I wasn't born a country-bumpkin, but it's how I've been defending my slowness in the big city. My words seem strained by years in the south and the mid-west, strained to the point of being unbearable to ears used to hearing light-speed.
I have usually spent my time in small towns and one semi-large city (Little Rock, AR), so moving to L.A. is a pretty big move. The sights, sounds, and..... smells, are intoxicating, offensive, bedazzling; I'm simply mesmerized at every turn. I'm sure my head being thrust constantly upwards at the OOOOH BIG BUILDINGS announces to the natives my freshness.
I've identified a few places I enjoy so far, and I risk sticking with them for the immediate comfort they've offered me, but I fear at the risk of cutting off exploration all too soon. The Stray Cat makes a pretty good Breakfast Burrito (which seems to be a culinary given in town, if the breakfast burrito at the Italian place across the street is any indication), and it's got a nice casual diner feel to it.
The meal I've enjoyed most so far has been at Ilan Hall's ("Top Chef" winner, season 2) "The Gorbals," which is just a block away. I had pork belly with capers and mushrooms. I savored every morsel of that heavenly bacon, to the pleasure of my eating neighbors' noses, who were themselves entranced by the scent of the perfect pig.
And, yes, there are a lot of crazies where I live. I believe my building makes the border between decent L.A., and limbo L.A., which itself borders scary L.A. I've learned quickly to stop a vagrant's BS and tell him to get to the point or to leave me alone. Perhaps I am donning a thick city layer sooner than I thought.
It's a start at least.
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