The story of one New Yorker's first visit to Los Angeles. Part One here. Part Two here. And now the final chapter:

We actually set an alarm for Saturday morning, but we didn’t need it. One good thing about being on New York time in L.A. is that your body can sleep til noon, but you’re still awake by 9. It was Tourist Day, and I had quite a list. First stop: Enterprise.

They handed us the keys to our PT Cruiser – I looked longingly at the convertible, but we decided against the $150 upgrade. By 10:15 we were cruising down Sunset Boulevard toward Santa Monica.

We had coffee and breakfast on the Santa Monica promenade, and then headed to the Pier. We walked the length of Santa Monica Pier, and I took it all in. The homeless people, the pigeons, the strange men gutting fish...

“Santa Monica Pier – check!” I announced.

We hopped back in the car and headed for our next destination: The Getty Museum.

I put the address into Google maps, and handed my iPhone to TightLips.

“Just follow the purple line,” I explained. “The blinking blue dot is us. It has GPS.”

Soon, we were winding through narrow streets, going up steep hills with beautiful houses on either side.

“These houses are ridiculous,” I observed. “They must cost millions.”

I watched as the road narrowed, and the curves became sharper.

“This can’t be right,” I said.

“It is!” Tightlips replied, scrutinizing the iPhone.

Soon were had slowed to about 20 miles per hour, going around curves so sharp that mirrors had been nailed to the trees so that you could see if a vehicle was approaching from the other side. And we always seemed to be moving uphill.

“This CAN’T be right,” I insisted.

“We are exactly on the line!” he said adamantly.

Then we went up another steep incline, around one final U-shaped curve, and suddenly were facing a huge metal fence with a locked gate that went right across the road.

“What the??” I stopped the car.

I looked to the right, and saw nailed to a tree a black box that looked like a mailbox. On it was a large printed sign: DIRECTIONS TO GETTY MUSEUM. Your GPS is Wrong.

* * *

30 minutes later we were out of the hills, on highway 405, and then pulling into the parking lot of the Getty Center. We didn’t really know what to expect, and the surprises started with the tram that takes guests up the mountain side from the parking lot to the museum. We felt like we were entering Jurassic Park. The Center turned out to be a campus of buildings with stunning architecture, beautiful gardens and fountains, and extraordinary views, even on an overcast day. We saw some of the exhibits, including a great photography display by Irving Penn called The Worker, and then strolled though the stunningly landscaped gardens.

“Getty Museum – check!”

We got back to the hotel around four, and changed into our Saturday-Night-Out-In-L.A. Outfits. A client of mine was hosting an event at the Grammy Museum in downtown LA, and had invited us to attend. We left early, as we had a few stops to make on the way.

The first stop was In-N-Out burger. Tightlips was salivating as we pulled in to the parking lot. I looked over the menu, which only listed four items, and ordered a double cheeseburger and fries. The burger was pretty fantastic. The fries, however, were a little soggy – I didn’t really like them.

“Maybe you’d like them better Animal Style,” said TightLips, pointing to a woman near us whose fries were covered with chili, cheese and who knows what else.

“That’s not on the menu!” I said to him.

“You just have to know,” he replied.

“That’s fucking ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “It’s a fast-food chain, not the Skull and Bones Society.”

He shrugged. I handed him the rest of my fries, which he gladly started eating. I made the obligatory fat joke.

“Hey,” he replied, “You’re lucky I didn’t order a four-by-four.”

Again I looked at the menu, then back at him questioningly, as of course no such thing was listed.

“You just have to know.”

“Secret Society of the In-N-Out Burger – check!” I said sarcastically, and we were off to Hollywood Blvd.

We covered the Walk Of Fame, scratching the rest of our Must-Sees off the Tourist list: Grauman's Chinese Theatre, the Kodak Theater, the Hollywood sign. We decided to each pick our favorite Star and take a picture. TightLips immediately chose Paula Abdul, and after only 20 minutes of searching, we found her. Mine was more difficult.

“I don’t really have a favorite star,” I told him. “I’m not the celebrity type.”

“You’ll find one,” he replied. We walked both sides of the boulevard, just as I was getting annoyed with the tourists in front of the Kodak Theater, TightLips pointed at the ground.

“Look!”

