Awakening at The Georgian

We have not mentioned The Georgian hotel in Santa Monica since Latouche went dark, an injustice I remedy today.
 
It was grey and cold in the midwest.  Winter is perhaps over, but the after-effects linger like the aftermath of a misjudged dose of tequila.  Grey skies, virtually empty streets, the brown Ohio River coiled a little too snugly around the corporate dystopia that is downtown. 

The flight to LA was special.  Back coach, middle seat, the person in front of me put their seat back - but it was only for five hours... Due to turbulence, bathroom visits were forbidden. The wealthier passengers took the edge off their hunger with small boxes of fruit and cheese, at six dollars apiece.

This morning, bright sun, the sound of the Pacific Ocean, a light breakfast in the art deco lobby of Bugsy Siegel's masterpiece on Ocean Blvd (also, for a while, the home of Rose Kennedy), and just before work a few treasured minutes with the paper on the veranda.

And sitting there it wasn't hard to understand how Johnny Carson - originally from Corning, Iowa, first performance on WOW in Omaha - came here and saw no point in ever going back.  The sudden rush of unhurried comfort, of everyday beauty driving down long avenues lined with towering palms, could only result in a renunciation of what had come before, a wholehearted decision that this was the place one belonged.  At first.

As the natives know, you have to pace yourself here.  But you cannot stop either.  Beneath that unhurried pace beats a remorseless capitalist heart, and every party, every casual cocktail is another foray in career management, every offhand encounter the opportunity to be discovered, or make a comeback, or help someone who can help you.

It is marvelous place to spend a day, but no more. Anyway, The Georgian is too small to attract the most toxic elements from Beverly Hills and Century City. It is just slightly closer to Omaha than the rest, but still with pretty girls and a fine fresh breeze.