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Globe Trekkie

By Mary Melton — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 17:19:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

If you’re looking for an art nouveau apartment on Avenida de Mayo in Buenos Aires, I can tell you approximately how many pesos it will set you back. If you’re curious about how much time is required to scrape down a guy slathered in oil at a men’s spa in Azerbaijan, I’ve got a clue about that, too.

For as long as they’ve been airing, my two favorite TV shows have been House Hunters International and The Amazing Race. I realize that both programs are wildly manipulated and edited to fit the needs of the producers, but I don’t care. Through these shows I see how people live in other countries, which interests me not just because I fancy myself a student of the world, but because I dream of living abroad one day. The idea took root on my first big trip. I was eight years old and so enchanted by Britain during our family’s two-week vacation there that I begged my parents to leave me behind. Across the pond bathrooms were called “loos,” half-timbered buildings with thatched roofs (slept in by Shakespeare, no less) were straight out of a storybook, and ice cream vendors stuck chocolate wafers in vanilla cones. It was exotic and heavenly.

I never did renounce my U.S. citizenship, but my fascination with a life foreign to my own remains. Whenever I’m abroad I end up looking at available real estate as much as I do local landmarks, whether it’s a stilt house in New Zealand’s rain forest or a converted train station in the south of France. Don’t read too much into this: I am not constantly seeking to escape L.A. I love my job, my house, and my proximity to family and friends. But who doesn’t fantasize about chucking it all and taking the leap? Suzanne Rico did just that. She had been an anchorwoman at CBS2, living the superficial life (her words) of a broadcaster when she was suddenly fired. Burned out on L.A., she and her husband packed their bags and circled the globe with their two young boys, an adventure she recounts in this issue. It took being far from home for her to better understand—and appreciate—what she’d left behind.

For me, the desire to leave town for good can strike unexpectedly, like when I merely want to pull my hair out (six cars back in a left-turn lane that’s not moving) or am deeply depressed (after I read about another senseless gang shooting that takes the life of a teenager). In those moments my mind wanders to that decaying colonial in Mérida some woman got for a song in one of my favorite episodes of HHI, or to the time racers boated through the turquoise splendor of Phuket on TAR. Then I remind myself: I already live in one of the world’s most international cities. Even on the best trips, I am relieved to feel the wheels of the plane reconnect me with the ground in L.A.

Just a Little Trim

By Mary Melton — Tue, 18 Sep 2012 07:00:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

Not long ago, when plastic surgery would come up as a topic among my friends, it was solely as a source of derision: “Oh my, have you seen [35-year-old actress’s] lips lately? She’s gone full Joker.” “What’s wrong with [50-year-old athlete]? Suddenly his face is frozen in amber!” It was the freaky celebrity stuff that caught our eye (poolside, sharing the National Enquirer) and demanded immediate commentary. Then something happened: We got older. Those lines that appeared only when we squinted too long or laughed too hard are now staging a permanent sit-in. Those lids that were heavy only after a poor night’s sleep are now weighed down 24/7. The clock is clearly moving forward, and my friends and I have found there is something to admire in a forehead that doesn’t collapse like an accordion-—at least if expertly done.

Our realizations came right on schedule. One of the doctors featured in our package on plastic surgery in this issue says that most women are between 40 and 42 when they first see signs of aging. Good morning, Doc, you got me there. I would have thought the average age would be lower in L.A., where you don’t have to walk (drive?) too far to find someone—female, male, young, old, doesn’t matter—who’s been nipped or tucked. Growing up, I knew a few people who’d had a nose job as teens, often with regrets (“I miss my original nose!”). Now I know folks who talk about their Botox, lipo, or chin implant as easily as they discuss what outrageous thing happened the night before on Breaking Bad. The idea that plastic surgery is limited to the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods is beyond dated. Procedures are cheaper and faster than ever before, and the appeal has reached across cultures. Just as this magazine has examined autism in L.A. and what race means today, we thought it was time to do a deep dive, so to speak, into plastic surgery. How has it evolved, and what will be the long-term effects on your face and body—and society as a whole?