I gasped. “Absolut Vodka has a Star?!”

Hollywood Walk Of Fame – check.

The event was at the new Grammy Museum in downtown L.A. Although I was still mostly loving the city, I got to experience one of L.A.’s infamous downsides: traffic. After driving an hour for a distance that should have taken 20 minutes, we finally arrived at the museum, which was located in the same complex as the Staples Center.

I thought the Grammy Museum was pretty cool. TightLips was like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. He ran around, gasping, pointing, screeching.. and when he saw the display of Beyonce’s grammy dress I swear he orgasmed – I was worried he would try to shatter the display case so he could try it on.

The centerpiece of the event was a private performance by Lang Lang, an amazing pianist who, among hundreds of other noteworthy appearances, performed at the opening ceremonies of the Bejing Olympics, where he was watched by over 5 million people. We got to watch him in a room of about 150 people, and he was absolutely stunning.

Following the performance, there was a cocktail reception on the roof of the museum. The space was nice – well decorated with cocktail tables and of course a full rooftop bar. And once again I loved that we were at an outdoor event in the middle of November. But I was underwhelmed by the views. Looking at the few paltry high-rises of downtown LA, I found myself missing the magnificent skyline of New York City.

We left the event and headed back to West Hollywood for our final night out in L.A. We again found ourselves fighting traffic.

“God, it’s 10:30,” I said, “is there ALWAYS traffic here?”

“Pretty much.”

When we finally arrived, we dealt with the next drama: parking. I was definitely missing the ease of public transit in Manhattan.

The club, however, for the second night in a row outshone NYC. We went to Cherry Pop at Ultra Suede, which was a great space with modern-looking décor and bars, as well as a pretty large dance floor. Around the dance floor were three raised stages, which featured rotating go-go dancers. At first I was critical of all three of them: the white guy with Mohawk, the black guy with the crazy outfit (Is that a wrestling belt, underwear, knee-high boots and a jacket that only reaches from shoulders to nipples? Yes, yes it is.) And the girl. A girl go-go boy? But soon they all won me over, ever her, especially when at random points in the middle of songs they would suddenly break into perfectly matched choreography – but only for about 10 seconds. A neat trick.

The music was great, and the crowd was very cute. There were a couple boys I thought about talking to, but that “foreign city” confidence I’d had the last couple nights seemed to be gone. It might have had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t drinking. It was strange not being able to jump on the subway or in a cab. I wondered, did people in LA not drink as much, or did they always have a designated driver, or did they just drive home drunk? All of those options seemed crazy to me, but I added it to my growing list of things in L.A. that just didn’t make sense.

The next morning, we returned the car and walked to Santa Monica one last time for brunch. We considered Hamburger Mary’s, but for some reason they don’t open at 10:30am so we chose Hugo’s, which had a sizable crowd waiting for tables. The GayCities iPhone app described it as “Healthy food to the stars.”

“Do you see any stars?” I asked TightLips as we were being shown to our table.

“That kind of looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffman,” he said, pointing at a man with white hair who looked nothing like Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

“And the woman he’s with looks like Tabitha from that Bravo hair-styling show,” I said.

“Perfect!” he cheered. “For purposes of story-selling, we had brunch with Phillip and Tabitha.”

The food was delicious, and it was another gorgeous sunny day. As we sat in the taxi to the airport, I posted to Twitter that I was very unhappy to leave L.A. and would be back soon. It was true, there was a lot about the city I really enjoyed. But there was also a lot about it I just didn’t get. And when our plane touched down at JFK eight hours later, I had a thought I often have when returning home from a trip: I’m glad to be back in New York, where things make sense.

The story of one New Yorker's first visit to Los Angeles. Part One here.

Friday morning I woke up, not surprisingly, with a terrible hangover. But the sunshine peeping through the curtain of our room at The Standard West Hollywood motivated me to get out of bed fairly early. After all, how difficult could it be for this New Yorker to spend a November day laying poolside in the sun?

TightLips and I decided that coffee and breakfast were first priorities, so we again rebuked the L.A. norm and walked, not drove, in search of nourishment. Of course we went back to Santa Monica Blvd, obviously the main gay drag (no pun) of West Hollywood. Thursday night we’d had dinner at Marix, and now found ourselves next door at Basix. Immediately, there was a lot I liked about it.

