Pacific Coast Highway, a stockphoto drive.

San Francisco, where they make the clouds.

It felt like we were driving for ever before we even reached the hollywood mountains. In our freshly borrowed Beatle we did our best to not look like the overexcited tourists that we were. It’s sad to say, but driving around in L.A. was our happiest moment here so far. It couldn’t have been the Califonia licence plate that gave us away. Bur probably the open windows blasting the L.A. themed mixtape and the foldout map covering half of the front window in search of a glimpse of streetlight did the trick. I’m not sure how we got there but on a driveway to a ranch we found a painted ‘hollywood’ sign with an arrow pointing upward next to it. We left the car in this horror movie scene that we figured looked to cheap to be true and climbed up the like horse smelling dusty path. And there it was; THE sign. At least we think it was. The white-ish blurry thing next to the huge lightened utility building sort of looked like it. Like almost everything I’ve seen here so far it was just a fraction of my perfect mental movie influenced picture. Not even worth lighting. Not in spite but maybe the more because of that I like it here more and more.

They say L.A. doesn’t have a city centre. But there is something that resembles some sort of central long lost glory. A rusty glory that everybody seems to hate but us. Taking pictures of broken signs never gets old. I felt more at home between these broken streets than at the plastic west coast.

After meeting endless amount of people and instantly forgetting there names. After a day of listening to lectures and presentations this is the place to eat you pizza and drink beer in a bag.

On my second day in L.A. I walked from Santa Monica Pier to Venice Beach and felt like I was here before. It’s like walking on a movie set but with unrealistically casted people.