I just got back to Toronto from Los Angeles, where I made the bold decision not to rent a car. I call it “bold” because it sounds better than “incredibly stupid.” A pro tip: do a little research on the city you're visiting. Just a Wikipedia skim, even. I did not.
The last time I was in LA was 2019, and my only memory of it is through the windshield of a rented Jeep Grand Cherokee. From that plush, elevated vantage point, the city seemed manageable, even charming. I remember thinking: Silver Lake has that Sqirl place with the questionable jam, and the streets go uphill in every direction, which explains why everyone’s ass looks great.
LA, if you didn’t know, is less a city for pedestrians and more like an episode of Mr. Beast’s game show. I figured, “I’m only here for three days. How hard can it be without a car?” As we drove to my hotel, I noticed the streets were barren except for one woman draping a blanket over a bus shelter. I thought, “Well, maybe this is an up-and-coming neighbourhood,” I thought. The kind you understand to mean, “you will hear sirens while brushing your teeth.” But then we passed a Solidcore.
You know the old urban legend about Japan having a hotline for culture shock in Paris? (Turns out, it was debunked.) Well, I needed one for Los Angeles. I figured everyone would be out walking for health and wellness, but free exercise just doesn’t hit the same without Chappell Roan playing and someone yelling “engage your core!” For me too, the ideal blend of community and fitness is holding downward dog next to strangers and then never seeing any of them again. I don’t work out to get strong; I work out to see what kind of amenities are in the change rooms.
Three minutes later, I arrived at my hotel starving. The cheapest thing on the room service menu was a Wagyu cheeseburger for $65, which seemed like a solid opportunity to try intermittent fasting. Then I remembered that I hate not eating for more than an hour, so instead, I packed some mini hairspray in my bag and ventured out in search of the nearest salad bar with good graphic design. Sure, this all sounds like a trope, except the guys beside me on the back patio were talking about the girls they met at Burning Man, so I didn’t start it.
My journey began in Santa Monica, where the boardwalk is surprisingly walkable.. if you can ignore the occasional cluster of people trying to sell you graphic t-shirts with slogans varying from, “I Love Cocaine” to “I’m Definitely Not on Drugs” (It’s a 2-for-1 deal.)
Feeling optimistic, I set off toward Abbot Kinney in Venice Beach, imagining a leisurely stroll past handmade eyewear shops like Ahlem where you can buy sunglasses for $650 and leading health research centres like Erewhon. But once you leave the relative safety of the boardwalk and hit the street, the vibe shifts dramatically. The sidewalks suddenly feel deserted, a dead palm leaf smacks you in the face, and the locals become few and far between. One man stopped me and asked if my car had broken down. I told him no, I was just insane. Which felt about right. Walking there is less transportation and more survival; A very slow, slightly sweaty game of Frogger.
I googled, “cramps” on the plane and it mentioned something about colon cancer, so I needed purple potatoes and I was certain Erewhon’s would be best. Being there, in the non-alcoholic drink aisle, next to the stainless steel facial rollers felt like getting the best medical care in the country. I walked right past the parking lot with one kombucha in hand, looking both ways with a little skip in my step as if I was parked just across the street.
At some point in the day, I felt something brush against my skin, and in a moment of blind panic, flung my hands into the air like I was at a Pentecostal revival. A bee was stinging my middle finger; a pointed choice. A man nearby screamed louder than I did, which somehow made it worse.
And then, the coup de grâce: pigeons. Those flying agents of chaos took over the power lines, treating them like an open-air urinal. Mid-stride, one delivered a perfectly aimed bomb right onto my finger; a targeted attack, no doubt meant to remind me that I was a foreigner in a city where nobody actually walks. Which is why the following week, getting shamed for walking too confidently in Toronto caught me off guard.
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I was halfway across Dufferin and Bloor, toilet paper in one hand and a sandwich in the other, when a man in expensive running gear started mouthing something at me from the other side of the street. I couldn’t tell if it was “soap” or “shop” or maybe “stop,” which made no sense because the light had just changed and I was already mid-stride. He was decked out in expensive running gear and those over-ear headphones that make you look either incredibly focused or like you’re about to be launched into orbit. He stared at me like a silent movie actor relegated to a Nike ad, mouthing “STOP” over and over. Apparently, there was a left-turn signal on his side, so he assumed there must be a right-turn signal on mine. Eventually I realized he thought I was walking into traffic. After our silent standoff, he walked right past me without acknowledging the interaction at all, like an NPC in a video game who delivers his one line and immediately resumes pacing in place.
Thanks to this neighbourhood watchdog, now people were watching me cross the street mid-bite, waving a two-ply Charmin roll like a medieval scroll. I didn’t need rescuing! I needed him to mind his own business and let me die with dignity, should the moment arise.
So here I am, fresh from the near-suicidal challenge of walking in LA, only to be shamed in Toronto for walking too well. In one city, I was treated like a missing person. In the other, like I’d ran into traffic screaming TAKE ME. I used to think walking was a neutral act—something simple and unobtrusive, like breathing or blinking. But now I see it for what it truly is: a deeply polarizing public performance that requires the precision of a ballet dancer, the instincts of a squirrel, and the skin of a rhino.
The NPC runner confirmed that you're a PC and that's on main character energy.... JUST sayin.
The most interesting thing about LA is that everybody has like 10 jobs and one of them is always an uber driver.