A holiday of semantics.
There was a postcard stuck somewhere in my mouth from the last time I was in America, but since my tongue has started engraving a new one and perhaps I will call this one a love letter.
A trip to visit my friends Tess and Tor in Los Angeles quickly turned into a holiday of semantics. I entered a world of wordplay and nuance – because who says a holiday can’t be a workout for the brain as well as the soul? The flight out was spent with another friend, Amina, a journey that could easily warrant its own article. We did our best to sleep, but our collective anxiety about missing out on the Michelin-worthy food we were sure to encounter kept us wide awake. Between Amina waking me up every time I neared sleep and her dramatic midnight outburst of “F***!” (a favourite word amongst Brits) as we synced up to watch A Quiet Place, we might as well have been hosting a midnight wake-up call for everyone around us. The anticipation of one week in La La Land was enough to keep me awake for the rest of the night. The public postmortem of LA reads like a formula: it starts with a hypothesis about amazing food, tests the variables of sightseeing and weather, and always seems to arrive at the same conclusion – too much time spent in traffic. Our trip, it turns out, was a case study in this very hypothesis.
Number one on the itinerary upon arrival was, unsurprisingly, food-focused. Since my US Road Trip earlier in the year, all I was craving was ‘In – N – Out’. The latter half didn’t really stick, as we ended up going four more times. Linguistic irony at its finest. Still jet-lagged, with my body stuck somewhere between time zones, we hit the hay until I was suddenly jolted from my stupor by the chaotic energy of LA at dawn, ready for my very first day in the state which seemed to have a personal vendetta against sleep.
Monday kicked off with brunch at Gjusta Bakery, where I breezed past an outdoor gym – because why exert myself when I could direct all my energy into demolishing a pistachio croissant? It was the fuel I needed, considering we were about to embark on a bike ride along Venice Beach, all the way to Santa Monica Pier. There’s something about cycling that makes me feel like the protagonist in a coming-of-age movie – wind in my hair, sun on my face. We took a pit stop to watch some skateboarders, laughing as they fell as if we could stay upright for more than a second ourselves.
Then, as I turned to get back on my bike, a homeless man on a mobility scooter zipped across my path, blasting ‘Have I Told You Lately’ by Van Morrison from his basket. Initially, it made me cry with laughter, especially since I had been filming two men in chicken costumes roller skating just as he passed. It took me a good minute to realise that it was as moving as it was funny. The date was the 11th of November, the 14-year anniversary of my dad’s passing – and that song was my parent’s first dance song. The song’s lyrics, ‘Take away my sadness,’ felt perfectly fitting as he passed, and in that bizarre, quintessentially LA moment, it did just that.
Amina fell victim to jet lag, so the surviving three went to Gjusta’s sister, Gjelina, for dinner. We were promptly greeted with blankets by the fire and a smile from a waiter who knew Tess and Tor by name (this was their local hotspot). The food was phenomenal, vegetable-forward cuisine with locally sourced produce. Well, that’s what Google says, I can’t actually remember what we ate – I’ve eaten a lot of things in the past four months, but I remember it was GOOD.
On Tuesday, we journeyed to Palm Springs to stay with Tess’ uncle (what. a. man.) We hit some vintage shops, then collapsed – jet lag. On Wednesday we ventured to Joshua Tree, my suggestion of playing ‘Joshua Tree’ by U2 was prematurely shut down before the chorus and was swapped with Addison Rae’s ‘Aquamarine’, which pains me to say actually is a bop. Though, playing an eponymous song would’ve been far more satisfactory. I’m not allowed the aux as I tend to play one of three things; country music, the ‘Battle Song’ from Narnia, or any song from ‘Spirit’. I’ve never been somewhere as quiet as it was there. Beautifully vast, but somewhat vacant of colour, leaving the landscape feeling both barren and breathtaking. We stumbled upon some street which felt like a forgotten relic from another time, lined with weathered buildings that whispered secrets of the past. Hidden among the dusty corners were small, quirky shops, clinging to the nostalgia of the Wild West, offering everything from trinkets to treasures wrapped in desert dust. My mum was in for a good stocking.
Thursday felt more Canadian than Californian. We went up the aerial tramway to soar from the desert floor to surprising alpine beauty. We traversed 2.5 miles along Chino Canyon in one smooth ascent to walk atop the flanks of towering Mount San Jacinto. The feeling that a bear could approach at any moment was relaxed by enjoying the best machine hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted, in the hot chocolate rating words of my sister, I felt someone say “You’re safe now” every time I took a slurp. The views, from all angles, were unmatched. I’ve been to six states in America now, all feeling slightly more dystopian than the last – catching both natural majesty and man-made sprawl in a single glance. As we meandered down the mountain, “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey played, and it struck me as remarkably fitting. Not only because 1) I had never envisioned myself in LA, but also 2) I wasn’t certain we’d make it off the mountain unscathed. There’s something undeniably powerful about words, particularly when they arrive at just the right moment – offering a sense of reassurance, especially for small-town girls like us.
