i _____ L . A .

For as long as I can remember, I've always been a fervent East Coaster. My mom was born here in New York City, and my dad met her while she was studying at Manhattanville College. While I lived in Puerto Rico during my childhood and adolescence, I still frequented New York a great deal - at a minimum, five times a year. Even in those moments, when I was still in school, I knew that New York would eventually be my next home. Then as my college graduation unfolded and most of my friends made the brave trek to the West Coast, I stubbornly remained loyal to the Big Apple and moved here right after I finished school. Months passed, and as I enjoyed what the city consistently had to offer me, I still kept in contact with my friends in Los Angeles - always trying to get as much of a feeling for what their "West Coast experience" was like. However, at no point was I even entertaining the idea of moving there. I merely wanted to get a sense of the L.A. mindset without enduring the aches and pains of experiencing it myself.

About two months ago, some L.A. friends called me up one weekend as I was leaving my evening job (so, around 2:30am) and, in an oddly endearing sort of way, their drunken ramblings convinced me to finally travel to the West Coast and, yes - experience it for myself. I booked round-trip tickets for a five day trip, and about two weeks ago, I finally made it over there.

I arrived at LAX on a rather breezy Thursday afternoon. As I walked out of the airport and looked at my surroundings, I felt like I was back in Puerto Rico - except that it wasn't a stuffy ninety degrees outside. With my friend Matt's address jotted down, I relayed it to the cab driver and off we went. I reached Matt's apartment and realized that all of my friends were at work, and I didn't have any keys to his place. Deeming it the perfect opportunity (and time of day) to go out and explore, I asked the cabbie to give me a sense of how best to reach Venice Beach. He told me to walk west, and so I did...

With a bag in each hand, I strolled through Venice Boulevard, past Venice High School (the one Danny and Sandy went to in Grease), tattoo parlors and Mexican eateries. At one point, after having been walking for over fifteen minutes, I decided to check again to see if I was still heading the right way. I spotted a very thin middle-aged woman leaving her house and I approached her for directions, asking what the best way to reach Venice Beach was. The woman - holding a jar of iced coffee and slurping it through a straw - nonchalantly pointed in the direction I was heading towards and walked away. I hastily continued on my path and tried to quicken my pace, unsure of how many miles I had left. Then, about five minutes later, I heard a voice calling me.

"HEY! Do you want a lift?"

I was bewildered. What random Los Angeleno was offering to pick me up in the middle of the day? When I turned around, I realized that the stranger was, in fact, the coffee-slurping lady - now driving a beat-up pickup truck. She informed me that she was, after all, going the same direction as me; in turn, I reluctantly accepted her offer and got into her car. At that moment, my "East Coaster conscience" yelled inside my head, outraged that I'd ride with a random person, but I simply ignored it and took the situation for what it was - an L.A. experience.

The woman - a West Coaster for over 30 years, she told me - dropped me off at the main boulevard to the beach and I profusely thanked her for the ride, but she merely chuckled to herself and said that it had been no bother. The woman's airy disposition and generosity surprised me, especially because I've lived for over two years in a city that follows a starkly opposite pace. I spent the afternoon laying on the beach - soaking in the sun rays - and walking along the boardwalk, witnessing the various grungy dudes and girls that clamored for spare change as well as the well-put-together men and women that offered prescription slips for medical marihuana. To me, the people in and around Venice Beach make the hipsters in Williamsburg look like Mormons. Hipsters are all about putting forth a specific image of themselves (regardless of whether it's genuine or not), whereas the young people in this beachside area truly seemed like the real deal. Be they exchanging drugs on the sly or "turning tricks," they were definitely not trying to be covert, yet in doing so, they gave the area its eccentric flair.

The following night, I took part in a Scavenger Hunt throughout all of Los Angeles. To the group of friends I tagged along with, it was just something fun to do, but to me, it was the perfect way to discover and engage with the West Coast scenery. From midnight to seven in the morning, the empty highways and neighborhoods paved the way for easy access from one end of L.A. to another, as we relentlessly followed clues and zany instructions to earn as many points as possible. It was a manic and exciting seven hours, and, although we didn't come close to winning (almost dead-last is more apt), we had an excellent time traversing the nightly landscape together.

Throughout the five days that I was in L.A., my friends made the case for me to make the move there. They showed me other aspects to Los Angeles that I never took into account and also shed light on its particular allure. Despite everything that I was witness to during my trip, what encapsulated the city the most for me was the Good Samaritan who gave me a lift to Venice Beach. If that same situation had happened in, let's say, the Midwest, it would have been a different scenario. The woman would've probably been overwhelmingly selfless and would've even gabbed on about her family life. However, in Los Angeles I noticed that everyday people follow the beat of a different drum - they're accommodating without being totally straightforward about things. Unlike New Yorkers, they carry a very lackadaisical attitude about their daily routines - be it leisurely or professional. Whereas people in NYC are upfront about their feelings and will not mince words with you, Californians seem to retain any judgments they might have and, instead, exude a nonchalant approach that is more receptive...

...which brings me to this post's title. The laid-back attitude in Los Angeles - although surely refreshing to many people that live there - is nevertheless one that carries a deceptive aura. The town is bright and sunny year-round, with attractive people galore trying to make business deals while working on their tan - and there's never a palpable sense of urgency or importance in whatever people undertake. In L.A., work ethic is interconnected with leisure (and vice versa), while NYC falls more in tandem with a Darwinistic mentality: work hard by your own merits in order to survive, and then enjoy a leisurely life. Thus, like the "coffee-slurping lady," Los Angeles is easygoing and approachable but refrains from showing more character and emotion than it needs to.

By this parameter alone, I don't love or like L.A., nor do I hate or despise it. It is, to put it simply, a uniquely frustrating yet oddly tempting place to be.