California. California. Here we coooooooooommmmmmmeeeee.
For the longest time, the US was on my list of ‘whatever, I’m sure I’ll get there one day’ travel destinations. It most definitely wasn’t on the bucket list. I’m not sure why. I’d heard less than glowing reports about ol’ LA (scummy, dirty, basically one glossy strip bookended by slums and homeless) and I don’t know – something about flying half way around the world to visit somewhere which is essentially the big brother of the country I already lived in seemed a little…wasteful. I mean, shouldn’t I at least have to learn another language for all those hours in a plane?
Oh boy was I wrong.
I was lucky enough to find myself in California in the last few months of 2014. It was impulsive, sort of a ‘I’m flying through LAX anyways, so a lass might as well stay a few days’ kind of jaunt, and lets just say that beyond punishing my credit card in Beverley Hills, my expectations were seventeen types of low.
And then I made it to Huntington Beach.
Plucked straight out of an American teen TV show (90210, anyone?), it was the heedy combination of ice cream and salty air and surf and beers and surfers that made me fall head over heels. We stopped in to visit our friends at Hurley, and oh – sorry, couldn’t catch them because they weren’t in. The surf was too good…
With sun and surf in the exact right combination, I’m dreaming of a re-run. Soon.