CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

Originally published in The Holland Herald, The Age newspaper and The Sydney Morning Herald, March 2004.

My friend Larry is a typical Los Angelino - for a start he's from somewhere else. Secondly, as a writer-director of television commercials, he works close to, but not quite in "the industry". Nevertheless he has plenty of fantastic ideas for movies.

Next, as virtually everybody in the city must, he loves cars - he owns a black Mercedes and a silver Audi convertible. He drives everywhere and never takes his sunglasses off; he frequently drops the names of the various movie people he knows; he is generous and will go out of his way to help a friend. Finally, he is a tanned and handsome non-smoker in great shape because he jogs. A lot. The other thing he does a lot of - and very well - is talk.

On a Sunday morning Larry picked me up at my hotel. "Welcome to LA," he said. "Or as Robert Altman says, 'Welcome to Los Angeles.' You know I'm represented by the same people as him?"

It was a beautiful day and I wondered what he had planned for us.

"Well there's any number of things we can do, Sean," he told me. "We could take a drive to the Getty Centre. We could go down to Venice and Marina del Rey. There's a French coffee shop right by my place that serves the best coffee in the city. Or we could take a drive over to Hollywood and Highland and check out preparations for the Oscars at the Kodak Theatre. Grauman's Chinese is right nearby. And a Hamburger Hamlet. They make the best burgers in the city. Or used to anyway, these days I'm not so sure. Maybe Fatburger. Or In-and-Out.

"How about a cruise along Sunset? You driven along Sunset? Nice drive. What say we head on up into the hills? Coldwater Canyon, then take Mulholland Drive. That's a terrific drive. Great views. Actually no, not great views - the best!"

I told Larry that the Hollywood Hills sounded perfect. "You wanna get behind the wheel? You know how to work a stick shift? I'm a little tired myself so if you wanna drive that's OK by me. I bought a motorcycle yesterday."

I explained to Larry that it'd be best if he drove because it was a while since I'd driven - five years, in fact - and it was on the other side of the road and I'd been involved in a wreck that totalled my car. "OK, I'll drive," Larry said.

The views from up in the hills were truly spectacular - the previous day's 100-plus centimetres of rain had cleared the often smog-hazed LA skies - and it's only from up there that you truly appreciate just how big Los Angeles is.

"Not big," Larry said. "Vast. LA is vast." And as I gazed, aware that all around me were the homes of stars and sheiks and barons and billionaires, something overwhelmed me and I made a big decision. I decided that since I had only one life to live I wanted to live at least some of it like a king. Or at least a studio executive. As we made our way back down to the city I asked Larry to take me to the finest hotel in LA.

"You're gonna love it at the Four Seasons, Sean," Larry enthused as he dropped me off there later that afternoon. "Their pool is the best."

Once again, he was right - so right that in fact I spent most of the next day sitting by the hotel pool, reading and enjoying shish-kebabs of frozen fruit (watermelon, pineapple and delicious grapes) and smoothies that were presented to me by waiters every 15 minutes.

Every so often I would look up from my newspaper and espresso to check whether I'd been joined by any movie stars until it dawned on me that most movie stars would probably live in LA and be spending time lounging by their own sparkling pools being brought frozen fruit sticks by their own staff. I envied them. Hell, I envied myself at that moment. Life in LA was good. Perhaps the best.

I daydreamed. I would be very happy living in the quiet, leafy, wealthy suburb of Beverly Hills. It would be very peaceful - the only people out enjoying the year-round sunshine would be me and the crews of Mexican gardeners, for nobody here walks. The front lawns of the houses are highly manicured, some possibly even vacuumed, and the houses come in a variety of architectural styles: Gaudi-esque, Modernist, Tudor (influenced by the Tudor period), "Tudor" (after the Tudor revival of the early 1970s), Spanish mission, adobe, corporate HQ, tasteful, tasteless, bizarre, bad and beautiful. The only thing they have in common is posted security signs warning of armed response for those that intrude upon the lawns.

LA is far too big. The roads are too wide. And long. There are many cell phones, and people on them. The portions of everything - food, chatter, advice, beverages, cars, the malls, the people, celebrity, events, side orders and accompaniments, breasts, attitude, tans, confidence - are very large. About the only things that have reduced in size in recent years is sunglasses and the length of men's popular hairstyles.

The reason for the great size of everything is because there is plenty of space and wealth here. And expectation. People expect the biggest, the best. Don DeLillo wrote that Californians invented the concept of lifestyle, and that alone warranted their doom. Life here is so agreeable - weather, wealth - that people want to live longer, that's why they're so health-conscious.

