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Sleepless in El Segundo

One day 11km and a salad in LA

It’s 3 a.m. in Los Angeles, and I’m wide awake in the glamorous confines of the Hyatt El Segundo. Somewhere between the jet lag from Tahiti (3 hours behind) and the looming transatlantic time-warp back to France (9 hours ahead), my internal clock has given up and decided to freelance.

With nothing else to do but stare into the abyss (a.k.a. the blackout curtains), I do what any sensible human would do at this ungodly hour: I fire up the hotel Wi-Fi, update my blog, polish some photos, and channel my mild travel rage into a draft complaint to Air France’s CEO. Let’s just say the CDG to LAX experience three weeks ago was… not très magnifique. The rest of the trip with them was delightful, so I’ll chalk that one up to turbulence—in service standards.

Meanwhile, outside, it’s pitch black and eerily quiet except for the occasional jet engine reminding me I’m conveniently parked next to LAX. Sleep? Ha! I try. I fail. I try again. I lose. TV it is.

American TV at 3 a.m. is a cultural experience in itself. Half-baked commercials for pharmaceuticals with 47 possible side effects are rudely interrupted by grim news headlines about shootings, car chases, and kidnappings. Comforting. Very on-brand, America.

Eventually, breakfast rolls around—an hour earlier than planned, thanks to my rogue body clock. Let’s just say it won’t be remembered as a culinary highlight. The coffee? A crime against caffeine. Honestly, how does a country that put a man on the moon still struggle to make a decent cup of joe? And don’t even whisper “Starbucks” around me unless you want to see what espresso-fueled rage looks like.

By now I’m nursing my sorry excuse for a coffee and tapping out emails while waiting for my brother and his spouse to appear, which, miracle of miracles, they do—on time. We devise a cunning plan: all four of us shall convene at 10:15 to Uber over to Venice Beach and see what Los Angeles has in store.

And so, off we go. The Uber ride is a breezy 15 minutes—possibly the only thing in LA that takes 15 minutes. We’re dropped at Venice Beach, where we immediately plunge into that glorious carnival of humanity: the Boardwalk. It’s like every Instagram cliché and local eccentric turned up for a casting call and decided to stay.

For the next few hours, we stroll past rollerblading poets, breakdancing philosophers, and bodybuilders flexing for the Gram. There’s also a man in a banana costume playing the harmonica, because of course there is.

Coffee break? Yes. Beer break for me? Absolutely.

Before long we realize we’ve walked all the way to Santa Monica, clocking in at 7km and officially earning a salad for lunch. After a refreshing drink and something green on a plate (don’t get excited—it was still LA), we venture off in search of a shopping mall that doesn’t exist. We do, however, find a pharmacy—small victories, people.

Uber back to the hotel, where our luggage is still lounging, unlike us. We’ve got a 5:30pm shuttle booked to LAX, so we spend our final pre-airport hour in the hotel lounge. I test out one of the complimentary computers (surprisingly not from 2003!) and access my cloud files with smug satisfaction. My digital setup is bulletproof. I feel like a tech god.

Fast forward to the Air France lounge at LAX: the calm before the cattle call. Boarding is imminent, and so I sign off, full of salad, sun, and slightly bitter coffee memories.

Next stop: Paris. Then Toulouse. Then home to Carcassonne, where hopefully someone knows how to make a proper espresso.

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