I’ve always hoped I would wear my age gracefully. This was easier to imagine, of course, when I was younger. But I don’t hide my birth date (I’m not competing for roles with Olivia Wilde, so who cares if I’m 43?). Every crevice on my face has a story behind it, and I’m not eager to erase those memories yet. I certainly don’t begrudge those who do. I just advise seekers of eternal youth to keep it within reason, because if they don’t, things can go south quick. But if you can afford it, and it makes you happy, and it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else in the process, so be it. For me, trimming my plants on a cool autumn morning fills that bill, but talk to me again in five years. Or just look at my forehead.

The Core Issue

By Mary Melton — Tue, 21 Aug 2012 22:51:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

I’m a product of the Los Angeles Unified School District. Sounds a bit impersonal, perhaps, but I’m proud to report that the teachers I had in the LAUSD continue to influence my life: Mrs. Brenner got me hooked on learning in kindergarten, Mrs. Peterson helped ignite my passion for history in junior high, Mr. Swinford taught me to read between the lines of my favorite books in high school. Like my dad, who taught drama in the district for nearly three decades, they valued the impact they had on kids’ lives and imaginations, even if it meant longer hours than the job required and a salary that made for only a modest living.

Plenty of teachers in the LAUSD still fit that mold. I know because I see them at my son’s school. It’s a small campus—not overcrowded like most of California’s schools. (The state’s teacher-to-student ratio now ranks 50th in the nation.) His school is run by a dynamo of a principal who doesn’t “magically” find funds when there aren’t any; she works her tail off for every penny. The teachers seem delighted to be there, and the parents don’t balk when asked to build garden beds or run the drop-off valet. It doesn’t take just a great teacher to make a great school; I don’t think it did 25 years ago, either. But with draconian budget cuts it takes a more teeming village than ever before.

The district’s challenges can seem, on the surface, insurmountable. Nearly 80 percent of students live in poverty or slightly above the line; 30 percent haven’t mastered English. Arts and music budgets? Both were decimated by Proposition 13 in 1978, the meat-ax initiative that froze property taxes and depleted funds. Even my archconservative father grimly predicted that Prop. 13 would be “the death of the LAUSD.” It hasn’t died yet—my son’s school and many others prove that—but a number of campuses are on life support.

John Deasy took over the less-than-appealing job of superintendent last year. He’s arguably one of the most charismatic orators L.A. has seen in a long time; his reform program is radical and fast tracked. Deasy has won some powerful followers here, but his pleas for civic investment have been met largely with indifference by those who could most easily tip the scales. What impressed me most when I read the profile of the superintendent in this issue, which writer-at-large Ed Leibowitz (who—full disclosure—happens to be my husband) spent a year reporting, is that Deasy remains stubbornly hopeful that his vision can be realized.

Last month my son declared, “I hate summer.” Why? “Because there’s no school.” He’s been marking off the days on the calendar until he can return to a campus that has done so much with so little. We have to give our schools the opportunity to do so much with more.

Gate Crashing

By Mary Melton — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 19:20:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

Sometimes I wonder where I would be today if I hadn’t gone into journalism. I can see myself as an archaeologist (oh, to uncover a shard of a Grecian urn) or a landscaper (is it obvious I enjoy digging earth?) or a script supervisor (I am detail oriented). This last is especially appealing because it would mean someone would pay me money to spend time on a studio lot. I’ve always been enchanted by these cities within the city. Warner Bros., Sony Pictures, Paramount, 20th Century Fox, Disney, Universal—they are not only our steel mills but our Lands of Oz, emerald cities lorded over by wizards where strange and beautiful visions are realized.

As a teen I gained entry through their gates when my brother Greg, who is a production designer, hired me to help in the art department. I ran errands and schlepped crates for films like Ken Russell’s twisted Crimes of Passion, with Kathleen Turner as a designer by day/hooker by night, and Girls Just Want to Have Fun, a mindless romp with Sarah Jessica Parker and Helen Hunt. For a budding cineast like me, the joy of illusion remained even after I peered behind the wizard’s curtain: How did they make the cheap plywood walls and doorways that led to nowhere look so real on film?

