"California, California, You're such a wonder that I think I'll stay (in bed)"
Phew
Ok, let's start at the beginning.
Yesterday (for those still in the Netherlands the day before yesterday), the 31st of December to be exact, my bags were packed. I went to bed relatively early for a new year's eve (about 2, I think, I couldn't resist watching a little of Gone with the Wind), and the following morning, 7 am, I woke up just a tad nervous. Luckily my dad was much, much more nervous (had been for the past few days), and it somehow had a relaxing effect. It didn't really hit me that I was really, truly leaving until I checked in.
"Look!", Birgit said, "that girl checking in next to you is also going to LA!", but I didn't pay much attention to it.
I asked for an upgrade to business class, but without any success. Platinum elite? Doesn't mean a thing, not to Delta Air Lines anyhow. But: not being seated in business class turned out to have a very nice consequence, namely that I was sitting behind a girl who was enthusiastically telling her neighbour that she was going to spend six months studying at UCLA. I of course exclaimed "hey! me too!", and we found out with much relief that not only would we have someone to talk to, but we were also on the same flight from New York to L.A., and we could share a cab because we were both staying somewhere near the UCLA campus.
Eight hours is a long time to sit still with little leg room. I tried to sleep, but only manage to for about fifteen minutes, maybe thirty. I watched parts of "the Bourne Supremacy" and "Anchorman" without sound: I'd declined head phones because I had my own, but it/they didn't fit. My head phones were great to have with me: it produces anti-sound, and for a long stretch of time I had them on without music, just to dampen the loudness of the plane. One good thing: the food was ok. We got one "meal" (the main course, pasta with something, was good, the rest not so much), and later on a vegetarian pizza.
The transfer was much easier than I'd thought. The girl, Sylvia, and I passed through immigration (the guy was reallt very, very friendly, nothing at all like all those stories) got our bags (and hey! the girl was indeed the one checking in next to me! I recognised her bag...), passed through customs and checked them in again. We then treated ourselves to a ridiculously expensive but very good cup of Starbucks coffee (we felt it was almost mandatory when entering the US, but that 5 dollar was definitely too much to ask for coffee. Do you know the price on the price list is actually without taxes?), and checked in for our next flight.
There were no two seats left next to each other, but we convinced her neighbour to switch with me. I tried to sleep again, and managed a little, but I never really fell asleep, I only dozed a little. The movie on this flight was Winbledon, and even without sound you could see how rote and tedious it was. This flight, you suddenly had to pay for everything: ear phones, and even food. But: this flight also had a good side to it: when we arrived, we flew above L.A. for at least twenty minutes, and with all the lights in the dark it was impressively enormous, and great to see.
All the above was the easy part. It goes on for a little bit: all our luggage came off the plane, and we had no trouble getting a taxi.
Sidenote: in the Netherlands we always complain that immigrants don't learn our language correctly. Remarkably, most moroccans and turkish people are much better at Dutch than some of the people we met here are at English. Our taxi driver among them.
The first stop was Wilshire Avenue, where Sylvia's hotel was. We agreed to meet tomorrow (again, today for some of you), to explore the campus together. She gave me some money for her half of the cab fare, and on it was.
In the Netherlands, you expect a cab driver to know every street in his city. I realize it's not realistic to expect that of a L.A. cab driver. Still, it was mildly annoying that he had no idea where to go, and only after fifteen minutes remembered that he had a map. He stopped the meter though, that was nice. In the end we found it, and the next problem surfaced.
The deal was originally that my roommate Nicole, who I've emailed with a lot, would be there to open the door for me, as I could not pick up my key until monday. Then, her boyfriend surprised her with a trip to Vegas, and she told me that she'd leave the back door open, that I could get into the downstairs neighbours apartment and get to the apartment by using the fire escape.
The problem? No bell. Anywhere. At all. Oh, lots of doors, with slots for key cards. But no bell. The guy was really nice about it (probably because I paid him a little too much, but I'm glad I did). He tapped in numbers on some strange keypas, shouted at windows...He wasn't really helpful, but it meant I wasn't alone, and that I had a ride in case I gave up. I was on the brink of giving up and going to Sylvia's hotel when three girls showed up. I was in! At least, in the patio. They were not at all the downstairs neighbours: the downstairs neighbours are conspicuously absent. They did help me, however: one of them let me use her phone to call the emergency houding something (she had the number), and on the phone they told me I could pick up my key now, but I'd have to go to Weyburn Terrace, and I would have to pay extra rent.
