Several weeks ago, I traded in the sun and superficiality of Los Angeles for a weekend of sun and simplicity in Atlanta. Lacking a washer or dryer in my apartment, my baggage was filled mainly with dirty laundry that I hauled across the country in a questionable effort to save a few dollars. Arriving late on Friday evening, my friend Joe Campopiano picked me up at the airport and we headed directly for the inaptly named Euclid Avenue Yacht Club, located in the hipster enclave of Little Five Points. In the landlocked Euclid Avenue Yacht Club, Joe spent in excess of half an hour debating a homeless women on subjects as wide-ranging as politics, religion, and philosophy. Were this a movie, the bum woman would have made some cogent points about the hypocrisy of society and opened up the eyes of the sheltered young men to a world beyond their understanding. This not being a movie, the woman just rambled incomprehensibly, creating an awkward situation in which we struggled to balance civility with the desire for a swift escape. Eventually breaking free of the raving women, we were free to observe the scene around us. Nothing makes the personality of a city apparent like leaving and visiting somewhere completely different. Despite observing a predominantly similar socioeconomic group, the distinctions between Los Angeles and Atlanta were obvious and impossible not to notice. Both Angelinos and Atlantans strive to convey a laidback sense of cool. In Atlanta, this is apparent in the uniform that most of the patrons at the bar sported: Rainbow sandals, khaki shorts, a pastel polo shirt, and a pair of sunglasses hanging around their necks, just in case the sun should decide to rise at midnight. Completing this southern chic look is an obviously necessary accessory to complement the sunglasses: an elastic band that assures the sunglasses won’t go flying if a sudden wind blows through the bar. While Atlantans suggest a casual indifference by dressing alike, the fine residents of Los Angeles take the opposite tack and seek to dress as uniquely as possible. This more challenging course presumably requires them to scour upmarket thrift stores to find the perfect t-shirt that marries just the right amount of kitsch with a modern sensibility. Hair, jeans, and shoes should all make a statement that stress wealth, taste, and individuality. Instead of sunglasses, Angelinos never leave home without man’s best friend – in this case a ridiculously expensive car. Inside the car is their other best friend – the tiniest dogs imaginable. The plethora of tiny canines make the streets of Santa Monica an obstacle course as even a short walk to a café requires care in not stepping on or kicking one of the little urchins. The left coast cousin of the Atlanta uniform appears to be the hideous combination of jeans and a blazer in a poor attempt to appear academic that would make Don Johnson cringe. As usual, my less-than-thorough investigation and judgment of entire cities did not extend beyond assessing clothes. If my travels have taught me anything, it is that no matter how differently people may dress, they are pretty much the same everywhere. The rest of the weekend was a relaxing mix of visiting with my parents, hunting for just the right items to complete my apartment, and meeting up with friends. Fortunately, the spring is my favorite time to be in Atlanta. When I visited, the flowers were blossoming and the foliage was a glorious bright green. Taking advantage of the fine weather, we went on a couple of nice hikes and savored some wonderful meals on the patio. As usual, it was terrific to be around family and friends. Visiting Atlanta, it was a sad reminder that one of the reasons that I decided to return to the U.S. was to be closer to friends and family and in that regard I failed tremendously. Instead, I find myself on the opposite side of the country and often feel as distant as when I was cruising through remote islands in the South Pacific. Still, Los Angeles has much to recommend it. Several weeks ago, the LA Times Festival of Books took place on the campus of UCLA. Hundreds of booths covered the expansive campus selling books, peddling obscure publications, and providing information on every variety of publisher imaginable. The event attracted well-known writers such as Gore Vidal and Jared Diamond and famous actors trying to be writers such as Kirk Douglas and Don Cheadle. I attended a panel discussion called “The Global Village” that featured five travel writers, including Pico Iyer, one of my favorite authors. The event was both inspiring and depressing. It was inspiring to hear an assortment of talented writers articulate their opinions on a variety of topics and to state so beautifully many of my own feelings about travel, yet it was depressing to realize that I could never write as well as them. The following day, I spent the morning volunteering as part of an initiative known as “Big Sunday” that promotes volunteerism across Los Angeles. Of the many opportunities available, I opted to volunteer at the Isaiah Temple since it was nearby and offered a variety of activities. I spent the majority of the morning packing bags with art supplies for underpriviledged children in the L.A. Understandably, the other volunteers were predominantly Jewish and belonged to the congregation of the temple. Due to my first name and the fact that I had lived in Connecticut, Chicago, and, now, Los Angeles, they assumed that I was also Jewish and they extended a number of invitations to join them for social outings and future volunteering. When I informed them of my status as a gentile, they remained friendly, but the invitations were no longer forthcoming. Feeling generous and in the spirit of giving, on my way out I stopped by the blood mobile to donate blood. During the pre-blood-letting screening, my past travels raised some flags. The first hurdle was to the question of whether I had gotten a tattoo during the past year. When I answered in the affirmative, they asked “where?” to which I answered, honestly, “French Polynesia.” Since this location was not included in the choices on the drop-down menu, the interviewer chose to say that I had not had a tattoo. Still, I wasn’t in the clear yet. When prompted for the countries that I had visited during the past year, I provided the laundry list of South Pacific locales to which I sailed during the last twelve months. We were doing well until we reached Vanuatu. Apparently, due to the threat of malaria in that particular country, I was deemed to be an unacceptable risk for donating blood and was summarily dismissed. Without a band-aid, sticker, or even a cookie, I was forced to perform the walk of shame past the line of other volunteers waiting to donate, all of whom no doubt thought that I had some infectious disease. Downcast, I averted my eyes as mothers sheltered their children and kindly old people edged away