Isn’t it nice that people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there?—Herb Caen
I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re beautiful. Everybody’s plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic.—Andy Warhol
From the time I arrived in Los Angeles, I experienced Angelenos as enthusiastic and cheerfully chauvinistic, yet sometimes a bit excusatory, about their city. San Francisco, on the other hand, they uniformly venerated as the California city of genuine culture and beauty, with interesting and cosmopolitan inhabitants such as Ellay could not offer. So often I heard people speak longingly of ditching Los Angeles to live in San Francisco.
Eventually I did. And I quickly learned that this high esteem was not mutual. San Franciscans, natives and transplants alike, scorned Los Angeles as a mindless, shallow wasteland of pure plastic and obscene materialism. (Note: I began to make a point of asking said scornful transplants if they had ever been to Los Angeles. The reply was usually no.)
As a transplant who retains an outlander ‘s perspective, I have loved and hated both cities while living in them. I see the beauty in both, the odium in both, the excitement and the commonplace in both.
They are two cities, many miles apart in ethos. They are the unicoast.