On a recent trip to California I stayed in a classic Old Hollywood haunt called the Culver City Hotel, an idiosynchratic red brick wedge of a building that towers over the diminuitive Epcot-esque Art Deco buildings around it. The hotel lobby greets visitors with august, dark-wooded, faux-Patrician charm complete with piano bar, wooden globe, and enormous furniture, next to which the tiny check-in desk disappears almost completely.
From my window I had the disconcerting view of the somewhat crusty top of one of those grandiose golden balls that sit atop 1930ies buildins like cherries, which was cringey in that way that spotting a balding patch on the head of one of your friends is when you’re not sure if they themselves are aware of it.
I also made a few drawings at the farmer’s market, which is held right next door to the hotel, between the mansion from Gone with the Wind (really!) and a Trader Joe’s supermarket, and saw what I am reasonably certain are real hippies, which excited the anthropologist in me quite a bit. I also bought some unbelievably tasty organic apricots there.