Already, I feel like a foreigner, and I've only been here for six hours. More twenty-somethings trickle into the line filing down the driveway, all of whom are clean, clear, and under control. In Portland, going out usually includes a lot of unwashed hair, piercings, and an active attempt at looking "earthy." This crew has weirdly pore-less skin, shirts that have been ironed recently (!), and the guy in front of me wearing $200 jeans smells like kittens. Everyone in line is emitting an air of casual importance and expensive hair wax.

The plants covering the wall of this house jut out in a starfish pattern, and I can’t help but step over to them, touch their stringy feelers, and smell their buds. I turn around and notice there are about fifteen people in line now, and all of them are staring at me. I wonder if being interested in nature in LA is like wearing a pro-choice t-shirt at a rodeo.

“Heyyy Sam,” I hear this chick say to my friend, coming up to us from behind.

She's slender and in a business pantsuit, with rows of curly, dark waves bubbling down her face. She's pretty, but in an Ally McBeal's antagonist sort of way.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to cut you guys!” She tells the people behind us. She’s doesn't seem sorry.

I tell her, “I love your hair, it’s great.”

“Thanks.” She looks at me like I just handed her a toothbrush, and we’re in prison. “So, are you visiting?”

“Yeah, I’m from Portland.”

“Oh, Portland. You know, I like Portland. I really do. But I have three reasons I could never live there.”

“Yeah? What are they?” I'm already regretting asking this.

“Oh, well, first of all, it’s too small. I mean, my friends and I walked around, what was it, the Northwest? And that was nice, you know. Then we walked up to, I think it was like, The Pearl? There were some pretty cool little shops, but that was like, it. I feel like I saw everything there was to see in three days.”

I nod. The line moves an inch forward. She only mentioned two neighborhoods, that happen to be right next to each other. “Yeah, Portland is pretty small.”

“And my second thing is the smell. Smelling all that pine and pot smoke, I can’t do it. I mean, I don’t judge people for that lifestyle choice, I just couldn't handle smelling that rustic smell all the time. I don’t do nature, I’m a city girl. I just know that I need to be an aggressive, urban environment. That’s what I like about LA; it’s very fresh, very cosmopolitan.”

I try to hide the grimace that just wants to splay all over my face. “Yeah, totally. So what’s your third reason?”

She folds her arms. “The wild turkeys. I just don’t think I could handle getting attacked by wild turkeys.”

Bitch be cray. “Erm, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I've never seen a wild turkey before.”

She looks at me for a moment. “Oh wait, that was in Eugene. That’s right.”

The line is finally starting to move, eventually pushing us to the front, where a very tall wafer-like girl who might have been recently faxed over from "Glamour" scans my friend’s phone, and ushers us inside. The moment we step through the back door, I smell pot smoke.

“Does it smell too rustic in here for you?” I ask Sam’s friend, who's behind me.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing."