La Famossisima Repubblica Angelina
Callum Ruddock

Iimagine XVth century Florence wasn’t too different from Los Angeles. In between two palm trees and a Chevron, Masaccio would have sat down for his morning iced coffee. Renaissance men jog topless. It is hot. The air is hot. Leather car seats are hot. A young Botticelli, hungover, sips a macha and snaps a few selfies. The Medicis bicker, worried about the profitability of their chain of health spas, chomping on SweetGreens, topping themselves up with lip fillers. Angelinos as much as Florentines enjoy the end of summer in their city state.

At the Brentwood Country Mart I suck up a takeout lunch. A big bowl of leafy greens. All water cress. Heaps of the stuff. With cheese. Fork in one hand, book in the other. A peripheral celebrity has wandered in. She orders a big cup of soda; spills half of it all over herself. It must be easy with fame so commonplace, fame with less attention; big names cheaper by the dozen, one amongst a crowd of many influencers, Los Angeles is a haven. My fork hand is slapped. I am told to stop gawking, that I cannot fully appreciate the food whilst looking, but I am not convinced; it is not the sustenance I am interested in. Absorbing two things at once: bagels and Rosecrans Baldwin – a writer and L. A. resident whose name is so American the likes of Butch Van Artsdalen, Robert August, and Corky Caroll begin to sound foreign.

Rosecrans tells me, “Los Angeles is covered in gold if you’re a writer.” I try very hard to find it. I look at the sea, try to taste it in the supermarket, but it is too much and I am forced to retreat to the air-conditioning of my friend’s station wagon, always ending up in Brentwood where the city’s life swirls and stops. Los Angeles has plenty of patrons here, way up in the Hills, people with money to pay for the city state’s trinkets and ornaments, for its shows and restaurants. And then there is me chomping on what remains of Los Angeles’ salad.

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