BREAKING: Another Ex-New Yorker Moves to Los Angeles

I’ve already told someone their aura was “warm and inviting”—I need a cigarette.

Nov 29, 2023

A few months ago, I announced my decision to move to Los Angeles after living in New York City for almost my entire adult life. The truth is: I made my decision well before posting about it publicly on Instagram. In retrospect, I believe the seed was planted years ago, in 2018. It was my first time in LA—I was in town because a script I had written was nominated for an award at a film and screenwriting festival—and as much as I wanted to hate it—I’m a New Yorker; it’s a reflex—I couldn’t resist the siren song of a city that’s more or less seventy and sunny all year round.

I’ve only been here for a little over three weeks now, but it’s been such a whirlwind that I feel like it’s already been six months. So much has already happened, changed, that I feel like I’m on an emotional delay, just registering all the pieces that have since come together and continue to fall into place. I hit the ground running the second my flight touched down at LAX, and am just now starting to catch my breath.

The most common response I’ve received to my decision to move to LA, besides the bittersweet refrains of I’ll-miss-yous and I-can’t-wait-to-visits among other heartwarming well-wishes and notes of love, is: “You know you’re going to have to get a car, right?”

It’s no secret that living in LA requires having a car. Unless you can afford to take an Uber everywhere, or live within walking distance of literally everything you need— which, I can tell you right now, is impossible—you will need a motor ass vehicle. Even though I actually do live within walking distance of my (new) CVS, grocery store, coffee shop, Target, Sephora, and the other places I frequent, I still need to leave my new neighborhood to go to my new doctor(s), attend both social and professional events, and just get better-acquainted with the different parts of the city I now call home. Most importantly of all, how else am I going to get to the Charmed manor, which is a twenty-five-minute drive from me, to leave my offerings of sheer knit tops and clunky, open-toed platform heels?

The reminder that I would need to get a car was, more times than not, delivered in a cadence suggesting that having a car and needing to drive everywhere would become a burden. I see some merit in this claim: filling up your tank in LA would overdraft even Mark Zuckerberg’s checking account. But other than that, jokes on you hoes, because guess what???????????? You really think I’m not going to use this opportunity to heal my inner child and get the car I coveted since I was nine years old?!?!?!?!?!

I have always wanted a Volkswagen Beetle. Perhaps I inherited this desire from my father, who had three in the seventies. I have always loved them—the way they just exude personality (they legit look like they’re smiling), the colors they come in, and the flower vase the first-generation New Beetle came with. They are just so damn CUTE; I cannot stand it.

For the two months I spent living in Central Jersey with my parents after moving out of my Brooklyn apartment, I did my research. I learned about which model years to avoid, and which ones were reliable. I talked to my friend’s mom, who has a 2018 Beetle, and received only positive feedback. I found out as much as I could, down to what is the desirable range for miles-per-gallon and read everything there was to read about buying a used car, including approximately 90,000 Reddit threads. I calculated my budget. I studied APR financing. I made sure the places I was looking to move offered parking. I was inspired to get all the pragmatic shit out of the way to make room for the fun part: FINDING MY BUG.

I perused the used Volkswagen Beetles for sale in the Los Angeles area, bookmarking the ones that filled my prerequisites for purchase. Obviously, I kept an eye out for yellow bugs, because of course I did, but I had to be realistic: I just needed a good, reliable car. Still, there was one specific Beetle that pulled up to the corner of my mind, idling by as I scrolled through page after page of results, intermittently flashing its lights to get my attention.

While I would have been happy with any Beetle, my actual dream car is the 2014 Volkswagen Beetle Turbo GSR. The GSR (Gelb Schwarzer Renner or “Yellow Black Racer”) is a yellow and black-striped racing car, which was released almost ten years ago as an homage to the original GSR. After years of requests from Beetle fans, Volkswagen finally released a sportier version of the classic coupe in 1973—and, like the OG, just 3,500 units of the modern reinterpretation of the bumblebee-colored car were manufactured in 2014.

Out of curiosity, I expanded my filters to nationwide and searched for how many used GSRs were currently for sale. There was one in Warwick, New York; another one somewhere in Idaho. I would refresh the results every now and then (every fourteen minutes), and finally decided there was no harm in setting a Google Alert for used 2014 Volkswagen Beetle GSRs in the Los Angeles area. To my surprise, I got a ping a few days later.

