So Sunday morning we woke up at 12.22pm, which wasn't actually morning, when you come to think of it. We had been up partying with our LA friends till about 1.15am, and then decided not to bother being awake again for a long, long time.
When I finally regained consciousness I went to the mini-bar looking for coffee. There was none. There were, however, sleeping pills on sale for US$6, which was hardly what I needed, but a charming metaphor for the paradox that is the USA.
I wandered down to the diner beneath the hotel, and ordered an espresso. While I was waiting, I chatted to the waitress, a cute brunette in a pink diner uniform - you know, one of those nurse's style dresses buttoned up at the front with an apron around her waist (seriously, they actually wear those).
"Were you born here in LA?" I asked.
"No, I'm from Colorado," she answered.
"Why did you come here?" I asked.
"I came here to be an actress," she said. And my heart cracked a little for her broken dreams.
Fueled by coffee, I collected my husband and we proceeded to lunch with our friends to a lovely Italian bistro. My focacccia was very similar to an Australian focaccia, except that instead of being the size of, say, a small plate, it was the size of my daughter. Not my 3 year old daughter, either. My 10 year old daughter. Wearing platform heels and a hat.
After lunch, we browsed through the markets on Melrose (yes, the one from TV) and looked in some super funky shops that were far too super funky for a mother-of-three with stretch marks and saggy boobs. My husband tried on some retro 50's style shirts, which made him look like a tragic, try-hard, shrunken version of Charlie Sheen - unsurprising, given that the shirt labels read 'Charlie Sheen style'. I had to forcibly wrestle them out of his hands, much like he had to wrestle the seventeen pairs of silver sandals from mine. Except that my silver sandals looked GOOD.
That night we went with our friends Jack and Rhonda* to a majorly hip LA restaurant. I was very excited to see a super famous black dude in a fedora sitting with his back to the wall, and was crushed to realise that he wasn't famous at all; he was just a black dude in a fedora. I guess I assumed that to be bold enough to wear a fedora, you have to have something.
I ordered a chocolate dessert, which contained layers of different, geometrically shaped chocolatey things, including what looked like a large chocolate licorice bullet on a very fine straw.
"Do I eat it?" I asked Rhonda.
"Yes, you bite it!" she said. Well thanks a lot RHONDA, because I bit the bullet, which turned out to be some sort of plastic receptacle. The bullet shot a fine spray of molten chocolate through the straw and all over my pants and the table. Turns out you were meant to suck it. Bloody LA fancy pants restaurant.
We returned to our hotel and collapsed into bed. Tomorrow was another day, and we were leaving for NY, and god knows what molten adventures awaited us there.
*Not their real names, and Rhonda is most displeased with the pseudonym I chose for her. So if you prefer to think of her as 'Lolita' or 'Mirabella' or 'Aloicia' please do.