One, we were seated outside on the large patio. Two, the extra-frothy double cappuccino that the cute server quickly brought me was exactly what I needed. Three, the California-Health-Savvy menu made it easy for me to order something filling enough to quash my hangover but nutritious enough to feel beach-body-ready. And four, even though it was a Friday morning in November, we were sitting outside and cute boys were walking, strolling or jogging by.

“I’m loving L.A.!” I announced, taking a bite of my Egg White Power Omelet as a hot boy in a tank top and mesh shorts ran past us.

TightLips rolled his eyes – he was already tiring of my constant L.A. praise. But I didn’t care, and was still raving 2 hours later as we soaked up the sun on the pool deck. He was splashing around in the pool on a pink innertube as I sipped an iced tea in a lounge chair.

“I could get used to this!”

He ignored me and pointed out the group of female models who had taken a table near the building. A couple of them were playfully posing near the fence, giving their favorite sexy-model-poses to the camera.

“I could be friends with them,” he said wistfully. I shrugged. Another Friday afternoon at the Standard West Hollywood.

By 3 o’clock we were fried, and I decided it was time to start working my way through the Tourist List. We put on our Shopping Outfits, and grabbed a cab to Rodeo Drive. We strolled through Dolce and Gabbana, glanced at Gucci, and tried on jeans at Prada.

“Rodeo Drive – check!” I announced, and it was off to happy hour.

TightLips had some friends who lived in the area, a college friend and her sister, and they agreed to meet up with us for cocktails. After some madcap antics trying to find and pick us up on the streets of Beverly Hills, we squeezed in their Camaro and soon arrived at The Abbey, one of West Hollywood’s best-known gay bars. It was huge, with several rooms and lots of outdoor seating.

Unfortunately the L.A. weather tricked me, and I wasn’t prepared for the sudden temperature drop as soon as the sun began to set. Wearing just our sunny-afternoon-jeans-and-t-shirts, sitting outside wouldn’t work. Fortunately inside, there was a huge fireplace with a three-level fire. We settled down in front of it with our fancy cocktails and a plate of hummus.

As we chatted, I was also texting ByeByeCostal, who wanted to meet us for dinner around nine. I agreed, thinking that gave us plenty of time to go back to the hotel and change before going out for the night. It was then that I noticed three cute boys sit down at the bar and order drinks.

“Hmmmm,” I said thoughtfully, and the girls turned to see what had caught my attention. TightLips didn’t have to.

“I saw them when they walked in,” TightLips said. “They’re totally your type. You may as well go.”

I paused. Could I really just walk up to three cute strangers at a bar? In New York I would not. I would assume they’d be pretentious, or bitchy, or just not interested (and 2 out of 3 would probably be correct in New York) and I’d chicken out. But again that weird and wonderful confidence of being in a strange city came over me, and I excused myself from our group and walked up to the bar.

“Hey guys, where’s a good place to go out tonight?”

A lie of course – I didn’t need the information, as I had ByeByeCostal taking us out. But it worked brilliantly. They all gave their answers, and from there came introductions. I settled into the seat next to them, thinking ‘I’m sitting at a bar with THREE cute boys. Does it get better than this?”

It did. They were cheerleaders.

“Cheerleaders? Like, you get thrown up in the air?” I asked, slightly directing my question toward the blond one, who I thought was the cutest (but only barely.)

“Oh yeah, that’s my favorite part!” Blondie replied.

“So who’s the catcher?”

They smiled, and told me that they were going to Palm Springs for the weekend, as it was Gay Pride Weekend there, and they were performing in the parade on Sunday. They were killing time now waiting for 5 or 6 cheerleader friends, and then they were all going to drive together to the house they had rented with the 4 bedrooms, pool, and Jacuzzi. Full of gay cheerleaders.

“It’s going to be an amazing weekend!” said one.

“You should come!” said another, smiling coyly.

“Totally,” agreed Blondie, as he reached over to squeeze my arm. “You should definitely come.”

It’s a good thing that I’d only had one drink, or I undoubtedly would have raced over to TightLips, screamed “We’re going to Palm Springs!!” and dragged him out of the bar and to the nearest car rental. Instead, I replied truthfully, “I wish I could,” and ordered another round of cocktails with them.