A woman on Craigslist was selling the GSR her grandmother gifted her (“Is your grandmother looking to adopt?” is a question that came up during our subsequent correspondence), and we exchanged few emails back and forth—we even arranged for me to come by and see it once I was on the West Coast—until she ghosted me. I assume she found someone to pay the price she listed it for, which, in my now-expert opinion, was overpriced. Not going to lie, I was a little crushed. Onwards! A few days later, like a sign from above, my email pinged again with another GSR that was listed for sale at a Lexus dealership just outside of LA. I called the dealer and the pleasant salesperson with whom I spoke promised they would go out into the lot and take pictures for me (it hadn’t even been cleaned or inspected yet) and send them along with the Carfax.

I got a call—not even an hour later—telling me that the vehicle had sold.

I was convinced my evil twin saw it passing by, and swooped in to claim it first just to spite me. My disappointment doubled—my tender little heart could not take getting its hopes up, only for things to not work out once more! I licked my wounds as I continued browsing used Beetles online until one day, about two weeks before I was set to depart for LA, my email pinged with an alert once more.

Share SOS (Save Our Serotonin)

A used GSR went up for sale at a used car dealership right in the middle of LA. I tried to manage my expectations this time—I had to brace myself for more possible crushing disappointment!—still, I couldn’t help but surrender to the notion that the third time’s a charm. No sooner had the salesperson taken half a sip of their morning coffee did my unspooled ass call at nine a.m. on the dot, asking about the GSR that the person with whom I was on the phone didn’t even know they had gotten in yet. I explained my situation—that I was moving to the West Coast in two weeks, and that I was on the hunt for this specific make and model—and he offered to call me from his personal phone so that he could show me the car on FaceTime.

Through my phone, I watched him make his way to the back of the lot, to the queue of cars ready to be inspected, serviced, and cleaned. I immediately spotted the bug, its yellow and black rear upstaging all the surrounding vehicles. The hopes that had I tried to suppress came spouting from me like a geyser. I felt it in my bones: That was my car, my bug. I crossed every crossable appendage as I scanned the Carfax about an hour later, praying for no glaring red flags. After finding none—not one accident or even one trip to the shop for anything other than routine maintenance—I was feral. I was adamant about getting this car lest someone else laid claim to it before I did. My head practically popped through their receiver, pleading about what I could do to claim her as my own. The last star must have finally aligned by the end of my begging, because the manager made an exception for me: Since I was serious about the car, he would hold it for me so that I could take it for a spin when I came into town. They even took it off the website. All I had to do was promise to stop by as soon as I could.

Reader, when I tell you that I basically tuck-and-rolled right off the plane the second my flight hit the ground and right into an Uber that would take me straight to the dealership, you, too, would look at me like the folks at the dealership did when I pulled up with my neck pillow still resting on my shoulders.

I rolled up to the dealership with my bags in tow—and, believe me, everyone in that office knew who I was and for what I had come for. Some dude came in and was like, “We’re bringing it out front for you!”—I didn’t even have to introduce myself. I saw her pulled up to the front by the salesperson I had been in contact with, and it was, truly, love at first sight. I took her for a drive, and I didn’t even come to a halt before exclaiming, “I’LL TAKE HER!” when I pulled back into the lot about twenty minutes later.

After crunching some numbers and going over and signing a fuckload of paperwork, I threw my bags in the trunk, and drove off to my new neighborhood—Hollywood—in a car I still can’t believe is mine.

My furniture and the rest of my things weren’t scheduled to be delivered until later in the week, so I checked into a nearby hotel for two nights since I wanted to make sure I was close by when I got the obligatory call the day before to confirm a delivery window. The next night, I had tickets to see my new favorite band, The Last Dinner Party, at the El Rey Theatre.

Ironically enough, I had come across this British indie rock band when I was in LA earlier this year. I was in my hotel room, scrolling TikTok, while I waited for a friend to pick me up. A clip of the music video for their debut single, “Nothing Matters,” popped up on my For You page, and I instantly felt the rush of euphoria you get when you discover new music that makes you feel like you could bench-press a baby elephant. I blasted “Nothing Matters” on a loop, my thrashing threatening to render my hotel room as if Keith Richards had been staying there.

Since then, I have followed this band with unbridled devotion, turning on post notifications on Instagram so I wouldn’t miss a new single or tour announcement. When they announced a handful of U.S. tour stops—including LA, when I was already going to be living there—I didn’t hesitate. I bought a ticket, fully content with going solo, so I could fully lose myself in the experience, in the music that has made me feel like a teenager again.

