In Search of the Essential Los Angeles

Think back to the early 1980s. A Russian scientist is sharing dinner with some American colleagues at an outpost in Antarctica. Several of these colleagues happen to come from Los Angeles.

For two weeks the scientists have been sequestered at the outpost, advising their respective diplomats on treaty negotiations. Now the meetings are over and a celebratory bottle of cognac has been produced. But the Russian is brooding. He has a problem.

It seems that his flight home to Moscow will include a layover in Los Angeles. He is much excited over this prospect. All his life he has heard about Hollywood and the movie stars and the palm trees. And he may never have another chance to see the city.

The problem is this: The layover will give him only eight hours.

Where should he go? What should he see?

This little scene did, in fact, take place. For reasons that are now hard to explain, I was sitting at that table. As the Russian posed his question, local pride swelled in all of us from Los Angeles and we leaped to solve his dilemma.

Rodeo Drive, said one of the scientists. He was hoping, I am sure, to dazzle the Ruskie with Rodeo’s feast of consumption.

This idea was met with boos. Too obvious. Someone else suggested a lunch at Nate ‘n’ Al’s. That would put the Russian in the vicinity of Rodeo but also expose him to the essential schmoozing of the district.

Then there was a debate over Venice Beach. Some argued that VB offered a one-shot view of all that is remarkable about L.A. “He’ll love the dwarfs,” I remember somebody saying.

Actually, I thought he would love the dwarfs, too. He was that kind of Russian. But there were a number of anti-VBers at the table who regarded Venice as depressing. Let’s spare him Venice and send him to a decent surfing beach, they said. As I recall, the beach of choice was Zuma. You understand, this was before people were getting stabbed with some regularity at Zuma.

We kept going with our list, lapsing finally into the typical advice: Drive down Wilshire Blvd. from the beach to downtown. Check out the Hollywood sign. Drive back to the beach along Sunset.

Through all this, the Russian was taking notes and nodding his head. Wilshire, yes, he had it written down. Hollywood sign, yes. Dwarfs, yes. I watched him and realized suddenly that we had failed. Our list did not add up to anything much. We were going to produce one disappointed Russian.

I pictured him wandering through L.A., checking items off his list, peering at the designated icons through the smog. And all the way back to the airport he would keep asking himself, did I miss something? Is that all there is?

The answer, of course, is yes and no.

Ever since, I have thought of this problem as the Russian’s Dilemma. When someone tells me that they are having visitors come here for a day or a week I think to myself, “Aha! Another round of the Russian’s Dilemma.” Then I ask them how they plan to reveal the city to their friends.

You get a lot of answers, some of them very clever. Once someone told me they had purchased a dozen copies of the Maps to the Stars’ Homes and passed them out when people came for a stay. It was like sending them off on a treasure hunt, they said.

Well, maybe. But over the years I have become convinced that there is no real solution to this problem. No one has a list of places in Los Angeles that will unveil the city. Unlike New York or Chicago, Los Angeles essentially is invulnerable to the casual visitor.

Just the other day I read that 26.5 million tourists came to Los Angeles last year. What did all these people do? You figure maybe half spent their time in the theme parks. But that still leaves 13 million.

Thirteen million! That comes to 36,000 people a day, all of them trying to solve the Russian’s Dilemma. Trying to cruise around this city and understand why it is something other an overgrown Minneapolis.

I am willing to admit that one of these pilgrims may have solved the problem. The eternal flow of tourists into L.A. is something akin to putting a million monkeys to work at a million typewriters and waiting to see if one of them produces “Hamlet” word for word.

As I say, it’s possible. Not likely, but possible. If one them truly has pulled it off, maybe they will be so good as to forward their list to me. In writing, of course.

And I, in turn, will send it to my Russian scientist. Who knows, he may get another chance at L.A. someday.