Almost 30 years later, having shunned a showbiz career (the gigs are unreliable, the hours brutal, the shoots too slow for my hyperdrive personality), I still get excited driving by a studio lot, not to mention driving onto one. With their fake streetscapes and gargantuan stages, their overflowing prop houses and storied archives, they are unique to L.A. and represent the best of what we do: fabricate worlds that move and inform a global audience. Once when profiling actress Cynthia Nixon, I arranged to meet her at Warner Bros. in Burbank, where she was filming an episode of ER. I arrived on a pitch-dark morning and was directed by the security guard to Stage 11, only to find no one there. I roamed the ward where George Clooney had performed his Emmy-nominated work; up close the set looked as sophisticated as the Anatevka backdrops I built in high school. I made some toast in the crew’s kitchen. Spinning around on a chair at the nurse’s station, I thought about the millions worldwide who were so invested in this make-believe community. A grip finally appeared who informed me that the call had been pushed back an hour. As I watched the soundstage fill and the magic begin, I traveled to a place where skepticism and doubt couldn’t possibly follow.

In this issue photographer Dan Winters takes us on a rare and in-depth tour of the Warner Bros. back lot, which is coming up on its 90th birthday. Seeing his images of vast spaces that have been transformed over the decades to evoke Casablanca, Camelot, and Jurassic Park reminds me that L.A. is, quite possibly, the most creative place on earth.

Head Over Heels

By Mary Melton — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 18:10:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

Before the summer of 1984, I’d never thought of Los Angeles as a cohesive city. To me it was a series of disconnected neighborhoods: the one I grew up in, the two I went to school in, the ones I had friends in. But that summer, thanks to the design genius of architect Jon Jerde and the organizational vision of businessman Peter Ueberroth, Los Angeles felt whole. The 1984 Summer Olympics were a defining moment for the city. I was 14 then and athletic, and that summer I watched my hometown transform. Bright pastel banners with typography that looked so chic and futuristic hung from every lamppost. I joined groups of strangers at USC Olympic Village to swap collectible pins commemorating the events. I met neighbors I’d never known who came out to greet the torch as it made its way down Burbank Boulevard. It was impossible not to get swept up in the patriotic fervor and be proud of the city for pulling it off.

Looking at the portfolio in this issue of Angelenos poised to compete this summer in London, I was taken back to the heroes I revered in 1984: Mary Lou Retton bouncing perkily across the mat to nail a perfect 10, Michael Jordan leading the Dream Team to gold on the court. Probably because my name is Mary and I was a runner, too, I was rooting for Mary Decker to win the 3,000-meter women’s race and asked my sister to take me to the competition. I’d never been to the Coliseum and was blown away by the spectacle: It was like ancient Rome, only the spectators wore dolphin shorts and espadrilles. Around the race’s 1,600-meter mark, Decker tripped over the foot of runner Zola Budd. In an instant she was flat on the ground, and the gasp of 101,000 of us sucked the air out of the arena. Though it was Decker alone who was crying on the big screen, we all shared her despair.

Then the bunting came down, and everyone retreated to their neighborhoods as the 1990s took their toll. Even a die-hard Angeleno could sense the city was adrift. In this issue’s L.A. Story, actor Elijah Wood, who grew up in the Valley, says that his love affair with L.A. has run hot and cold. But now he feels that the “whole city seems to be reestablishing itself,” and I know what he means. With a revived arts and culture scene and a growing mass transit system (the addition of so many Metro lines is pointing us in the right direction), we’re experiencing the sort of permanent changes that could make Los Angeles a hospitable Olympics host yet again. “It’s an awesome time to be here,” Wood says. He’s right, although we still need a world-class airport; I hope the revived Tom Bradley International Terminal opening next year will inch us closer. Rio has the 2016 Summer Games locked up, and L.A. is out of contention for 2020—but 2024? It could be another golden summer.

