How to make friends in LA

by Martin Fleming (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection USA

Paradoxically, friends are hard to make in LA, because everyone already has them. Add to that the city’s expansive sprawl connected by confusing molasses-moving, honeycombed-highways that encourage stagnation over socialisation and the stars really have to align for you to not only meet new people but have them be interesting enough to be friends and geographically close enough make it worth your while. It’s exhaustive. The City of Angels is then perhaps closer to purgatory; friendship becomes a state of suffering you have to endure before you can enter the realms of friendship heaven. But for me, pilgrims, the car was both issue and solution. The day of the accident Kiran was driving us to a party. We were stuck on a backed-up I-10, which runs through Santa Monica out to Arizona. Not the busiest highway in LA, but maybe the worst. Kiran was my only friend in LA, a blonde Californian with clusters of sun freckles that belonged in an orange juice commercial. She was fruity chewing gum, and it would take more than a slow moving highway to burst her bubble. She sat bouncing in the driver’s seat of her rusty old jeep – a wheezing lawnmower with the monetary value of a whipper snipper. The blue paint was chipping, the seats exploding, the radio stuck on a radio station with a country singer ironically promising the highway would set us free. Its redemption was the air conditioning that thankfully still blasted cold air, even if it did smell like the inside of a 70’s vacuum cleaner. We braked sharply and Kiran stole the moment to text her friend: “We’ll be late.” Her reply: “Everyone’s late.” Duh. “It’s always busy,” Kiran said with the understated way space might be considered, “Kinda big”. Traffic inched forward. We’d been stuck behind a red Chevrolet so long I had memorised their archipelago of bumper stickers; turns out their other car might have been the Millennium Falcon. Then traffic ground to a halt. Annoyingly, our off-ramp was tantalisingly close. I could see it like an oasis just out of reach. The diesel fumes provided the customary desert haze. “No!” Kiran squeaked, gripping her tattered steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. Her faith in the LA highway system was cracking like the fault line the city was built on. It never completely stops! I wanted to hug her and reassure her we’d be back to not moving fast soon enough, but I was also a bit nervous. Maybe we’d die here. We got out of the car. I breathed in the highway air. It was rank, like gargled gasoline sloshing in a gym shoe. This was not the LA postcard. No palm trees, silver screens or glitzy pools. “Wish you were here”? Nope. Nobody else seemed to be panicking though. They yoga stretched. Sat on their bonnets. Texted revised arrival times. However, the accident had an unintended consequence. Those who’d gotten out of their cars had begun striking up friendly conversations. A slicked haired banker in a garish Ferrari began chatting animatedly to an elderly woman about the Dodger’s prospects. Some teens took the moment to take selfies in front of the sports car. Spotty faced kids made faces at each other from adjacent back seats, while their parents struck up a conversation. Then, a couple of girls in sundresses came over and began chatting. Turns out we were headed in the same direction but to a different party. We chatted about our inevitable tardiness, the accident, acai bowls, celebrities, handbag dogs. Kiran introduced me as her Aussie friend. They looked nervous as they asked about Australia spiders, then giggled at my accent. We became fast friends. Twenty minutes later, traffic began to flow. We all exchanged numbers and proffered to meet up later. I’m still in touch with them today; they message me when they’re stuck in traffic. Which is often. I visi Oh, and it turns out the accident was caused by a driver sideswiping a semi. So, in conclusion, swiping is still the best way to make friends in LA.