🌴 We went to LA for paperwork and accidentally had a vacation
Los Angeles, California
There are trips you plan because you are craving adventure.
And then there are trips you plan because a French administrative office tells you, politely but firmly, that if you want to move a very important life thing forward, you need to show up in person.
This was the second kind.
We had an appointment at the French consulate in Los Angeles. I will spare you the details because the internet does not need to know every piece of my paperwork life, but let’s just say it was important enough that we booked flights and tried very hard to pretend this was not a serious trip.
Because yes, technically we were going to LA for an appointment. But also, Alizée and I never miss an opportunity for good LA vibes and sun. If bureaucracy wants to happen near Venice Beach, who are we to argue?
No van, no Louie, very small luggage
This was not a van trip.
Quick meant flying. Flying meant backpacks only: flip-flops, bathing suits, sunglasses, sunscreen. And flying also meant Louie had to stay behind with Syd, which made the house feel immediately wrong, the way it does when the smallest member of the family is somehow also the largest emotional presence in the room.
Alizée packed flight snacks with the seriousness of a person preparing for a small expedition: hard-boiled eggs and homemade ghraybeh cookies she had made for Syd.
Ghraybeh, if you don’t know, are delicate Lebanese butter cookies that look innocent until you eat one and realize butter, sugar, and flour have been quietly conspiring this whole time.
Miam.
Our flight was at 10am. TSA PreCheck did its magic. We boarded. We landed at LAX. So far, very adult. Very efficient. Very “look at us handling logistics.”
Naturally, this maturity did not last very long.
The Corolla that never was
I had booked the most basic rental car possible from SIXT.
And to their credit, they delivered exactly what I paid for: a white Toyota Corolla.
Nothing wrong with a Corolla. A Corolla is responsible. A Corolla files taxes early. A Corolla has dental insurance.
But as we walked toward it, we noticed what was parked right next to it.
A MINI Cooper.
Now, for context, Alizée and I owned a MINI about fifteen years ago. Small, impractical in charming ways, peppy, zippy, vaguely ridiculous. The kind of car that makes every errand feel like you are starring in a tiny European chase scene.
We saw it at the same time.
No words needed.
I looked at Alizée and said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She knew exactly what I was doing.
I went back to the counter and asked if we could switch cars. Somehow, blessed be the rental-car gods, they said yes.
When I walked back out with the kind of smile that is impossible to hide, Alizée was already walking toward me.
We had scored the MINI.
Suddenly this was no longer a consulate trip. This was a date trip. Same appointment, different soundtrack.
LA, compressed
First stop: Gjusta in Venice.
Every trip to LA seems to involve Gjusta for us. That has been true for roughly ten years, which means it is no longer a choice. It is a ritual. We land, we get ourselves pointed toward Venice, and eventually we find ourselves holding a number, scanning the counter, pretending we are going to be reasonable.
Self-control? Ma fi.
This time we had a spinach and fennel salad and an Americano banh mi. Both delicious. The salad made us feel like we were healthy people. The sandwich did the actual emotional labor.
Gjusta is right near the famous Gold’s Gym that everyone takes pictures of, so after lunch we did the classic Venice loop: beach, skate park, Muscle Beach, people-watching, the whole thing. LA was doing its LA thing. Sun everywhere. Everyone somehow dressed like they either just left a workout, were about to enter a workout, or had turned “casual coffee” into a brand identity.
Then we stopped at Menotti’s for coffee.
Hot tip: if you go, look for the secret menu on the back of the framed portrait near the ordering counter. I had the Little Gee, which had espresso, oat milk, honey, and other things I do not remember because my brain stopped taking notes after “cold and delicious.”
Perfect hot-afternoon drink.
From there we kept walking toward Abbot Kinney. We did not go to Erewhon because I am, spiritually and financially, a frugal man. But right next door there is Levain Bakery, which is originally from New York and makes cookies that appear to have been engineered in a lab for maximum human weakness.
We split the walnut dark chocolate chip.
Very good.
If you are visiting LA and want a nice, easy loop with snacks and coffee along the way, Venice to Abbot Kinney is a good one. Gjusta, Menotti’s, Levain Bakery, wandering, people-watching. Done. One thing we skipped this time because we were full: Abbot’s Pizza. Simple, no-frills slices. Worth adding if your stomach is less dramatic than ours.
