Just like a surfer riding the perfect wave, our flight heads West over a state of constant sunshine, the vanilla sky outside refusing to surrender to the night over the ice caps of Hudson Bay, and the darkness of yet another warm Californian evening finally wrapping us over San Bernardino.
Twelve hours since our departure from Heathrow, the aircraft touches down at Los Angeles International Airport and the chaos of many flights arriving at the same time derives in over an hour queuing at the immigration point.

I am welcomed by a friend I met in Bolivia. Having moved to Los Angeles a few years ago with his family, their lives in these latitudes have been as exciting as mine in Ireland, the dramas and happenings of immigrating into a new continent a common feature of such cold life decisions.

      ‘I’ll never forget the instant shock of temperature when leaving the air conditioned terminal. The warm dry air of a Californian evening hitting me right in the face, the drive through congested motorways and crowded neighborhoods across the soft hills of Santa Clarita (with a stop at the oh-so-Californian ‘In-n-Out’ burger joint) and finally, a long straight section of the road leading to Bakersfield, which we reach at midnight, or so I remember whilst desperately trying to engage into conversation with my mind half asleep.’

Three hours since landing and at almost twenty four hours awake, I find joy in the comfort of a bed in Bakersfield, only hours later finding myself in the epitome of Californian suburbia, which in the early morning glisten under the clear skies: spotless streets, perfectly manicured gardens adorning an endless sequence of one-storey houses and palm trees standing tall against the dry breeze. A mirage of Californian life right in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley.

Bakersfield proudly declares its wealth. Rich through oil-related cliches, the city’s culture revolve around horses, rodeos and over sized food, whilst one of the main landmarks in the city, the bone-dry Panorama Drive, overlooks to a galaxy of small oil fields spread across an equally arid terrain.

In the evening, I am treated to a show of country music at the famous Buck Owen’s Crystal Palace, where overly-eager waitresses take our orders around copious amounts of soft drinks and where the tunes of the rather melancholic yet upbeat tunes of a proper country show hypnotise patrons in a colourful festival of dancing and banjo chords. The meals are then served in the largest portions I have ever seen in my life, the United States perhaps being the only country in the world in which a person can eat without even being hungry.

Latin American reggaeton loudly plays through the speakers of a Mexican joint late at night, finally calling the day off whilst I silently sip on a lone margarita.

Once the jet-lag is beaten, I can now appreciate the three-hour drive to Los Angeles whilst the modern motorway seems to take off from the arid oil fields and elevate across hills of vineyards which turn dry against the blue wintry sky. Tunnels cut right through the heart of the rocky hills around Santa Clarita and soon, the City of Angels spread across a broad valley of palm trees and countless backstreets.

Under the bluest of the skies, Griffith Park is reached first -once parking is sorted-, the top of the hill providing one of the best views of both the Hollywood sign awkwardly embedded in the nearby hills, and Downtown Los Angeles, which in winter is almost completely covered in a dense mist.

We rapidly glance through the small astronomical exhibition at the Griffith Observatory, the building built in 1933 a testimony of architectural marvel now exuding history through the cold tiles.

A drive through the palm tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills invoke memories of every single Hollywood-set TV show and movie I have seen. The spotless Mexican-style mansions, the tall gates, the luxurious cars parked in every driveway. Indeed, I am able to confirm that such imagery was not a fake set but rather an accurate representation of life in this part of the city.

At Hollywood Boulevard, an army of tourists clumsily walk in a path dotted with stars and famous names, the tiles of ‘Hollywood Walk of Fame’ proudly displaying a sequence of TV and movie icons in tones of pink and golden memorabilia. It’s crowded, it’s plastic, it’s cliche, it’s so beautifully compelling.

A trip to Beverly Hills would not be complete without a stop at Rodeo Drive. The life of the rich and famous, a portray of tanned and fit individuals set against a backdrop of Prada, whilst Lamborghinis roar their way across the dark asphalt.

It is time for yet another over sized lunch at the Cheesecake Factory and my last chance to spend some quality time with my friends whilst I indulge in both, the conversation about the new lives now created in a new land and a large piece of strawberry cheesecake.
Los Angeles could not bid me farewell without showing me its traffic issues, frustrating a quick visit to Santa Monica before finally turning around airport bound.

At midnight, my Delta Airlines flight disappears in the thick of mist and sleepy holidaymakers. Bumpy for a few minutes, the patient flight attendants run a show on ‘How to fill out a customs form written in Spanish only’  before we start our final approach. At dawn, a friendly ‘O.C. – couple’ glance at my backpack and ask about the next leg of my trip amongst appraisals of hand luggage-only travel. At sunrise, the sour faced customs officer stamps my passport and records my entry into Mexico, my 77th visited country and the starting point of my Central American Odyssey.