Mind Your Manners

Australians swear a lot. I didn’t realize this until I spent time in Los Angeles. One gets the impression from films (and certain TV shows, most of which originated on premium cable networks – Showtime, HBO, I’m looking at you) that Americans practically invented swearing, they do it so effing much; maybe they do, but not in LA, not in public, and not like an Aussie. We drop the f-word like a mofo (this is me trying not to swear and instead using cutesy abbreviations). But it’s not just swearing that marks us out as different; it’s also manners. I consider myself to be a polite person, but I rarely begin a question with “may I please”. I more often use tone of voice (and of course my charming accent) and a smile in place of formal good manners. Nobody has accused me of being impolite (yet) so I guess something is working (maybe it’s just that darn cute accent) but sometimes I feel uncouth in the presence of my fellow Angelenos.

Of course, LA is an unusual town in many respects. Because show business is THE business in town, and because success in the business relies so heavily on relationships, everyone is afraid of offending everyone else. Because that douchebag taking 10 minutes to order his coffee just the way he likes it – Large, decaf latte, not too hot, oh do you have almond milk? What, no? Well, do you have Soy Lite? Is it the one without the hormones? Wait, is that your largest size? – might be some hotshot producer you want to read your screenplay, or cast you in his next film, or introduce you to that agent who won’t give you a meeting even though you know the bitch will just LOVE you.


These are personal encounters though. Presenting the best face, face to face. The good manners don’t extend to driving. In fact if you’re too polite on the road, you won’t get anywhere. But we’re anonymous in our cars, safely ensconced behind tinted windows, inside immense urban tanks; running red lights, not bothering to indicate, get the f*@% outta my way a$$hole! OMG, was that Tom Hanks?

Food

Eating out in L.A. is easy.  There is a plethora of eateries, from the hundreds of franchises and fast-food joints to local restaurants, cafes and bars.  And then there's also eateries in other places people like to visit; like cinemas, museums, car dealerships, furniture stores (well, okay, maybe just IKEA).  There appears to be no shortage of food.  In many cases, like the coffee, it is a matter of quantity over quality.  Yes, the servings are huge.  An appetite can be lost merely contemplating the mountain of food on one's plate.  And then there are the sides, they always come with salad or home fries or potato crisps.  And there is usually dipping sauce involved: creamy ranch, tangy blue cheese, ketchup, barbeque, mayonnaise, sweet chili, hot sauce, cheddar, you name it.  They dip fries, corn chips, chicken wings, burritos, tacos, sandwiches (yes, you heard me).  Dippity dip dip dip.  Everything is improved by dipping sauce apparently.  These are the calories people forget to count.

A disturbing thing to note about food in L.A. (and, presumably, in most other parts of the country) is the use of corn syrup as a staple ingredient of, well, pretty much everything.  It's insidious and highly calorific.  Americans have a shocking sweet tooth, even the bread is sweetened (with, you guessed it, high fructose corn syrup).  HFCS replaces cane sugar in most instances, which is probably one of the reasons why familiar brands of chocolate bars taste different here than in Australia.  Hersheys is possibly the most horrible, bland, mouth tacky chocolate I've ever tasted.  Well, it's compound chocolate to begin with, which means there's more sweetener than cocoa in it.  And that sweetener of course is corn syrup.  Bleurgh!  When I buy chocolate from the supermarket, I stick to imported brands such as Lindt.  As for bread, I don't buy that much of it, and when I do I seek out English Muffins from Trader Joe's (a great little grocery store chain that stocks more organic, less chemically-enhanced, and generally delicious food items) or lavash, which is a flatbread (something like Mountain Bread).

Appearances

This is my grand observation of LA, the home of Hollywood, where youth and beauty are idolized and appearances are everything: the beauty is only skin deep, but so is the ugly.  Reviled as a concrete jungle, a desert scarred by freeways on which solo drivers in oversized, traffic-jammed cars shuffle along until, driven mad by automobile claustrophobia, one of them points a semi-automatic out the window and starts shooting, Los Angeles can be hard to like at first glance.  City of Angels?  Are you joking?