The Home Chef

By Mary Melton — Fri, 18 May 2012 19:09:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

My family recently returned from a trip to France. We began in the gorgeous city of Bordeaux, where our nephew, whom we raised, is wrapping up his junior year of college abroad. The wine was, of course, mind-blowing; the baguettes, beautiful (France is hell for the gluten sensitive); the cheeses, pungent and unpasteurized; the products from the farmers’ markets, as tantalizing as any we can buy here. Raised in Los Angeles, however, my nephew confessed that he was suffering from gastronomic monotony; too many croissants and jambon sandwiches bracketed his days. Passing by a Bordeaux restaurant called O Fajitas, he winced at the memory of a meal there. By the time we reached Paris at the end of our trip, I understood what he meant. The French have mastered the art of cooking but not of cheap eats. We did enjoy one unforgettable pastrami sandwich and some more than decent falafel in the historic Marais district, but it’s difficult to find good pizza, let alone acceptable Chinese food, in the world’s culinary capital. One evening we stopped for dinner at a packed Thai restaurant in the 4th arrondissement. We heard diners ooh-la-la-ing over their meals while we looked at each other and said, meh. The bill was in the three figures, and the food couldn’t compare with even the smallest hole-in-the-wall in East Hollywood’s Thai Town.

In so many American cities cheap eats are limited to Kentucky Fried Chicken or Burger King, but in L.A. a profusion of restaurants run by families steeped in the cooking traditions of their homelands—be it northwestern Azerbaijan or the Shaanxi province—overwhelms the chains. As a culinary adventure, France may be amazing, but ultimately it can be mapped out as predictably as a Rick Steves guidebook. The tiny ethnic restaurants, burger joints, and food trucks that dot our archipelago are harder to pinpoint. In this issue we highlight our favorites in “101 Cheap Eats.” I’m guessing you haven’t heard of many of the places—I sure hadn’t. Seeking out these dining experiences is one of the easiest, most economical ways to explore the city. Going to that Bolivian place in Van Nuys may nudge you not only into an unfamiliar cuisine but into a neighborhood you’ve never visited, which is almost always a good thing.

I know one person who’ll be using our list. After his first semester abroad, we picked up my nephew at Christmas from LAX. As we barreled down the Century Freeway, I called his favorite Mexican spot to order him a ginormous burrito. He ran inside and returned to the car, clutching it like a football and grinning like a little kid. In line in front of him, he said, was Zack de la Rocha from Rage Against the Machine. An awesome burrito and a rock star sighting, too. Man, was he ever glad to be home.

Park & Ride

By Mary Melton — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 17:36:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

Has there ever been as much chatter about the future of public transit as there is now? We are fed up with traffic. You don’t have to be 80 to say, “It’s so much worse now.” You can be 25 and get away with it. The city has grown up, not out, over the last decade. The U.S. Census Bureau just declared the Los Angeles-Long Beach-Anaheim region to be the most densely packed urban area in America; we’ve got up to 7,000 people in each square mile. That’s not going to improve, and our infrastructure has been stretched to its limits keeping up. The mayor is pushing for passage of a transportation bill that could fund his 30/10 plan (squeezing 30 years’ worth of mass transit projects into 10). If the bill doesn’t win approval, we’ll still get a subway to the sea, but the first time I will be able to ride it will be when I am 67 years old: It’s projected to open in 2036.

In the meantime I’ll be hopping on the Expo Line, which is scheduled to kick off phase one from downtown to La Cienega on April 28 and will bring lightrail back to the Westside after a 50-year-plus absence. If all goes as planned, the next phase will reach Santa Monica by 2015, news that Anne Taylor Fleming welcomes in her Open City column this month. Anne has lived on that side of town her entire life and now finds gridlock so paralyzing, she is willing to forsake her car—something she never imagined she’d do—and ride the Expo Line. For me, it won’t be as novel an experience.

