casualty: my foundation bottle all over the bathroom floor. But for Cailey’s 24th birthday, we would do anything. 

The refreshing L.A. morning energized us; we saw a number of studios and sets from our favorite movies and shows, recorded a ridiculous video of us riding Harry Potter brooms in front of a green screen, and spent a good amount of time quoting Friends. 

Cailey on her birthday

For lunch, we sat in an outdoor booth at Jon & Vinny’s, an Italian restaurant in West Hollywood known for its vodka pasta. We ate our carbs and watched people walk by us on the street with dogs and yoga mats, their lives so extremely ordinary and so L.A. that it made me envious. The sweet waiter boy brought out a soft serve with a candle and we sang Cailey ‘Happy Birthday,’ and all the while I imagined that this was an ordinary day for me too. 

The evening was spent at Venice Beach, surrounded by the waves and the palm trees, and the multitudes of people that you really couldn’t find anywhere but Venice. The sun shrouded the walkway in a blood-orange glow, the water a vibrant blue in contrast. Along the strip, one could find vendors and street artists selling everything from their personal prints to caricatures (Carly’s was especially spot-on), plus shops advertising Venice Beach tees, rings, tattoos, and nearly everything in between. 

We wandered the strip for a short time before meandering towards the water, dipping our feet into the Pacific. The sand clung to my wet jeans as our little group of girls sat perched in the sand, watching the sailboats wink away from view as they passed in front of the great red globe that slowly sunk beneath the horizon. The waves crashed against the shore and I put my head on Sierra’s shoulder, feeling small and yet large, lonely and yet incredibly fulfilled. There was a moment of infinity; a cinematic moment where I looked and saw myself sitting on that beach, knowing that I was exactly where I belonged, that my life had been building toward that moment when I could feel as old as I was. No remorse, no responsibility, just myself and my friends being in our twenties in California. The feeling faded with the daylight. 

Nothing says vacation like taking naps at 7:30 pm, but we needed to be rested for the rest of the night; it felt like a brand new day starting at 8 o’clock at night when we ate our dinner in the hotel room and got ready for a night out. 

1D Night

From left: Sierra, myself, Carly, Cailey

The nightclub was what I would describe as a bare and tasteful warehouse in the Fashion District. In the dark though, no one cared what the venue looked like because it was 1D night, and nobody was there for the interior design. That night, we danced to old One Direction, the four of us looking like we had just stepped out of the Midnight Memories music video in our black leather and tulle and red staple pieces. It was perfect. 

At 1:30 in the morning, we stumbled back to the hotel, feet sore and aching, and passed out for a good three hours before my early morning flight the next day. 

It has taken me all this time to recover from the lack of sleep and excess of dancing that ensued that weekend, but every minute of it was heaven. And while January usually sucks, there was just something about this one that I’ll remember for a long, long time.