This is L.A.

I have always wanted to visit Los Angeles, Calif. I can’t tell you exactly what the draw has been, though I know it’s shifted over the years. Originally it was the shiny illusion of Hollywood; then I focused more on visiting the place where so much of pop culture has been formed over the years; and finally it’s intrigued me because some of my McCurdy relatives of generations past found refuge during retirement in sunny southern California. I wanted to know what drew them out to the area back before L.A. had freeways.

The opportunity presented itself last week for me to venture to Los Angeles to help my friend Megan unpack after a whirlwind move across the country and not even a week in her new job. Everything fell into place easily and it turned out another friend of mine would be in town that weekend as well – perfect.

As soon as I purchased the ticket I had a nagging feeling at the back of my mind. Day by day that feeling moved closer and closer to the front of my mind and it had to do with the fear of the unknown. What do I wear? Will I fit in? Will people there think I talk funny? It’s L.A. in the winter, so people will think it’s cold but I will be sweating bullets.

I was freaking out about what to pack.

Since Google is my friend, I asked it what I should wear in L.A. in the winter. The all-knowing site directed me to a fabulous article about how to fit in like the locals and not stick out as a tourist. Perfect, just what I was looking for. It advised wearing dark colored clothing, close toed shoes, a black fitted jacket for the cool evenings, and to always wear sunglasses.

To further my research, I talked to Megan and she said to pack whatever I wanted. “We could go out somewhere and maybe there will be someone in a swimsuit with a cover up and another person in a prom dress – no matter what you wear someone will be more casual and another person will be more dressed up than you.”

While this may sound logical, it just made me panic even more. The options were so wide open. But another piece of her advice made things start to click in my head: no matter where you go, you can where jeans. She also advised that if I wanted to be a little outrageous I could pack whatever I had in my closet at home that I felt was too flashy for Fargo and drag it to L.A. with me.

To settle the decision of what to pack, the morning of my flight I had a one-woman fashion show – it was by me and for me. I tested out some outfit combinations and walked a very short, carpeted runway. Once I made the commitment to pack light the rest fell into place very easily.

All of a sudden I was the traveler who packed so light that the ticket agents didn’t bat an eyelash when I approached their counter with my carry-on. Around me, everyone else was not so lucky. Carry-ons that were an inch or two too big would cost an extra $30 per bag to be checked. For a brief moment in traveling, I looked like I knew what I was doing.

From the moment I landed to the moment I left, I understood Megan’s comment about wearing whatever you wanted. L.A. is the land of freedom in style choices. It really didn’t matter – unless you were an extremely pushy sales person at a boutique, but I’ll save that story for next time.