There are a lot of beautiful people here, everyone is very conscious of their appearance.  America's obesity crisis is not apparent in LA.  Gyms and nail salons abound, as do hairdressers, tanning studios and teeth whitening products: big hair, tiny bodies, brown skin, white teeth.  The women are very well groomed, paying more attention to the meticulous maintenance of their nails than the average Australian woman.  Wrinkles are removed - don't get me started on botox, that's a whole other rant - and breasts are enhanced.  And then there's Beverly Hills, the grand dame of LA, where the buildings are gilded, the fences are high and the grass is supernaturally green.  Only skin deep.

Meanwhile, much of LA itself comprises nondescript concrete boxes, hunkered down against the dust and blistering sun.  But enter one of these establishments and discover a whole new world.  It's like walking onto a film set; from the outside it looks like another ugly concrete-rendered box, but inside it looks twice as big and you could be anywhere in the world, from Mexico to Morocco.  Similarly, driving into the city from LAX, or strolling along the Boulevard of Stars, your sparkly idea of Hollywood glamor may be tarnished.  And unless you have a guide to show you around or drive you from one side of town to the other, you may very well miss the natural beauty of Griffith Park, the spectacular architecture of (and even more spectacular view from) the Getty Museum, and the peaceful greenery of walking tracks in the Hollywood Hills. 

Yes, there is much in LA - both beautiful and ugly - that is superficial, but that's not all bad.

Accent

Work it, baby.  Americans love the Australian accent - although they can't always distinguish it from British or South African dialects - and there appears to be no shortage of us in Los Angeles.  You can hear it in cafes, bars (both behind and in front of), yoga studios, supermarkets and auditions (of course).  Naturally, if you're in LA to seek work as an actor it is essential to cultivate a flawless Standard American accent.  Most of the available work - paid and unpaid - will require it and it's a common recommendation to walk into an audition speaking American.  They'll assume you're American anyway, so don't give them a reason to listen for anything else.  But don't lose your Aussie twang; for a start, it's one of the more difficult English-speaking accents to imitate (especially for Americans, the Brits do a better job), but perhaps more usefully, you'll make friends more easily and get free stuff.  That's right, you heard me.

Ply your natural asset - yes, I'm still talking about the accent - and watch shopkeepers, bartenders and even law enforcement soften at the sound of your lovely, lilting diphthongs.  "I love your accent," they aver, grinning.  I've been offered free drinks, free personal training and free postage; discounted copying services, rent reduction and a cheap wedding (okay, I made that one up).  There may have been other factors at work in these instances (such as my ethereal beauty and pheromone-engineered perfume) but I believe my accent sealed the deal.

And don't get all impatient and annoyed at being mistaken for British, they're trying to pay you a compliment most of the time, so be gracious about it.  You'll soon find yourself in a pleasant conversation wherein they share their own stories about travelling to Australia (or someone they know who did) and what wonderful things they experienced (or heard about) and how cool and funny and friendly Aussies are, and before you know it you've exchanged cards or scored yourself a freebie.  At the very least you've been given a smile and that's nothing to frown at.

Driving

It is possible to get around LA without a car; there is an extensive bus network, an adorable little metro system and even an increasing number of bicycle routes/dedicated lanes.  But who are we kidding?  Los Angeles is a car town; it's big, very spread out and most of the time really hot.  Sure, you can eschew owning a vehicle, tuck yourself away in one corner, living near your workplace, a short walk from the supermarket and the local coffee shop - and indeed your corner might be perfectly lovely and satisfy your every need, in which case congratulations! - but you're effectively cutting yourself off from the rest of LA where there are lots of other lovely spots in between the freeways which twist and swoop and tangle around each other like horny concrete snakes.  The reality for most of us is we will have to get our hands on a car and learn how to drive, LA-style. 