I didn't feel like worrying about money. At that point, I'd been awake more or less non stop for 22 and a half hours, and I just wanted to get into the damn apartment. The girl who helped me showed me the way, and off I was, with my backback, into the big dangerous city. Oh, I'm exaggerating, it was only a ten minutes walk, but still. My big bag I just left in the patio: I didn't think anyone would want to steal 31.2 kg of clothing.
The woman on the phone had been very annoyed with me, but at the housing office the people were very, very nice. It took me a long time to find the pdf file that proved I'd indeed been accepted at #014 in 558 Glerock Ave. and to find my student ID number (I knew it by heart, it turned out, but looked for the file to be sure). It took a while, but then had it! My own key card, entrance to my new apartment.
The guy who helped me (a student, I think) drove me back (he lives across the street, it turns out), and even helped me carry my bag upstairs. I'd been stressed out when things weren't working out in the beginning, but we talked about Tarantino (he spoke with him last year at the premiere of Kill Bill) and the Kings of Convenience, and I finally started to feel like I could actually feel at home here.
And which here is that? The apartment has a rather large living room, with TV, a kitchen, and two rooms about as big as my last UC room, but with two beds each. Also, it's very, very filthy. Now, you know me, when I think something is filthy, then it's really bad. There is actually a pack of Roach traps standing here. *shudder*. On the positive side, apart from it being dirty, the apartment is also vey cosy: there are posters and pictures everywhere (someone here aparently has an Angelina Jolie fetish), and the couch I'm sitting on is very comfy.
Tomorrow, I'll explore the town with Sylvia (if she can find this place), and at night Nicole should be there. A guy named Mark (Marc?), my "apartment co-ordinator" just came by to say hi and meet me and all that, saying also that he has a vacuum cleaner (meaning we don't...). He's really the kind of guy you expect in California, talking rather slowly, hands in his jeans pockets, and a wool hat.
I really am here. Wow. I stink though. So, shower it is, and I guess I'll just crash on the couch after that, seeing how in both rooms the beds have been pushed together as double beds, and look kind of dishevelled and covered with stuff. It's a nice couch. I'll sleep fine.
Leave comments if you like!
Greetings from LA
Hedwig
Ok, let's start at the beginning.
Yesterday (for those still in the Netherlands the day before yesterday), the 31st of December to be exact, my bags were packed. I went to bed relatively early for a new year's eve (about 2, I think, I couldn't resist watching a little of Gone with the Wind), and the following morning, 7 am, I woke up just a tad nervous. Luckily my dad was much, much more nervous (had been for the past few days), and it somehow had a relaxing effect. It didn't really hit me that I was really, truly leaving until I checked in.
"Look!", Birgit said, "that girl checking in next to you is also going to LA!", but I didn't pay much attention to it.
I asked for an upgrade to business class, but without any success. Platinum elite? Doesn't mean a thing, not to Delta Air Lines anyhow. But: not being seated in business class turned out to have a very nice consequence, namely that I was sitting behind a girl who was enthusiastically telling her neighbour that she was going to spend six months studying at UCLA. I of course exclaimed "hey! me too!", and we found out with much relief that not only would we have someone to talk to, but we were also on the same flight from New York to L.A., and we could share a cab because we were both staying somewhere near the UCLA campus.
Eight hours is a long time to sit still with little leg room. I tried to sleep, but only manage to for about fifteen minutes, maybe thirty. I watched parts of "the Bourne Supremacy" and "Anchorman" without sound: I'd declined head phones because I had my own, but it/they didn't fit. My head phones were great to have with me: it produces anti-sound, and for a long stretch of time I had them on without music, just to dampen the loudness of the plane. One good thing: the food was ok. We got one "meal" (the main course, pasta with something, was good, the rest not so much), and later on a vegetarian pizza.
The transfer was much easier than I'd thought. The girl, Sylvia, and I passed through immigration (the guy was reallt very, very friendly, nothing at all like all those stories) got our bags (and hey! the girl was indeed the one checking in next to me! I recognised her bag...), passed through customs and checked them in again. We then treated ourselves to a ridiculously expensive but very good cup of Starbucks coffee (we felt it was almost mandatory when entering the US, but that 5 dollar was definitely too much to ask for coffee. Do you know the price on the price list is actually without taxes?), and checked in for our next flight.