I take lightrail on weekend jaunts, and whenever I can, I board the bus to work. I’m fortunate that it’s a choice, not a necessity, for me to ride the bus, and I’m doubly lucky that there’s an express route from my home to my office with no transfers. The trip takes an hour, only a few more minutes than my 13-mile drive. Saving gas money and reducing that dreaded carbon footprint are reasons enough to ride, but the bus fulfills something else: Once inside, I’m overcome with a feeling of surrender. The onus is no longer on me to find a clever shortcut. Whether I arrive early, late, or on time is beyond my control.

Public transit provides one of the few ways to immerse oneself in a collective experience with total strangers. We read one another’s faces, we reconstruct one another’s lives through shreds of overheard conversations. I am not romanticizing bus travel: You will never mistake the seats for overstock at a Relax the Back store, and you will inevitably encounter people who are clearly mentally ill. But that is not the norm. If you’re open, you’ll be more likely to bond over a rad hat or a cute baby. You can’t help but know the city better on the bus, even if you’ve retreated into your iPod or that article you’d hoped to read someday. Every time I ride, I see L.A. differently. It makes me a better editor and a better Angeleno. Definitely a more involved one.

True Colors

By Mary Melton — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 16:57:00 GMT

Photograph by Bill Brown

I’m guessing that the cover of the magazine caught your attention. We needed to immediately convey that this isn’t a typical issue. This month marks the 20th anniversary of the 1992 riots, and we’ve been thinking hard about how to acknowledge that. We wanted to explain the factors (for those who were here and those who were not) that led to the uprising, to assess where matters stand regarding race relations and the progress we’ve made since then. But how do you get your arms around such a big, complicated topic—the most complicated I’ve tackled at the magazine—that is impossible to sum up with any one piece? It required a multiplicity of perspectives, which is why we devoted the feature section of this issue to the question: What does race mean in Los Angeles?

We look backward with writer and NPR commentator John Ridley, who brilliantly contextualizes the L.A. of 1992, and we learn the stories of six people who were changed by the riots. We look at the city today, exploring through essays how diversity has long been a source of fear and inspiration here (you can test your own cultural competency with our quiz). And we look at the city of tomorrow, hearing from six multiracial students born in 1992 about how race does and doesn’t define them.

Which brings me back to the cover. We didn’t want it to just catch your eye; we wanted it to make a statement, too, and if there’s an undercurrent to this issue it is this: The city has a different complexion than it did 20 years ago. It is more Latino and less white, more Asian and less black. It is also much more of a blend, and that ever-expanding group inspired us to produce three different covers for this issue, each a portrait of an Angeleno born to a mixed-race couple (go to page 10 to view the complete set). I see in each of their faces the future of L.A.

What divides us also unites us and can be our greatest strength. My belief in this may have its roots in my childhood, when I was growing up in the Valley and my best friend was a Japanese girl named Enna. We spent so much time with one another’s families that strangers asked whether we were adopted. Remember, it wasn’t all that common in the late 1970s to see an Asian family teach a white girl how to use chopsticks at a Korean barbecue or, in turn, for a white family to bring a Japanese girl to a Mexican restaurant. For Enna and me, being exposed to the other’s culture didn’t create distance; it fueled our curiosity. Merely understanding cultures won’t make up for the higher rates of unemployment and the substandard schools and living conditions that can cause a city to combust. But the more we learn about one another, the more progress will be made in bridging the gaps, and facilitating that learning is one of my missions as the editor of this magazine.

Almost There

By Mary Melton — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 18:10:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

My New Year’s resolutions, like most people’s, have been hampered by a persistent lack of resolve. This year I had a great workout on January 1, complete with a weight-lifting circuit and enough time on the bike to wake up my quads. I felt like I always do after I exercise: exhilarated, alive. I made a grand plan to work out every day this year. The next morning I was off and running. The morning after that I was hitting the snooze button.