We journeyed back to Venice Beach later that day, pit-stopping at you-know-where. Friday was Estate Sale Day. It was a charity shopper’s dream, sifting through vintage everything knowing exactly where it came from. Though it was sadder than I’d anticipated, to walk the carpets of somebody’s home who was letting her life be sifted through in the hopes of giving a stranger some solace. It was a beautiful mansion on the corner of a hill, so parking was a nightmare. Olivia Rodrigo would’ve had a breakdown. We b-lined for the closet room. Yep, a closet room. Filled with fur jackets, hats from the ‘60s, nightgowns with matching silk robes, the list goes on… In the moment, I was devastated that they were all too big for me, but in hindsight, it saved me the equivalent of a house deposit. I found true treasure, however, when I began rummaging in the dining room. A big circular box was filled with black and white photographs and letters. Wearing my bracelet with the word ‘Sonder’ engraved, I knew where I was spending the next hour.
The letter was addressed to a man, whom I later learnt was a bit of a lady’s man, and he was one of Lydia’s (the lady who passed) boyfriends. The woman dealing with the estate told me that ‘Lydia loved men who loved women’. Interpret that as you will. The letter went as follows:
“Last One”
Monday 10th November, 1952
“Dearest X,
It has been a long time since I last felt drawn to write to you. That doesn’t mean, however, that I haven’t had you on my mind constantly and remember you in my prayers. I was so glad to hear from you again today.
Do you realise, dear, that a whole year has gone by since we first met, it was so wonderful – in spite of the fact that I’ll never love anyone as much as I love you. I am going to be practical – sensible, for a change.
In the past two months, I have been going with a young fighter pilot just back from Korea. He is the opposite of you. He will make a fine husband. Also, he loves me – something you couldn’t do – remember. I have met his family and they approve wholeheartedly. You have been the thing standing in the way. Just when I think I am forgetting, I get one of your letters and once again I am confused and uncertain.
X, please help me – if you know that you don’t love me, please tell me. This way, I’m afraid; afraid I’ll ….
Oh, I want to see you so badly – talk to you again and fix some of my doubts and problems. Let me know when can come down.
X, dear, this really wasn’t the kind of letter I planned to write at all. But you are my greatest weakness and I find myself too weak to say I don’t want to see you – because I know it wouldn’t be true. But, above all, dear, I want you to be perfectly honest with me.
In spite of what you think- n decide – I will always love only you –
All my love, always,
X
P.S I hope this letter doesn’t sound hysterical – because I am practically there now.”
Finding this physical love letter reminded me of the love stories weaved in every house, street or corner of the world. I just stumbled across one. This is why writing letters should make a comeback – it immortalises feelings, making even the simplest expression feel infinite. I’ve kept the names anonymous as I want to keep their ending a mystery. The letter should be preserved with the story ending with her signature. I have no claim to the depths of their feelings, save for the trace of ink they left behind.
Whilst my immediate family and I are widely regarded as romantics, this was a particular ‘Am I in Pride and Prejudice?’ moment, making the memory one destined to linger. Part of me was afraid I might find LA pretentious or dare I say, dull, but instead, I found character worthy of an Oscar. Strangely enough, the dystopian edge of the trip coupled with its fractured flow of activities weren’t drawbacks – they were part of the charm. It wasn’t perfect, but there was something honest in its imperfection – like the city was letting me see it without makeup, and that made me fall for it even more. Somehow, in the mess of it all, it was like I’d stumbled across a metaphorical love letter to LA – one hidden between the lines of common preconceptions.
There was only one thing to do on Saturday to trump this experience (ignore the horrific modern connotation): watch an old movie. Specifically, a 35mm film black and white movie, at Quentin Tarantino’s historic Vista Theatre located in the neighbourhood of Los Feliz on Sunset. Tarantino ensures the Vista screens “only film” and is not “a revival house.” The movie we were destined to see was “The Lone Wolf Spy Hunt” (1939). The synopsis follows a group of spies after plans for an anti-aircraft gun, where the leader uses the opportunity to embroil the Lone Wolf in the plot. However, his vast experience allows them to fall short of their plan. Just over an hour long, it’s a film filled with constant wit, a gripping plot and fabulous costumes. My friends were initially hesitant to join, but in the end, they were thankful I’d nudged them into the experience. It’s ironic though, going to the ‘movies’, but you don’t move for hours. Ah, semantics.
Before admiring one final sunset on Venice Beach, we hiked to the infamous “Hollywood” sign on Sunday before catching our flight home. The word “Hollywood” in LA holds more than just geographical significance; it carries a weight of cultural and historical prestige that resonates far beyond its physical location. The sign itself, perched high above the city, has transformed from a mere advertisement into a global emblem of fame and ambition. Semantics play a crucial role in the power of such symbols; the mere mention of “Hollywood” evokes images of film premieres, celebrity culture, and a world where anything is possible. Just as the “Hollywood’“ sign represents a vision of success, places like “Versailles” or “Eiffel Tower” instantly evoke grandeur, history, and cultural value. Each name, like the “Hollywood” sign, becomes a lens through which we interpret the stories and legacies attached to them, ensuring that they live on far beyond their physical presence.
This sense of stardom was concluded on our flight home, which we shared with Gerard Butler. God, we felt safe.
So, all in all, for a six-day holiday we filled a hell of a lot in. Amongst the roller-skating chickens, vintage cars, songs, love letters, and black-and-white films, it was a whirlwind of food, friendship, and, yes – semantics. But underneath my lyrical insights and all the noise and nuance, there was a language of silence at play: the kind spoken in comfortable silences between close friends, in jet-lagged moments where no words are needed because they already understand. I only hope my wonderful hosts knew that my exhaustion was quiet reverence for their generosity, and for a city I didn’t expect to love but somehow do.
Georgina Lunn 
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