There were no two seats left next to each other, but we convinced her neighbour to switch with me. I tried to sleep again, and managed a little, but I never really fell asleep, I only dozed a little. The movie on this flight was Winbledon, and even without sound you could see how rote and tedious it was. This flight, you suddenly had to pay for everything: ear phones, and even food. But: this flight also had a good side to it: when we arrived, we flew above L.A. for at least twenty minutes, and with all the lights in the dark it was impressively enormous, and great to see.
All the above was the easy part. It goes on for a little bit: all our luggage came off the plane, and we had no trouble getting a taxi.
Sidenote: in the Netherlands we always complain that immigrants don't learn our language correctly. Remarkably, most moroccans and turkish people are much better at Dutch than some of the people we met here are at English. Our taxi driver among them.
The first stop was Wilshire Avenue, where Sylvia's hotel was. We agreed to meet tomorrow (again, today for some of you), to explore the campus together. She gave me some money for her half of the cab fare, and on it was.
In the Netherlands, you expect a cab driver to know every street in his city. I realize it's not realistic to expect that of a L.A. cab driver. Still, it was mildly annoying that he had no idea where to go, and only after fifteen minutes remembered that he had a map. He stopped the meter though, that was nice. In the end we found it, and the next problem surfaced.
The deal was originally that my roommate Nicole, who I've emailed with a lot, would be there to open the door for me, as I could not pick up my key until monday. Then, her boyfriend surprised her with a trip to Vegas, and she told me that she'd leave the back door open, that I could get into the downstairs neighbours apartment and get to the apartment by using the fire escape.
The problem? No bell. Anywhere. At all. Oh, lots of doors, with slots for key cards. But no bell. The guy was really nice about it (probably because I paid him a little too much, but I'm glad I did). He tapped in numbers on some strange keypas, shouted at windows...He wasn't really helpful, but it meant I wasn't alone, and that I had a ride in case I gave up. I was on the brink of giving up and going to Sylvia's hotel when three girls showed up. I was in! At least, in the patio. They were not at all the downstairs neighbours: the downstairs neighbours are conspicuously absent. They did help me, however: one of them let me use her phone to call the emergency houding something (she had the number), and on the phone they told me I could pick up my key now, but I'd have to go to Weyburn Terrace, and I would have to pay extra rent.
I didn't feel like worrying about money. At that point, I'd been awake more or less non stop for 22 and a half hours, and I just wanted to get into the damn apartment. The girl who helped me showed me the way, and off I was, with my backback, into the big dangerous city. Oh, I'm exaggerating, it was only a ten minutes walk, but still. My big bag I just left in the patio: I didn't think anyone would want to steal 31.2 kg of clothing.
The woman on the phone had been very annoyed with me, but at the housing office the people were very, very nice. It took me a long time to find the pdf file that proved I'd indeed been accepted at #014 in 558 Glerock Ave. and to find my student ID number (I knew it by heart, it turned out, but looked for the file to be sure). It took a while, but then had it! My own key card, entrance to my new apartment.
The guy who helped me (a student, I think) drove me back (he lives across the street, it turns out), and even helped me carry my bag upstairs. I'd been stressed out when things weren't working out in the beginning, but we talked about Tarantino (he spoke with him last year at the premiere of Kill Bill) and the Kings of Convenience, and I finally started to feel like I could actually feel at home here.
And which here is that? The apartment has a rather large living room, with TV, a kitchen, and two rooms about as big as my last UC room, but with two beds each. Also, it's very, very filthy. Now, you know me, when I think something is filthy, then it's really bad. There is actually a pack of Roach traps standing here. *shudder*. On the positive side, apart from it being dirty, the apartment is also vey cosy: there are posters and pictures everywhere (someone here aparently has an Angelina Jolie fetish), and the couch I'm sitting on is very comfy.
Tomorrow, I'll explore the town with Sylvia (if she can find this place), and at night Nicole should be there. A guy named Mark (Marc?), my "apartment co-ordinator" just came by to say hi and meet me and all that, saying also that he has a vacuum cleaner (meaning we don't...). He's really the kind of guy you expect in California, talking rather slowly, hands in his jeans pockets, and a wool hat.
I really am here. Wow. I stink though. So, shower it is, and I guess I'll just crash on the couch after that, seeing how in both rooms the beds have been pushed together as double beds, and look kind of dishevelled and covered with stuff. It's a nice couch. I'll sleep fine.
Leave comments if you like!
Greetings from LA
Hedwig
posted by Hedwig @ 9:53 PM
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