My first full—therefore official—day in LA was as perfect as a day of complete and utter freedom could possibly be. I started early to make the most of my time here; the goal was to beat the infamous traffic, grab a quick breakfast, and visit as many places on my West Hollywood To-Go list as possible.
Beaming was my first stop. I ordered the “Sexy Mayan” (the most delicious, spiced smoothie: a concoction of bananas, dates, cinnamon, cayenne, and cacao), and apparently, that came a side of one chatty multi-hyphenate. I planned to sip and write for an hour until 10am when Melrose started to wake up, but the barista—skinny and pale, so obviously not a California native—seemed to miss all the cues for want of solitude. Thrice he piped up as if unaware of social cues, the most egregious offense occurring after I’d moved away from his station to settle in a nook across the room. It didn’t matter that I’d found a spot in the sun for morning pages; he had a story to tell. Beaming Barista just moved to LA to—you guessed it—pursue music. I was experiencing what every New Jerseyan/Yorker hated about the West Coast: self-obsessed small talk. I finished my drink, packed up, and left despite wanting another Sexy Mayan for the road.
MELROSE AVE.
The adventures officially began across the street at The Real Real. Unsurprisingly, the men’s store was more interesting than the women’s (save the mint chevron Chanel Boy tucked away in a corner). I flicked through racks for the sake of passing time; nothing caught my eye enough to justify the exorbitant sales tax, and the things that did were far out of my budget pre-tax. Still, these things were neither here or there: Violet Grey was the main draw of my Melrose mission, and the beauty destination to end all beauty destinations didn’t open until 11.
Now, Violet Grey. I came with manageable expectations (thanks to a friend, also a beauty junkie), which is important if you’re a longtime reader or fan of the editorial site. As both a consumer and an industry insider, I’ve admired—and continue to be inspired by—the concept and creatives since the platform’s inception. Had I walked in with rose-tinted lenses I would have been disenchanted, but I knew the space would be small, and that service would be unlike most luxury New York boutiques. The charm was in the cramped yet curated, obsessive collection of beauty superlatives. Violet Grey’s IRL manifestation was like a secret alcove of an old Hollywood starlet; in fact, think of it as a (modest) walk-in medicine cabinet, but unapologetically glamorous. An Into the Gloss top-shelf interview offline. I browsed, made my selections (Jillian Dempsey Peach Lid Tint and KNC collagen-infused lip masks), and left with the elusive branded bag and (sorry VG!) a few illicit photos.
The streets were still sleepy, but I, excited and still on Jersey time, wandered in and out of stores with enough pep to almost convince passerbys that I was, in fact, just as un-jaded as they were. In the midst of mindless exploration, I stumbled upon a treasure trove. It was serendipitous. Meant to be, even. Hidden between buildings in an alley, tucked between Alfred Tea Room and Rebag, was The Line.
And there was a sample sale.
Everything was marked 70% off (which explained the state of the boutique—one I did have high expectations for), but I didn’t realize until I asked one of the shop girls for the price of a pair of shoes I’d just tried on. These were Manolos I slipped into just for fun. Who was I, careless, carefree Carrie Bradshaw who somehow found herself in a shoe store across the country? For a calculated consumer (I’m mindful; I curate, or so I tell myself), I was suddenly sporadic. (Something in the LA air, I imagine.) And on top of that, I was rewarded for my newfound insouciance. Those very shoes I inquired about—a pair of white Manolo mules with a kitten heel—were under $200. Pointed, petite, patent, and in my size!
An hour later I emerged with a giant shopping bag larger than the carry-on I came with. In it, the Manolos and two blue Jacquemus dresses: one, a sheer, navy short-sleeved maxi, and the other a baby-blue floor-length dress. I felt every bit as foolish (and now, well-dressed) as Carrie, only my moment of unfettered extravagance was spent on the opposite coast.
I needed a drink.
Like Carrie, I went for something pink—but virgin, since this was my first pair of Manolo Blahniks, and Alfred Tea Room was located conveniently below The Line. If there was a time to lean into a caricature of myself, this was it. I parked my gargantuan bag on a corner stool beside me, opened up my notebook (finally), and sipped on an oat rose milk tea. Here I was, alone in a brand-new city. The post-shopping high is attributed to the serotonin, of course, but unless you’re an introvert, it’s hard to understand how rejuvenating time alone can be. This change of scenery, this uninterrupted (except at Beaming) solitude, the gratitude alone in being here and having the freedom to indulge at all—this was bliss.
I finished the last of my tea and called a Lyft.
THE BROAD + MOCA
I fell in love with The Broad. It was like a love child of the Guggenheim and Whitney, its architecture an incredible work of art in its own right. I started at “Soul of a Nation” on the first floor and worked my way up to the open space above. Wandered aimlessly until I toured every corner. Took pictures shamelessly, guiltlessly. Saw my first Cy Twombly and Cecily Brown pieces in the flesh. Twombly made me want more; Brown literally took my breath away.
They were so beautiful. Raw. And in this space, even more so.
Across the street was the Museum of Modern Art. Most of the exhibits were closed for renovation, but I still paid the entrance fee and walked through the remaining that were accessible. Unlike the Broad, the MOCA was warmly lit, more wood than open concrete and fishnet ceilings. Its charm came from the creaky floors and one security guard who noticed me studying a Morris Louis piece called “Pillar of Delay.” Everything in this painting was based on gravity, he explained. Louis carefully spilled the shades of red onto the paper in a trough, then lifted the sheet to let the acrylic stream, run, and bleed onto the canvas. He would let it dry before replicating the process with another shade. Red. Burgundy. Plum. Beet. Repeat.
Mind you: throughout this gallery-hopping spree, I was still lugging around the giant The Line bag. The normal, convenient thing would have been going back to the AirBnb before my next step—but being economical (especially after this spree), I was determined to continue further downtown to The Row. A colleague had suggested I visit, and it just so happened that LPA’s Pia Arrobio (now Baroncini, at time of posting) was speaking at a free event there. Another serendipitous fortune of this trip; it was as if this day had planned itself.
THE ROW DTLA
Turns out, The Row is a fairly new space that repurposed a few old warehouses (including the once infamous, now defunct American Apparel one) into an open-plan shopping center. It’s far more sophisticated than your typical suburban mall, of course, with chic restaurants and a selection of curated boutiques and specialty stores. I wasn’t impressed with the line-up, but this was likely because there were so few stores to shop across such large a space—and all of them seemed to close before 5pm. It was deserted (save the happy hour crowd) and I, a lone wolf, sat in the middle of a common area until the Shopify panel began.
I checked in just early enough to find a decent seat. Those who already sat with food and drinks in hand were exactly the type of crowd I expected to attend an event like this: 20-somethings in pursuit of becoming a Pia—an influencer-creative director hybrid—and believed highly in their vision but had done little (some, none) of the research to even start. (This is a mentality I have difficulty empathizing with: Is it entitlement, overconfidence, or a blind sense of reality?!) Most were dressed in their finest fashion-with-a-capital-F, whereas I was there with my giant shopping bags, Converse, and little TLK dress, clearly underdressed for the occasion.
The talk wasn’t groundbreaking by any means. What was worthwhile was Pia’s outlook outside business and the industry because it was refreshing. She was honest, unapologetic, and passionate, and despite the controversy surrounding her or her label, that display of authenticity was inspiring. It would have resonated for that alone, but for me, at that moment, her message was symbolic of what this part-solo trip meant to me—and would represent for me—thus far.
. . .
Your turn. Thoughts?