Before long, Blondie (who fortunately was not going to be the one driving) was pretty buzzed. He took a sip of his Lemon Drop Martini, and suddenly made a painful face.

“Ow!!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“It huths my tahng!” Blondie slurred while holding his tongue with his fingers. “Its an exploded taste bud.”

We looked at him incredulously.

“An exploded taste bud!” he exclaimed, insistent. “My friend told me it can happen when you have too much citrus!”

“I’ve... never heard of that...” I said, trying to be sensitive. His friends were not so tactful.

“That’s fucking crazy!”

“You’re so stupid!”

“What?!” Blondie cried. “It’s an exploded taste bud! Haven’t you ever had an exploded taste bud??? Too much citrus!”

Perhaps it was better that I wasn’t going to Palm Springs.

I hung out with them for a few more drinks, until TightLips and I realized that it was almost 9, and there was no way we were going back to the hotel . But it had gotten pretty cold, and I decided I couldn’t walk around in just a t-shirt. So, at 8:55, I exchanged numbers with the cheerleaders, wished them luck in Palm Springs, and walked into American Apparel. It was five minutes before closing time. There was no one in the store but me and the sales clerk. He was young, thin, and very cute.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry, I know you’re about to close. I just need to get a sweatshirt or something. I wasn’t prepared for it to get this cold tonight. I’m from New York.”

I had uttered the magic words.

“Ohmigod I LOVE New York! I totally want to move there! Where do you live? How long have you been there? What do you do?”

I wasn’t sure how it happened, but suddenly it was raining men in California, and the cumulo-boy-us cloud was right over my head. I’d just left three gay cheerleaders, I was on my way to have dinner with my old trick ByeByeCostal, and here was a hot twinky sales boy who seemed quite into me.

Granted, I could hear the scolding voice of my friend MartiniFun as if he were right there talking in my ear: “My mother always says – don’t date the help!” But after all, I was on vacation – I wasn’t looking for a relationship.

I quickly learned that when he wasn’t working at American Apparel, ClerkKent did party promotion for some of the bars here in West Hollywood, and that he hoped to move to New York and get into event planning. Of course.

“I do event planning in New York,” I admitted. We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, and he promised to let me know as soon as he made it to the big apple. I bought a lavender long-sleeve v-neck and said goodnight.

TightLips and I met up with ByeByeCostal, who took us to a cute little café down the street from the Abbey. It was nothing fancy, but I was glad to try somewhere popular with the locals. After dinner, we stopped for over-priced coffee on Santa Monica, and then strolled into a sex store to kill time. After 15 minutes of gasping at 3-foot-long dildos and being scared to stick our fingers into the sample FleshJacks, ByeByeCostal announced that it was time to hit the club.

The club was called Factory, the party was called Popstarz. It was a giant, multi-level space with abundant lighting and sound, a huge main dance floor and a couple separate lounges. The crowd was cute, and everyone was having fun, because they were playing fun music. Pop songs of course, the kind that everyone loves to dance and sing along to.

ByeByeCostal introduced us to a couple of his friends, and we drank and danced with them for a while. Occasionally while we were dancing my hands would innocently wander down to squeeze ByeByeCostal’s very muscular butt, and occasionally he would turn and grind that same cute butt up against me. I starting thinking about whether TightLips would be OK getting himself back to the hotel alone, as it was looking like I would spend the night somewhere else.

I got another cocktail, went back to the dance floor, and thought about how much I was loving L.A. The weather, the night life, and the boys! In the last 5 hours, I’d met 4 cute boys, gotten 3 phone numbers, gone dancing with 2 more boys, and was about to go home with 1 of them. Right on cue, there was ByeByeCostal crossing the dance floor in my direction. As he approached I smiled, listening to the thumping music. Tonight was gonna be a good night!

“I gotta go,” he said.

I stared. “Huh?”

“Have fun!” he said, and before I could even gather my thoughts, I was watching his cute butt walk right out the door.

“Bye Bye...”

I turned to TightLips, and he read my ‘what the hell?’ expression. He shrugged. We danced to another Britney song, but soon after decided to call it a night. We still hadn’t quite adjusted to the time in L.A., and it wasn’t just that. Hollywood suddenly wasn’t making any sense at all.