The Airbnb that deserves its own story
Eventually we had to drive to our Airbnb in West Hills.
I almost don’t want to talk about this place because it is one of those rare rentals that feels too good to share with strangers on the internet, but also the hosts are so lovely that I want good people to find them.
It is not in the heart of LA, so you need a car. This is not a “walk to everything” situation. This is a “drive up into the hills and then immediately understand why you came” situation.
The place has a view.
It has a pool.
It has calm.
And every time we go, it is somehow better than we remember.
The hosts, Marilyn and Elena, are warm and welcoming. The place is pristine, but not in a sterile way. It is full of small touches that make you feel cared for without anyone announcing that you are being cared for. Water and sodas in the fridge. Coffee pods. Oatmeal. The kind of details that make you open a cabinet and go, “Oh. They thought of that too.”
We spent part of the evening catching up with Elena, Marilyn, and their friends, chatting about life and what brought us to LA. It was easy and human and exactly the kind of thing that turns a place you rent into a place you remember.
Dinner that night was picnic-style: bread from Gjusta, canned fish, and harissa.
If you read the last story, you know harissa has been having a moment in our household. Apparently now it travels with us emotionally, if not physically.
The serious appointment, unserious outfits
The next morning was the big appointment.
Important.
Official.
French.
Naturally, I showed up in shorts and a T-shirt.
Alizée wore a short white dress.
Thank goodness I was not wearing flip-flops.
There is something deeply funny about walking into a serious government appointment dressed like you are about to order an iced coffee and wander toward a pool. But this is also one of the things I love about LA. You can be doing something extremely important and still look like you are ten minutes away from sunscreen.
The appointment went well.
Longer than expected, but not because anything went wrong. Quite the opposite. We had a great conversation with the person managing our appointment, and what started formal slowly loosened into something more personal.
We kept talking.
And talking.
And then eventually we realized the consulate was closing for lunch.
Because, yes, French culture.
We did not just have an appointment at the consulate.
We closed the consulate.
I don’t know if that goes on a résumé, but it should.
Julien, because friendship is also an itinerary
Afterward, we met our friend Julien for lunch at Zinqué in Westfield Century City, right next to the consulate.
Julien is not just a friend in LA. He is part of the origin story. It is thanks to him that Alizée and I randomly met sixteen years ago, which means every time we see him there is this funny little invisible thread running through the conversation: none of this would exist quite the same way without you.
No pressure, Julien.
We caught up with him, his wife (Tanya), and their daughter. Talked life. Took a picture.
Then, we did the inevitable Eataly stop (still at Westfield Century City) because focaccia exists and we are not made of stone.
Scent Bar and becoming perfume people
On the way back toward West Hills, Alizée wanted to stop at a perfume shop.
I will admit something: I am not naturally a “let’s go smell things” person. I like food smells. Coffee smells. Fresh bread. A cedar sauna. The inside of a new notebook. But perfume stores can overwhelm me quickly. After three sprays, my nose resigns.
👃 Scent Bar was different.
The shop imports perfumes that are hard to find elsewhere in the U.S., but what I loved most was how they organize everything. Not by brand, which is how most perfume stores work and which requires you to already know what you are doing. They organize by scent.
This makes so much more sense.
Woody. Floral. Smoky. Citrus. Whatever universe your nose wants to live in, you can start there.
It turns perfume shopping into an actual experience instead of a test you forgot to study for. Even if you are not a perfume person, it is worth a visit. And who knows, maybe it turns you into one.
We hit Trader Joe’s on the way home. Cheese, ham, radishes.
Back at the Airbnb: quick swim, then a romantic dinner surrounded by mosquitoes and citronella candles.
Nothing says romance like aggressively defending your ankles while eating cheese.
The delay we deserved
On Thursday morning, we woke up to a text from Delta.
Our flight was delayed.
Normally, this is when your travel soul leaves your body for a moment. But this time?
Beautiful.
A delay meant more time in sunny LA.
We took the gift exactly as the universe intended: by doing almost nothing.
Pool.
Sun.
Coffee.
Floating.
This was the moment that inspired Alizée’s illustration for the trip, now available as an art print in her shop: me on a buoy, coffee in one hand, croissant in the other, living a level of leisure I absolutely had not earned but fully accepted.