I would be, too, if I lived here. I want to live here. I would give up smoking and I would live longer if I lived here. There is much more green in LA than people give the city credit for. Although still plenty of concrete. I feel nervous, as though my limbs have been hollowed and filled with caffeine and helium. It could be caffeine. It could be simple fear about tomorrow's drive north.

I was terrified of driving up the coast (I was so convinced this was a fatal folly that before I left home I'd added a coda to my will bequeathing my excellent collection of music to a friend) and prayed for some kind of deus ex machina - earthquake, hurricane, flood, anything to keep me from getting behind the wheel. My ailing credit card almost did the trick but, in typical Californian style, the friendly clerk at the rental car counter bent the rules for me. The bastard. There was no escape.

The vehicle of what I was certain would be my doom was a burgundy Oldsmobile Alero, not exactly a Porsche Spyder (James Dean's final ride), but it had a low-hung chassis and spoiler on the trunk and looked sporty/deadly enough to me, especially compared to the one and only car I'd ever driven, a tank-like '63 Studebaker that I'd chosen because it was like getting around the streets inside a building.

The Alero handled beautifully - like getting around the streets in, well, a car - and it wasn't long before I'd made my way out of LA and was cruising the coast road with casual confidence.

I'd been up and down Highway One twice before as a passenger, which was just as well because as a driver I didn't get to see much of it other than fleeting glances in the rear-view mirror and quick flashes to my left before I flicked back to the unfolding tarmac to eyeball oncoming traffic.

"Wow, look at that incredibly beautiful scenery all around us - the majestic redwoods, the breathtaking waterfalls, the rolling mountain ranges, the condors, eagles, whales and seals. The immense sense of life!" a companion might remark to me. To which I'd reply, "Yes, I saw it all a few years ago and I remember it well."

Stopping in the small, mountain-nestled town of San Luis Obispo on a Thursday night was a great idea. The main drag, Higuera Street, is traffic-free and in its place appears a farmers' market offering fine local produce such as fruit and vegetables, home-made pies and ciders.

Most appealing to me was the variety of outdoor barbecue vendors, which had my mouth not so much watering as flooding in anticipation of the smoky, Flintstones-sized beef ribs, huge hamburgers, chicken wings and kebabs. The teams of barbecuers get very physically involved in their work, screaming out each order as it comes in, thereby shaming the hungry visitor whose eyes may be somewhat larger than his stomach.

This being a college town, Thursday nights are a weekly six-block party - one I'd like to attend more often. Although you might want to throw your clothes into a washing machine immediately after leaving.

Hearst Castle is an easy 90-minute drive from San Luis Obispo and well worth visiting on the way to Monterey, a very pleasant final stopover before San Francisco. Lovers of all things Steinbeck will be thrilled by a walk along Cannery Row; seafood fans can slurp endless free samples of chowder on offer up and down the pier; and people who enjoy the close proximity of monkeys can shake the hand of a Capuchin named Goofy, who is often found by the seafront charging a quarter for the privilege. You can also have your picture taken with Goofy for a dollar. It's a buck very well spent - believe me. Again, though, you kind of want to wash your clothes straight after.

Despite the ribs from Thursday I was still hungry when I got into San Francisco. And boy, did I come to the right place. Apart from being a very beautiful city - it's home to the best skyscraper in the US, the Transamerica Pyramid - and pleasingly small compared with LA, San Francisco's restaurants are the best in America. I started eating right away and didn't stop for several days.

The finest fine dining experience of my life (so far) was at the Ritz-Carlton's dining room. At the risk of advertorialising, this was outstanding contemporary French cuisine in an elegant atmosphere and impeccable service from a phalanx of friendly and incredibly knowledgeable staff. If I was the King of California forever instead of just a week, I would rule my kingdom from that spot at the top of Nob Hill.

As it was I spent an all-too-short seven hours there eating and drinking the best I've ever eaten and drunk. Champagne by the glass from an antique cart, a fine selection of digestifs, a truly mouth-watering menu that put a neat, modern spin on old classics - not unlike the city itself.

San Francisco is like a little bit of Europe plonked down in the New World: charming yet slightly brash; there's sophistication and sleaze; it's ultra-modern, confident and rich (late 1990s dot.boom), yet there's plenty of poverty and desperation (dot.bomb 2001).