One of the advantages to living in Los Angeles is that each day holds the promise of a fresh start, no matter the month. Just look outside: This city is a playground, and thanks to our near-perfect weather, that playground is almost always beckoning. You miss a workout, no big deal; tomorrow it will probably be beautiful. Open the door and get moving. In this issue we encourage you to do just that, offering tips on biking and running in L.A. Like the magazine’s earlier stories on hikes or places to walk, this one is as much about exploring the city as it is about getting fit. L.A. looks different when you’re pedaling a road bike or running along an arroyo. You hear the birds; you smell the blooming sage. We scouted mountain trails that will get your heart pumping (and spotted some deer along the way); we also traveled flat stretches in the Valley that are a breeze. In case you’re reluctant to go it alone, we recommend clubs where you can make friends with like-minded folks at your level. I was a runner many years ago, and I’m determined to turn my walks around the Rose Bowl into jogs, aided by advice in this issue.

That was the resolution I came to looking down on the stadium during a recent hike. It was right after a rain, when the sky looks as if it has been scrubbed with a Magic Eraser. That morning the steep San Gabriels were calling. My son has become, at seven, quite the intrepid hiker, so I packed him into the car, along with energy bars, bananas, a solar blanket, and a few gallons of water (read our story in this issue about a man who survived six days in the desert and you’ll understand). We ascended San Gabriel Peak from a trailhead off Mount Wilson Road, my son’s skinny frame leading the charge through pine forests. We encountered mountain bikers and a few fit college girls sprinting past (show-offs). My son learned the word switchback. Charred trunks led to a discussion about fires and a mouse carcass to meditations on death and how long we live. Up we went until we reached the 6,161-foot peak. The 360-degree panorama stretched from the San Jacintos above Palm Springs to a gleaming Catalina Island to the southern tip of the Sierra. L.A. looked different from up there, so big and yet so small, so very quiet. I resolved that my son and I would tackle every peak in L.A. this year. And if it’s left up to him, that may actually happen.

The Wind War

By Mary Melton — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 18:28:00 GMT

Illustration by Bill Brown

My drive home on the Night of the Winds, as I have come to call that evening late last year when all hell broke loose in the sky, started off placidly enough. The Santa Anas were predicted to unleash a ferocious howl, so I was prepared—I thought—for what was to come. Of course I hate the winds when they fuel raging wildfires or flip a big rig over on the freeway, but I find a perverse excitement in their otherworldly cries. I could not have dreamed how much this particular gust would change the canopy of L.A.

That night we were on deadline at the magazine, and I left the office exceptionally late. It was breezy but hardly dramatic. Halfway home to Eagle Rock I was wondering, False alarm?, when a squall cut through an intersection, rattling my car and my nerves. Newspapers and plastic bags began swirling ominously along the sidewalk, and within minutes it was as if a tornado had touched down in Silver Lake. A torrent of pine needles pummeled my car; street lights swung wildly. I gripped the steering wheel like a captain at the helm: Keep calm and carry on!

I have been driving in Los Angeles since I was 15-and-a-half years old, enduring all manner of auto trauma, but nothing prepared me for the next ten minutes. As I approached the freeway, palm fronds skidded across the on-ramp like wayward bowling balls. Blue lights from exploding transformers popped in the near distance. Gales coming at my car made it feel as if I were driving on a treadmill. At home I woke my husband, who was surprised by my panic until he stepped outside to take down a patio umbrella. “Holy crap!” he yelled over the maelstrom. The house lights heaved and went out. They stayed out for two days.

The next morning it looked like Armageddon had struck our yard. We were lucky, losing only one fragrant sumac, a truckload of branches, and the thatch roof off the pool’s tiki bar. The damage had forced neighbors—many of whom I’d never even seen before—outside. One wielded a chain saw in his robe and slippers. Fallen eucalyptus, palms, oaks, and power lines extended my commute to two hours and 40 minutes that day.

With so many trees down, and vistas altered by their absence, I realized how much I take for granted the magnificent boughs that spread above Los Angeles. Our trees define the look of the city every bit as much as the Griffith Observatory, the movie palaces, and the neon signs do. In this issue we celebrate 26 things that represent Classic L.A., including jacarandas, which were hard hit the night of the winds. The city was blanketed in purple petals the month I was married, and I associate their blossoms with my anniversary. They may be imports—many of our trees are—but they have taken to the place and us to them. I could live without the winds. Without the trees? Never.