“I can’t believe we’re lying by a pool – in November. 75 degrees! Is this normal?”

“Actually, it’s been known to be warmer,” TightLips replied.

I sighed contentedly, dipped a plantain into the fresh guacamole, and glanced around the pool deck of The Standard West Hollywood. “I could get used to this.”

24 hours earlier, we met up at gate 42 in JFK. It was 1pm on Thursday. I hadn’t seen TightLips in a while, and as we settled into 31A and B, we caught up on gossip like 13-year-old girls.

“I can’t believe he said that!”

“Were you on that email chain??”

“He’s such a bitch!”

Since we were in catty-chatty mode, I asked him, “So what’s going on with your love life?”

Typical TightLips, he immediately clammed up. “Nothing! I don’t know. Nothing!”

I knew that he was seeing someone who lived halfway across the country, but I didn’t know the details. I decided to press a little bit.

“Long distance relationships are rough,” I said.

“I am NOT in a relationship!” he exclaimed. “I’m in a … Situation.”

I laughed, and decide to leave it at that, knowing I would get no more out of him. I cracked open my new James Patterson paperback.

The flight, amazingly, was drama-free. No delays, no turbulence, no screaming babies.

We had decided to only rent a car for one day of our four-day weekend, and like characteristic New Yorkers took a cab from the airport to the hotel. I was immediately happy with The Standard, with its signature blue Astroturf pool deck and over-sized metallic silver beanbag chair in the room. TightLips was immediately happy the cable TV had Bravo.

He started to settle into the Real Housewives of Atlanta Reunion, but I grabbed the remote away and dragged him down to the pool deck for our first LA cocktail. Soon he was sipping a Raspberry Bluejob, while I was enjoying a Basil-Lime Vodka Gimlet and the weather.

“There’s no way anyone is New York is sitting outside having their cocktails tonight,” I observed.

“Feel bad for them?” he asked.

“Not in the least. Cheers!”

After our drinks, we decided to walk the 2 blocks to Santa Monica Blvd in search of a fun restaurant for dinner. TightLips wanted Mexican food. I wanted eye candy. I had downloaded, much to his horror, the GayCities app to my iphone, and it showed plenty of gay bars and restaurants on Santa Monica, near the hotel. We soon arrived at Marix, a Mexican restaurant over-flowing with gay boys. It was West Hollywood’s Arriba Arriba.

I texted ByeByeCostal, a trick I had met in New York years ago, but had kept in touch with as he seemed to fly to Manhattan a lot, even though he lived and worked in L.A. He promised to meet us the next night, but suggested we check out Obar and FUBAR. Such creative names in LA.

After our tex-mex meal, TightLips and I walked to Obar, conveniently a few blocks away. It was a very crowded, well decorated, fairly upscale lounge. I enjoyed it right away, and happily sat down at the bar. TightLips however, between the poolside cocktail, the dinner and the jet lag, was exhausted. I sent him back to the hotel, assuring him I would be fine.

I sat for a few minutes sipping a vodka redbull, taking in the L.A. scene. Before long, a pretty Asian girl ordering next to me said, “Hello Beautiful.” I liked her immediately. We chatted while she ordered, her name was Emily, and the whole time I was thinking, ‘I met an L.A. fag hag!’

She left with her drinks, and I sat for a few more minutes, listening to the bartender call everyone Baby. He also had the terrible habit of over-garnishing every drink, as a sign of affection to the patron, once even going as far as dropping 3 cherries into a drink announcing, “Kisses!”

I turned away from him, and suddenly saw kisses indeed – there was my Asian fag hag... making out with a hot blonde girl! When they came up for air, they walked back over and Emily introduced me to Mary. I said hello, the whole time thinking, ‘I met two L.A. lesbians! This is so L-WORD!’ Then suddenly Emily introduced me to someone else.

“This is Deeno. He wants to buy us shots!”

Deeno was slightly older, very drunk, and very into me. “Hellllllllllo!” he slurred, immediately grabbing my ass. “You need a shot!”

The truth was, I didn’t. I’d had the gimlet, a double margarita at dinner, and the vodka here. I was getting drunk. But I always say, never turn down free alcohol. Plus, I was alone at a bar in a strange city, and they were being nice to me. I needed to be polite.