In a small city, with so many different and distinct neighbourhoods nestling cheek by jowl, you can see equal measures of everything just by walking. Take the historic Barbary Coast trail, cross (or just stare at) Golden Gate Bridge, visit Alcatraz, give out your spare change around Haight-Ashbury or the Tenderloin, sample free chowder at the many fishy restaurants around Fisherman's Wharf, or take a trolley car up and down some steep hills.

Due to my rapidly expanding waistline, I took a long walk through funky North Beach up to Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill. Because of the aforementioned waistline, the plod-footed struggle up stairs and steps and hills and inclines to the beautiful, shady gardens on the hill almost killed me. (I knew that if I lived in San Francisco I'd have to give up smoking. California is good for your health.)

With great relief I took a lift to the top of the tower, from which I enjoyed fantastic 360-degree views of the city, the bay and the glittering blue Pacific. It was there, too, that I began to wonder, where would I prefer to live, which for me was best - San Francisco or Los Angeles? I couldn't decide and came back down to earth for a post-coital cigarette and concluded, after much huffing and puffing, that wherever you were at the time was probably the best place to be.

Looking back months later, I find myself in agreement with that thought but cannot help wishing that I was not here, that I was back there in either city wondering if I'd rather be in the other, or perhaps somewhere in between.

Isn't it nice that the people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there?

Herb Caen, US columnist.

Meeting the People - 1

I approached a female security guard at her post outside the entrance to the Kodak Theatre and asked her if this was where the Oscars would be held in a few days. "Academy Awards," she corrected me.

"But they're the same thing, right?"

"No, they're not."

"What's the difference?"

Her fingertips danced across the top of her truncheon as she told me that she didn't know the difference, only that they were not the same thing.

Meeting the People - 2

In dire contrast to the majority of greeters, servers, hostesses, waitresses and busboys in California who are eager to learn your name, ask if you need anything and then proclaim any response to either inquiry as "awesome", a brutal waitressing experience at Nate & Al's deli in Beverly Hills showed me that anyone in search of a little "New York City attitude" did not have to travel 3000 miles to find it.

All you need to do is be vague when ordering fried eggs: "Well how do you want your eggs? Over? Sunny? Medium? Well? And you don't want anything on the side? No hash browns? No tomatoes? Nothing? Jeez, all right I'll do it a la carte for ya then."

Or try to catch her eye in pursuit of the check: "Yeah, yeah I know! I see ya! I'll be back in a minnit!"

Of course this being LA, she could very well have been an actress researching a role. If so, she should get the part.

California's best: The best hot-dog in California can be found at a neat little French bistro called the Butler and the Chef, 155A South Park, San Francisco. A giant beef dog in a warm baguette with mustard and cornichons - quelle plaisir.

The best tree is the Lone Cypress, on the famous Seventeen Mile Drive just outside Monterey. If you're in the neighbourhood, drop by and visit the 250-year-old tree. It's a pleasant 90-minute drive and, as the name implies, he's lonely.

The best power lunch is in the dining room at Regent Beverly-Wilshire Hotel, which has a superb business lunch, attracting hot-shots from nearby talent agencies CAA, ICM and William Morris Agency. They're not famous but they know people who are.

San Francisco's Chinatown is deservedly famous for what might just be the best Chinese food in the world, including China. Lovers of Hunan, Szechuan and Cantonese will be in heaven. The best - and best-priced - dim sum is at New Asia, 772 Pacific Avenue.

The best house in California is the Hearst Castle at San Simeon. It took 30 years and $10 million to build and, among other jaw-dropping features, offers incredible views of the valleys and ocean far below the hill on which the castle is perched. Several different tours take visitors through various parts of the house and grounds. Reservations are recommended: although deceased, Mr Hearst discourages unexpected guests. 

Staying there: In Los Angeles, the Four Seasons at Beverly Hills is an oasis of style and calm and offers the best spa treatments in the city. Seen: Shaquille O'Neal, Robert Duvall, Morgan Freeman, Clive Owen. 

The Regent Beverly Wilshire - an LA landmark, opulent, glamorous, luxurious, stately, sophisticated. And they say LA has no class. Seen in: Pretty Woman. 

In San Francisco, try the Ritz-Carlton. It's worth paying the extra $100 for an upgrade to a Club-level room for a private lounge with continuous complimentary food and beverages. Seen: Robert Duvall (again) and one of the largest collections of single malt scotch in the US. 

The W Hotel. It's dark, it's ultra-groovy and on Thursday nights the lobby turns into a pumping discotheque. If that's not your speed, the views from upper-floor rooms are great.