There are images that summarize a trip better than any itinerary. This was the image. Not the consulate. Not the food stops. Not even the MINI.
Just a man floating in a pool, trying to balance caffeine, pastry, and dignity.
(hang it on your walls, or gift it to someone who would enjoy it)
Fruit bowl diplomacy
Later, I messaged my friend Alex, who invited us over for afternoon coffee and fruit at his place in Santa Monica.
And yes, I said fruit.
Not “come over for coffee.”
Not “let’s grab a drink.”
Fruit.
Alex is a foodie in the truest sense. His work involves finding and investing in groundbreaking innovations related to food and agriculture, so when he says the fruit is worth coming over for, you listen.
To get there, we drove through Topanga Canyon in the MINI, and this is when I discovered that newer MINIs have something called “Go Kart” mode.
Go Kart mode.
Whoever named that feature deserves a raise. It is not subtle. It does not pretend to be mature. It tells you exactly what kind of behavior it is encouraging.
Ultimate fun.
At Alex’s place, we caught up after a few years and talked world politics, work, food, life, all of it. And then the fruit came out.
Peaches and apricots.
Arguably the best we had ever had.
Apparently people line up for an hour and a half at the local market for these fruits, which sounds ridiculous until you taste them and immediately start wondering whether you too would become a person who lines up for fruit.
I respect it now.
The airport keeps moving away
Eventually we had to leave for the airport.
We were running late, because of course we were. But then, as if the travel gods were still in a generous mood, another Delta text arrived.
Delayed again.
At this point, the delay had become a co-conspirator.
So we did what any reasonable people would do with unexpected bonus time before a late flight: Trader Joe’s.
We bought travel snacks, chips, guacamole, and something labeled balila, which had nothing to do with real Lebanese balila. It was basically a pseudo chickpea salad. C-minus. Maybe a C+ if I was very hungry and emotionally generous.
But it did the job.
Hunger hole sealed.
We flew home and made it back around 1am.
Bed.
Glorious bed.
There is nothing like coming home to your own bed after travel, even when the trip was beautiful. Especially when the trip was beautiful.
The next morning, we picked up Louie.
As always, he reacted as if we had been separated for several years and had only narrowly survived the emotional devastation.
Three days, three weeks, three hours, it does not matter. Louie’s reunion scale has no moderate setting.
He was thrilled.
We were thrilled.
Back to work.
Back to real life.
But with a little LA sun still stuck to us.
A few LA notes worth keeping
If you are planning a quick LA escape, especially one where you need a car, here are the bits I would repeat:
Rent the fun car if the opportunity appears. A basic car will get you there. A MINI will make the getting-there part feel like part of the trip.
Do the Venice / Abbot Kinney loop. Gjusta, Menotti’s, Levain, beach walk, people-watching. Easy, snack-heavy, no overplanning required.
Look for the secret menu at Menotti’s. It is on the back of the framed portrait near the counter.
Westfield Century City is useful. Especially if you are near the French consulate. Zinqué and Eataly made it an easy post-appointment landing zone.
Scent Bar is worth it, even if you are not a perfume person. Organizing by scent instead of brand should be the law.
West Hills works if you want quiet. You need a car, but the right Airbnb gives you pool, view, and breathing room outside the LA core.
If your flight is delayed and you are already by a pool, accept the gift. Sometimes travel chaos is just vacation wearing a fake mustache.
This trip started as paperwork. It ended as three days of sun, snacks, friends, and a MINI Cooper we absolutely did not need but very much deserved.
Not every escape needs to be big.
Sometimes three days is enough.
Sometimes the errand is the excuse.
And sometimes the whole story is just this: we went to LA for a serious appointment, and LA, being LA, refused to let us stay serious for long.
Next week, we are switching modes completely: back in the van, heading north to the Sunshine Coast in BC to escape July 4th fireworks and general sky-boom mayhem, because Louie is getting older and his tolerance for explosions is now firmly set to non.
Yalla, bye.
P.S. Alizée’s LA poster is live
That pool moment, me floating around with coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, is now an original illustration by Alizee Castel. Honestly, it may be the most accurate portrait of my LA state of mind: floating, caffeinated, pastry-powered, and deeply unserious.
The print is available today in Alizée’s shop at alizeecastel.com. If this story made you smile and you want to support both this blog and her work, buying the print is the best possible high-five.
Such a fun blog! Loved it!