"Is that it?" I asked the woman seated next to me.

    "Yes, that's it. The mountains in the distance are the San Bernadinos."

    I stared out the airplane window, suddenly thankful I had been assigned the window seat. I was getting my first view of my new home, yet the sun slipped beyond the horizon, denying me a good peek. The smoggy haze wasn't helping, either.

    Once again, my jumbled feelings of excitement, possibility, and curiosity were tinged with icy fear. What if I hated Los Angeles? What if I couldn't stand the people? What if my new roommate killed me? What if I got homesick?

    I sighed and shelved the "What ifs..." For better or worse, I was a resident of California. I briefly chastised myself. After all, I had only been to L.A. twice - and I had stayed in the airport both times for layovers before boarding for Hawaii. I had been with my father, and he had been anxious to get on the plane to Hawaii. My father had been extremely conservative, and it was almost as if he was afraid California's eclectic nature would taint him. I briefly remembered my father telling me to choose where to go on vacation, and I had wanted to see California. He had refused, his reason being that he felt we were so unlucky that California would have "the big one" and fall into the ocean while we were sipping coladas on the beach. We had ended up on the other coast, in Boston, that year.

    I gripped the seat's arm rests as I gazed upon the urban sprawl from above. I screamed in my mind "John I'm home, John I'm home" over and over again. My flight had been delayed and I could imagine my roommate pacing back and forth waiting for me to deplane. The airplane touched down, and I cringed, hoping my cat was still doped up from the sleeping pill I had given her in Illinois. The noise in the baggage compartment had to be deafening.

    Finally, I was able to deplane. I had to look like a madwoman on PCP as I waited for the rows ahead of me to move. I just wanted the trip itself to end and start my adventure in my new home.

    I vaguely remember what the airport terminal looked like. I only remember seeing my roommate, a bouquet of roses clenched in his fist. He looked as nervous as I felt, and I calmed a bit. We embraced and kissed.

    "Welcome to California, Terri," he said in my ear as we held each other. I think I shook a bit, a little afraid and just glad to be able to anchor myself to someone at that moment.

    I don't remember what we talked about as we walked through the airport. Suddenly, I realized we had not checked the boards for where to pick up my luggage. Neither had John. Thankfully, the baggage area had screens announcing where the flights were leaving off the luggage.

    We found my huge suitcase first, then my cat. Juno was clearly upset, and announcing it loudly to anyone who would listen. John cooed to her as he placed her gently on top of the rest of my bags on a luggage cart. We stepped outside, and I had my first breath of California air.

    Night had just fallen, and it was still hot and humid. I barely heard John as I looked around me, staring at the palm trees. Palm trees! For some reason most people from the Midwest are obsessed with palm trees - it's like the touch of the exotic amongst the ordinary. I briefly prayed that I would never get used to seeing palm trees, or strange colorful flowers with no scent blooming from out of nowhere side by side with corporate buildings.

    I came back to earth to find John stuttering all over himself and having a hard time finding his car. "No, it's this way," he said and we went that way. "Er...no, it's this way," and we went the other way. "Ahhh...no, I know it's this way...I'm sure this time."

    A bit later we found his car. We hefted my luggage into his trunk, put kitty in the back seat, and jetted off towards home. We stopped at a Rite Aid to get kitty litter, champagne, and beer.

    I found similarities between Chicago and Los Angeles immediately in the Rite Aid parking lot. There were young hipsters just hanging out, nothing to do on a Saturday night. I felt my brow furrow - after all, this was California. Wasn't there anything more interesting to do than hang out in a Rite Aid parking lot? Even if you were a teenager? I remembered seeing similar scenes in DeKalb, Illinois, but hey, that was in the middle of the cornfields. This is L.A., baby. Movie stars, drugs, earthquakes, nightclubs. Land 'o milk 'n honey. The streets are paved with gold. I mentally shrugged, and guessed that even here there's nothing for teenagers to do if they are too bored to find something to do. The inherent difference with the hanging hipsters was the beat policemen chasing the kids out of the parking lot. I bit back the urge to call out to the policeman as he swaggered away from the teenagers taking off in their classic cars. I had the odd wish to speak to the cop and ask him if police were regularly assigned to parking lots specifically to discourage crime. Besides the palm trees and a bit more neon, there wasn't much that I found different from Chicago as John and I drove to Venice.

