Breakfast in Bed - Round 3
There’s LA, then there’s LA. There’s Airbnb’s, then there’s Airbnb’s (then there’s hostels and hotels, there’s motels and there’s the Chateau Marmont).
The tricky thing about LA is how its reputation precedes it so intensely. For most cities you can hold your breath for the drive between the airport and the heart of the action. But in LA, if you don’t have the car, the keys, the shoes, or the wallet, doors stay closed and there’s a lot of glittering buildings, guarded people and areas that feel like a backstage to the show you weren’t invited to.
But then, somehow, a door opens, a young woman welcomes you in to your home for the week, clad in leather, denim and hemp. And the stereotyping for which LA is known begins. She’s uber relaxed, not a fan of the tap water, and beautiful enough to be on the billboard visible from the back patio.
We’re walked around and informed the TV is not a working TV, it’s art. Not to sit on that chair, because it’s art. Not to put anything on that table, because it is also art. Not to turn on that light, because it is art, and it will explode. Not to light that candle, because the wax that has already dripped onto the pillow below is art.
I’m appropriately intimidated. And as cynical as I may sound, thoroughly in awe. The home is a stunning collection of electric works that amount to a gallery you can live in.
Words by Greer Clarke