The night of the show, I dolled myself up and hopped in an Uber to the El Rey—baby needed a strong drink or two after those last few hectic days of packing and traveling—and found a spot in the front, adjacent to the stage. I’m not particularly religious—I have never experienced an inner vision of god nor a union with the divine—but that night, I felt closer than ever to the holy. I lost sense of time and space, and just gave myself over to the sonic ambrosia being served by the quintet made up of all female and non-binary-identifying musicians.

The next morning—my heart still full, my feet still dancing on air—I went to my building to pick up the keys to my studio. I was excited to finally see it in-person—the exposed brick, the charming windows, the original built-in 1920s vanity area. It’s a true Hollywood building disguised as a Brooklyn tenement, which is what I love most about it. If it weren’t for the pair of palm trees out front, you would think this building was in Crown Heights.

I turned the key into my door and let myself in. I turned on all the lights, and slowly made my way through each part of the studio—the kitchen, living/bedroom area, vanity, and bathroom. My heart swelled with the promise of the familiar, of a home whose contours I would one day soon be able to recall every detail of from memory.

A tale as old as time, my furniture delivery was, once again, delayed. In the meantime, I walked all of the luggage I came with from my hotel to the studio, and promptly checked out of my room after a friend with a kind soul offered to let me crash at their place for the night. I didn’t want to spend money on an extra night (or two, or, god forbid, any more nights that would remain contingent on when my furniture was delivered) at the hotel, plus, there was no hot water. The toilet operated on foul sorcery. And only ONE towel???????? TRY THEM AT THE HAGUE.

The next day, another friend let me borrow their air mattress, and I finally spent my first night in my new place. I thought I would awake the next morning feeling disoriented like I had been since arriving in LA—my mind and body still catching up with the change in location and time zone—but I woke up already feeling like my surroundings were an extension of me, even with nothing on the walls yet.

I decided to explore my new neighborhood by foot—to get an idea of where the places I usually frequent are. As I walked down Hollywood Boulevard, I made mental notes of where the CVS, the Target, Coffee Bean, and the various other places I know I’ll be in often were. I’d looked on the map to see that I’m within walking distance of Trader Joe’s and Ralphs. Even the nearest dispensary was within walking distance, which should come as no surprise. I’m in California—there are as many dispensaries as there are parking garages.

One morning, my friend with whom I stayed the other night, visited me on their morning walk with their dog. As we walked down Hollywood Boulevard, on the Walk of Fame, I just so happened to look down—and whose star should I find beneath my feet?

That fact that the make and model of my Beetle was a limited edition—with only 3,500 units made—and a used one just happened to be listed for sale in LA days before I was supposed to move was already enough of a sign, but the fact that the star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame that’s nearest me is none other than Phyllis Diller’s?

I mean, c’mon. I’m not the most woo-woo person, but even I can’t refute the evidence of the woo here, the woo there, the woo everywhere ever since stepping foot outside of LAX.

A few days later, my furniture was delivered, and I could finally begin the process of getting settled and making Hollywood my home. I am someone who likes to get settled immediately—even when I check into a hotel, I immediately unpack all of my bags and place each and everything in what I arbitrarily deem their rightful places.

I reject this self-imposed urgency. At least I am trying to. One of the reasons I moved here was because the unhurried pace of life here is more-compatible with my nervous system. (Not to mention the climate is more-forgiving of my chronic pain, including migraines, which I notice already occurring less frequently than what I’m used to.) I have been hustling for years—I still do—but I am shedding a layer of skin weatherworn by the relentless chase of my personal and professional desires, and getting to know the softer version of myself left in its wake. I’ve learned that true strength comes not from facing life’s challenges, but from protecting that softness despite them.

I am focusing on making this space functional before making it perfect. I’m letting myself marinate in it, and letting it tell me what belongs where. I already know where some of my art will go, which books will be displayed where. There are some elements that have yet to claim their nook or cranny, but I know they will find their places in due time. I remind myself that, just because some things remain at the bottom of an unopened moving box, doesn’t mean they won’t see the light of day.

Before long, the sun will shine its warm rays across the things that, in totality, will make my home mine. But in the meantime, I’ve got us both covered.

SOS (Save Our Serotonin)

BREAKING: Another Ex-New Yorker Moves to Los Angeles

I’ve already told someone their aura was “warm and inviting”—I need a cigarette.

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