to avoid contamination. The moral of this story is that no good deed goes unpunished. So far, I have limited my exploration to the several blocks around my apartment, but I occasionally stumble upon some interesting part of L.A. despite my provincialism. Recently, walking near my office during lunchtime, I found that a Japanese neighborhood is located only a couple of blocks from where I work. The street is lined with authentic Japanese restaurants, from posh sushi joints to cozy ramen shops, and there are several markets that, upon entering, make me feel as if I was back in Japan. The convenient supply of healthy traditional Japanese food brightened my mood for a week and I often stop in just to revel in the unique mix of familiarity and foreignness. Similarly, I was in Los Angeles for a couple of months before I saw the famous Hollywood sign. My first sighting was on a return trip from Fresno aboard the corporate jet. During our approach to the Santa Monica airport, we flew directly over the instantly recognizable sign and I was treated to a stunning aerial view of the familiar landmark. Weeks later, while driving to work, the smog cleared and I happened to look up at just the right time to realize that I can see sign nearly every day during my commute. While not the most riveting findings, these small discoveries offer a tiny sense of wonderment and surprise that confirm the newness of this experience. In recent weeks it has come to my attention that a new museum has opened in Boston. This museum, the Institute of Contemporary Art, features an inspirational design that has drawn acclaim from architectural critics throughout the world. The New York Times stated “its ability to interweave art and civic life makes it the most important building to rise here in a generation.” What is particularly interesting about the design of the new museum is that it is mine. In 2003, as my interest in finance waned, I considered a possible career in architecture. To further explore my interest and to potentially prepare a portfolio for admission to a graduate program, I attended a two-month intensive architecture course at Harvard. Our first project was to design a study hall for undergraduate students to be located on a specific parcel of property in the middle of campus. After several false starts, I developed a simplistic design that involved a cantilevered glass structure suspended over a shallow reflecting pool. Before a panel of architects, professors, and students I waxed poetic about the sublime lines of my building. Such a simple design allowed me to completely control the experience of a hypothetical visitor. Illustrating my concept with a lovingly constructed model, I walked the audience through the various “moments” that would greet a guest in the building. Considerately constructed with an understated skin, the design offered a delicate transition from the ivy-covered traditional buildings of the quad to the high-tech modern Science & Technology structure to the west. My presentation was well-received, although even at the time I realized that my talent lay more in presenting and selling my design than in the artistic brilliance necessary to create something truly revolutionary. Later, in a rare photogenic moment and on a separate project, a photographer associated with the program captured me mid-presentation in a photo that would grace the cover of the program’s recruiting brochure for years to come (though it should be noted that the picture has grown smaller and been demoted to less valuable real estate in recent years). Fast forward four years to the present and, shockingly, in the same exact city that the idea of my building was born my vision has come to life as the product of the acclaimed architectural firm of Diller Scofidio + Renfro. The similarities between our designs are incredible (for a slide show of the Institute of Contemporary Art, go to http://www.icaboston.org/photo-album/dsr-design/view-photo, and for the gushing New York Times review accompanied by more pictures, go to http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/08/arts/design/08ica.html?ex=1323234000&en=1617954a2adafd87&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss). Since the wave of publicity about the innovative museum began, friends and family have contacted me to say that they saw an article about a building that looks the same as the model that graces my parent’s cottage in Cape Cod. Thus far, my research has found that my own design predates the bid for the museum by at least a year. Is it possible that world-renowned architects famous for their stunningly innovative designs would rip off an aspiring architecture student? Perhaps all of their success is owed to pillaging the ideas of unknown hacks toiling in the bowels of the architecture establishment. For now, I am content to read the positive reviews of my building and to take satisfaction in the knowledge that imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Hopefully, the next time I visit Boston I will be able to tour my building and rejoice in having a dream realized, even if my dream was hijacked and made reality by someone else. After nearly three months in Los Angeles, the most common question that I am asked is, naturally, “How do you like it?” A simple question on the surface, it doesn’t lend itself to simple answers. As Donald Ritchie explained in his terrific book, “The Inland Sea,” certain places can make you feel wonderful about yourself while other places can evoke ugly parts of our personality that we may never have realized we possessed. The efficient order and respectful manners of Japan made me feel better about myself since it was easy to reflect the kindness of locals. Conversely, the poverty and desperation of India occasionally provoked disgust at my squalid surroundings that shocked me when I found myself confronted with an uncontrollable anger direct at those for whom I should have had the most compassion. So much of my opinions of places are dictated by a relatively few experiences. When things do not go as well as I had hoped, I find myself turning violently on a place in an unfairly broad condemnation of the entire city or country. As Pico Iyer succinctly states “the unhappiest people I know these days are often the ones in motion, encouraged to search for utopia outside themselves, as if the expulsion from Eden had been Eden’s fault.” One of my greatest fears is that I am the type of person who chases perfection and will search endlessly for something that is certain to prove elusive. Fortunately, for now I am enjoying Los Angeles. Despite my east coast bias, I am finding a lot to like about L.A. and I am pleased with my life here. I have managed to meet some nice people, I have grown more comfortable with work, and I have settled into something resembling a routine. Though not content, I am happy and, for now at least, that is good enough.