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L.A. (Horror) Story by Cynthia Polansky

Remember the 60s' sitcom [i]That

Girl[/I] where aspiring actress Ann Marie, American flag in hand, gazes in awe at the New York city skyline? Well, the Big Apple was once just as intimidating to this modestly-successful suburban author. In town for my first BEA (Book Expo America), I wore my awestruck status as bluntly as Ann Marie. If the tentative hand trying to hail a cab didn’t betray me, my cell phone did. The single-note ring of my antiquated StarTac glaringly contrasted all the Blackberries ringing concertos.

I came to look forward to BEA’s organized chaos and NYC’s energy. My hand now shot up and taxis pulled over. I had lain down my tracks on the well-worn but enduring carpet that is New York.

The rug was pulled out from under me this year, with BEA taking place in Los Angeles. L.A. isn’t just a different city but a different culture, intimidating in its own right. But I conquered NY; I could certainly handle LA. After all, authors are authors, whether they’re celebrities or civilians (work with me here; I’m thinking positive).

I had an Autograph Area session scheduled just before actor/author George Hamilton’s. Wouldn’t a photo at the podium hand-off look great on my website? But instead of a quick Kodak moment, somehow I was unceremoniously following a staff member to "get this done now." We burst into the authors' green room, interrupting a video interview with the actor. “He’s with people right now!” I wailed, mortified that I was involved in this unprofessional behavior. I quickly told Hamilton’s publicist that the staffer had misunderstood; I had only wanted a photo as the actor took over the autograph podium. My scarlet face was the only reason I didn’t look ghostly wan next to the Tanned One.

I was exhausted after the long day but didn’t want to miss a private party I’d been invited to that night at one of those hip boutique hotels, the kind where Lindsay Lohan parties with Paris Hilton. Who knows what kind of networking miracles may result? I moseyed around the dim interior, watching and listening. Everyone seemed under 35 and very well read, making me feel instantly old and illiterate. When shyness threatened to take over, I occupied myself with the open bar and butlered desserts. I tried to look contentedly aloof, mojito in hand, as I bit into a mini cream puff. Custard spurted out the other end in a perfect arc, landing on the floor with a loud [i]splat[/i]. Not exactly the kind of ice-breaker I was looking for. I looked around to see who had witnessed the cream puff geyser, but no one had. Still, I wondered how to handle it. An aloof, well-read L.A. professional would probably just shrug it off and let the staff deal with it. With my luck, though, someone would slip on the custard and demand to know who was responsible for such a perilous mess. I wiped it up and called a cab.

On the ride back, I took stock of my first day in Los Angeles. Let’s see...I acted like a groupie with a celebrity, wreaked havoc with finger food at a party where I’d hoped to make some important connections, and spent $60 in cab fare to a party where I spent less time than it took to get there.

When it comes to conquering foreign lands, I’ll stick to New York.

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