For Aussies (and Kiwis, Brits, Irish and assorted other - mostly Pacific Island - nations) that means learning how to drive on the right/wrong side of the road.  This will mess with your head a bit, but it's amazing how quickly you adapt.  Watch out for those left and right turns, though.  And roundabouts - although they don't seem to exist in Southern California.  Once right-side driving becomes second nature, you'll start to notice how badly Angelenos drive.  For a start, nobody uses their indicators.  And if by random chance they do, they fail to notice if it doesn't switch off automatically and continue merrily blinking away for miles.  I've seen a car on the freeway, left indicator blinking, change into the right-hand lane.  Brilliant.  Especially on a busy freeway.  And watch out if it rains; this glorious gift of mother nature is received so rarely in LA that it completely freaks drivers out when it happens.  Suddenly they are slow and hesitant and startle more easily. 

The other thing that freaks LA drivers out is pedestrians.  Before I started driving - and was therefore more often a pedestrian - I marvelled at how promptly cars would stop if I looked like I was going to step out onto the road.  Was this due to my preternatural beauty, I wondered?  When I sat for my Californian driver's license, I learned that yielding to pedestrians is absolutely drummed into drivers.  Very sensible, and in principle no different to any other country I'm sure.  But it has engendered a kind of stupid pedestrian.  In most busy cities, where public transport is more efficient and city planning encourages pedestrian traffic, the average man on the street knows how to cross it with his eyes open, aware of moving vehicles and able to time his passage safely with minimal disruption to traffic flow.  Not so in LA.  Pedestrians here walk around in a child-like bubble, seemingly unaware - or cockily unmindful - of the cars around them.  You will most often encounter these blessed fools in parking lots, meandering through at a snail's pace, stopping to have a conversation in the middle of a lane, then abandoning their shopping cart just wherever (two wheels hitched up on a nature strip, or gently rolling into the next parking bay).  So in the end you can't blame drivers for being freaked out by pedestrians.

One last broad generalisation about LA drivers: they can't park.  I blame two things.  No, three.  Firstly, it is not a requirement when you sit your driver's test to execute a reverse parking manoeuvre.  If you don't need it to pass the test, you don't learn it, right?  Secondly, the cars are so flipping huge it's like trying to park a shed.  Thirdly, the preponderance of valet parking means in many cases you can get away with not parking your vehicle at all; just pull up, hand over the keys and make sure you have a few extra bills for the tip when you collect it.

If you've been driving without incident in your home town, navigating highways, freeways and one-way streets, and reversing nimbly into narrow parking spots, you'll do just fine in LA.

Coffee

It is an unfortunate truth that the average American has no idea what good coffee is.  Oh, they talk about it a lot, drink it in vast quantities - free refills, anyone? - but what they are drinking amounts to insipid, coffee-flavoured dishwater.  We can thank Starbucks for introducing the notion of espresso into American consumer consciousness, and despite all evidence to the contrary it is still regarded by many as The Best.  Well, it is espresso, which puts it automatically ahead of drip-filter banality, but it is a nasty brew nonetheless; stale, acrid and soulless.  No wonder everyone adds syrup, cream and extra froth.  An Australian visiting - or relocating to - the busy, multi-cultural city of Los Angeles, could be forgiven for expecting a half-decent coffee at their hotel or local cafe but will usually be disappointed and frustrated.

Despair not!  Coffee appreciation in LA is spreading thanks to the ever-increasing numbers of interstate and international immigrants.  With a sturdy heart and intrepid spirit, the Aussie will soon discover a reliable espresso dispensary.  I can personally recommend M Street Coffee, Aroma cafe and Priscilla's (all in the San Fernando Valley), Blu Jam in West Hollywood and Square One near Los Feliz.  Doubtless there are more gems to be found, which should serve as encouragement in the face of what remains a majority of caffeine crapness.

Another survival technique is to make your own brew at home.  French presses (such as Bodum and its ilk) can be purchased at Starbucks, or your local homeware store (you might even get lucky at a 99 Cent store) and even good old fashioned Italian stovetop espresso pots can be found with a bit of luck and persistence.  An abundance of coffee can be bought to fill your pot at supermarkets, but for the Aussie coffee connoisseur, head to a proper coffee roaster like The Supreme Bean in North Hollywood or Jones in Pasadena, where the aroma of freshly roasted beans will have you swooning in seconds, and giddily buying a pound of brown bliss.