    I was still quite in a daze as John drove us home. Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot. Ah, yes, the pride and joy of any apartment renter in Venice -- ample parking. Venice is a madhouse during the summer. People from all over California and beyond come to Venice for the boardwalk and the beach. John and I live two blocks away from the boardwalk, so parking is at a particular premium in our area. We've spoken with our neighbor about charging visitors for parking in our spots on the weekends. We could make some tall cash - nearby parking lots sometimes charge as much as $10 a day. John gave me the grand tour of the apartment - a two bedroom on Main Street. I immediately liked it because there wasn't much furniture and it was very cozy. Comfortable. We popped School of Fish into the CD player and popped open the champagne, then toasted my safe arrival with cracked coffee mugs. It suddenly hit me that I was in California, in Venice, at home, and I felt very happy.

    John and I chatted a bit in the living room, then I announced that I wanted to go to the beach. It was 10 p.m., and I wanted to dip my toes into the ocean. I had not seen the Pacific since I had been in Hawaii nine years previous, and I was anxious to see it again. I almost felt as if it was a pilgrimage I had to fulfill my first night.

    We walked the two blocks down to the boardwalk. On the way there, John introduced me to his friend Holman Robertson. Mr. Robertson is homeless, and can be found around the corner from our apartment most of the time. As John introduced me, he asked for the older man's name. They had been friends for a long time, but had never known the other's name. Mr. Robertson said it was not a matter of name, but of connection. John introduced me, and Mr. Robertson warmly clasped my hand in both of his big, black, gnarled hands. He smiled hugely, gap-toothed and friendly, a wondrous gleam in his eye. He welcomed me to California in his deep voice. I liked him immediately.

    The boardwalk was empty except for random walkers, joggers, etc. All the regular businesses were closed, and the walk performers and vendors were gone. It was fairly quiet except for a man babbling at no one and nothing, filling the emptiness with his own.

    We took off our shoes and trekked through the sand. I quickly began panting, and my calves burned. I hadn't been on a beach in what seemed like a lifetime, and I had forgotten that walking through sand was quite difficult. The walk from the pavement to the ocean was a long one.

    And then there was the ocean. I stopped at the water's edge and stared out into the darkness that went to infinity. The waves rolled in and crashed with a sound that can never be duplicated by a white noise machine. I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Raw excitement welled in my chest and I breathed the salt air deeply. The water that hit my feet was chilly at first, but then felt warm. I suppressed the urge to jump in and meet whatever beasties were roaming the night waters.

    I woke up at 6:30 a.m. the next day, and much to my roommates chagrin, he was destined to be awakened by my jet-lagged self. It was 8:30 a.m. in Chicago, and I was wide-awake. After groggily awaking and washing up, we went to the local café around the corner, and were greeted by Mr. Robertson in front. Our morning ritual has become going to the café, shaking hands with Mr. Robertson, buying a paper from the machine (letting Mr. Robertson grab a couple for himself and a friend), drinking coffee, and reading the Los Angeles Times. I especially like taking one of the seats outside of the café so I can people watch, smoke, and write.

    It was Sunday, and it was very necessary to see more of California. John acted as tour guide and drove to Hollywood through the mountains. The valley was hazy, but I was still astounded by the view from the top, looking down on the valley, mountains in the distance with huge homes sticking out from the side. I had to laugh, because of the tenuous nature of those homes. I knew they had to cost millions of dollars, a boon to the very very rich, affluent and braggy. The irony comes in when tectonic plates shift, and mountains are the first to move, slipping and sliding under those fancy foundations and bye bye expensive house.

    However, I was impressed with the homes alongside the mountain roads. My last roommate in Illinois had been an architect, and had often complained that designers in the area never took a chance. Unless the homes in suburbia, USA are very large, they all look very much the same. I found the designers in California not only took a chance, but they went absolutely wild. Angles jutted in impossible places, entryways and steps were placed in unconventional locations. Traditional Spanish design was melded with modern layout. I vowed to mail pictures of California homes to my ex-roommate in the hopes of inspiring him to different ideas.