“Ok, thank you!” I said, politely. “What shall we have?”

“What we’re having,” Deeno slurred, “is either Lemon Drops, or Jaeger shots.”

“What?! Jaeger shots!” I cried in disbelief. “What is this, a fucking frat party?? Who the fuck does Jaeger shots?!”

Emily and Mary stared at me. Deeno seemed too gone to notice my outburst.

“Um, Lemon Drops would be lovely,” I said with my sweetest smile.

Baby the Bartender served us four huge shots in lowball glasses with sugar-covered rims. It took me 3 gulps to drink it.

As soon as we’d finished, the lesbians started making out again, and a minute later they announced, “We’re leaving!”

“What!?” I cried. “It’s 10:30! Where are you going??”

Mary leaned in close to me and whispered, “someplace better!” and then grabbed Emily’s ass with both hands. I got the message. They were going home to scissor.

I was worried I’d be stuck with drunk Deeno, but fortunately he was stumbling around the bar, a bit lost. I seized the opportunity to escape. When you’re in a new city, you somehow develop courage you don’t seem to have at home. I looked around, saw a group of 4 guys (2 of them attractive) and immediately went up and started talking to them.

“OK guys, I have a question. When someone buys you a drink, how long do you have to talk to him?”

There was a split-second, ‘who-is-this-weirdo-talking-to-us’ pause, but then the answers started flying.

“Ten minutes?” said one.

“However long it takes you to drink it,” said another, a philosophy I personally agree with.

“Not if he’s ugly!” cried the third. The conversation continued, and I soon learned all of their names – none of which I even pretended to remember, as the force of the triple-size shot on top of all the other drinks was really starting to hit me. I was just considering ordering a bottle of water when...

An unbelievably loud whistle blast! One long high-pitched whistle, louder than all the conversation and music.

“What the fu...” I started, but was cut off by one of my new friends.

“Order!!” he shouted.

“What??”

“Drinks!” exclaimed another, pushing me toward the bar, which I happened to be closest to. “They’re free!”

I noticed two things – a crowd of people swarming toward the bar, and the projection of a huge digital clock on the wall, counting down from 4 minutes.

“Drinks are free for four minutes?” I asked.

“Yes!!” they shouted. “Vodka cran! Vodka soda! Rum and diet!!”

It was all happening too fast, especially in my drunken state. Which should have been my first indication that I did not need another drink. But I always say, don’t turn down free...

Another loud whistle blast! Just as I was about to order, the clock hit zero. But fortunately, Baby the Bartender remembered me from the time I’d spent sitting alone at his bar. “What’ll it be? I gotcha, Baby.”

I tipped him handsomely, and delivered the free drinks to my new friends. I was rewarded with an invite to their next destination.

“You should come,” they said. “It’s Arab night.”

“Huh?” I asked, confused. All I could picture was flying carpets, genies, and Aladdin. “Arabian Nights?”

“Arab night! Like, Arab guys!”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, where is it?”

“It’s like 12, 15 blocks from here.”

“Oh,” I said. “So we can walk.”

“We’re totally driving.”

I shook my head. “I’m just gonna go to this FUBAR place,” I said. “But thanks for the invite!”

As they headed off to Arabia, I stumbled another few blocks to FUBAR. It was not like Obar at all. Dark, sweaty, loud. A step up from a dive bar. I pushed my way in, looking around and trying to judge the crowd. The next thing I noticed was the go-go boys. Scratch that. Go-go men? Go-go line-backers? The one standing on the front bar had thighs the size of my head. I wouldn’t say he was fat... but it was definitely not all muscle. “Beefy” might be a good word.

I was getting tired. It was almost 1:30 – 4:30am New York Time. But what if I missed something? What if this was THE place to meet guys? I looked around again, and finally decided that FUBAR reminded me of Urge in the East Village, while Obar reminded me of The Park in Chelsea. I leaned against a wall to Twitter that thought, and as I did I noticed someone right next to me, typing on his phone as well. I stole a glance at his screen. Grindr. The gay hookup iphone app. Apparently, this wasn’t THE place to meet guys, if someone was standing here trying to meet guys online.

I took it as a sign, and left the bar, stumbling back to the hotel. I still had 2 more L.A. days ahead of me.