    The glimpses I had of the valley were smudged with smog. John promised to take me along the same route when the smog cleared. Before I knew it, we were in Hollywood. John had warned me about the city, that it was not as glamorous as everyone thought it was. I just shrugged. I had never even given a thought to California - much less Hollywood - before deciding to move here. I had no preconceived notions about Hollywood, therefore I was not disappointed by the dirty streets, grungy shop fronts, and detritus walking on the stars. John, on the other hand, is an actor. He grumbled about the state of the town.

    "Having a star here is supposed to be one of the highest compliments, and look at the place. It's shit," he said and grimaced.

    He pointed out the places where really good drugs could be bought, and where prostitutes could be hired. I had been pretty sheltered from that sort of thing in Illinois, so in weeks following I expressed interest in visiting Hollywood after dark, when creatures of the night drifted out onto the pavement, looking for a score of either chemicals or sex. I wanted to see the seedy underbelly from the passenger seat of a car, like a tourist on a sightseeing bus in the Sahara - not really part of the action, but an observer, a wall of glass safely separating me from the wild animals.

    John really doesn't understand this need, and it really doesn't matter to me if he does. It's a morbid curiosity of mine instigated by years of wholesome, white-bread living. What is it like to be a true scumbag? Let's drive down to Hollywood at about 10 p.m. and find out!

    We stopped at a small buffet restaurant for lunch (the name escapes me now). I opted for a light salad due to the heat, and ice water. My first sip of California water made me wince. It tasted salty! Lemon didn't improve it much. I ended up drinking John's iced tea.

    Life since then has been trying to find a job and occasionally sightseeing. I am surprisingly moved by the boardwalk, however. It's just amazing to see that many people making their living there day after day. However, since I have moved to Venice, I have noticed segments on television that were filmed on the boardwalk. It's always portrayed as a really strange place, an around-the-clock freakshow. It really isn't. How can it be after watching television? The media displays a bigger freakshow than any stretch of beach property can.

    I really don't know what I was expecting of California. I know a large part of my motivation for moving here was for personal growth - to meet new people, to see new sights, to get a taste of Hollywood's shallow bullshit. It's still too early to tell how I've been affected thus far, and how it will change me in the future. I know I will change a great deal, as every new experience and every person I encounter will change me in some way. People in California really aren't very different than people in Illinois. They're just trying to make a living, to try to figure out why we're even born, why others act the way they do.

    I'm just glad I won't have to shovel snow off of my car this winter.

    It's now been a month and a half since my plane landed at LAX. Before I moved here I had always seen Californians portrayed as drugged-up, dippy, surfer types. The reality is that many of the people living here originated from the east, the majority being from Chicago. I only know one or two Cali natives here. The comments are all the same from the eastern natives - "The weather here is SOOOOO much better!"

    The one phrase that keeps popping up when I mention that I'm from Chicago is "California is fast-paced, yet laid back." I'm pretty sure of the reason why that is such an apt description. The constant cycling of tourists keeps everything very busy and crowded. This is also the land of the celebrity and the big deal: sign that paperwork baby (snap snap snap), get that deal through (snap snap snap), smile for the camera (snap snap snap), next scene baby for the short-attention-span audience (snap snap snap). However, it's hard to truly be in a big rush when you have a huge expanse of blue water nearby. For example, I drove up to Oxnard for an interview - a gorgeous drive up the Pacific Coast Highway. I almost ran off the road several times from watching the waves, the seabirds, and the way the sky and the rocks met the ocean. Even though I knew I was going to be late, I found myself slowing down so I could have my breath frozen by the scenery without ramming into oncoming traffic.

    I chuckled to myself as I arrived at the interview. I was on time. The manager I was scheduled to meet was nowhere to be found. I'll get used to the California lifestyle. How can I not? All I need to do is feel the warmth of some sand under my feet, and smell that salty air. It's enough to melt any die-hard Chicagoan's cares away.