Forty-eight hours in Los Angeles, the HIGHER way
A canyon hotel, a breakfast counter with a waiting list, a gallery in a former garage and the best seat for sunset. An editors' itinerary.
Fiction for the demo. Names, places and people in this story are invented.
Los Angeles is not a city you visit; it’s a set of rooms connected by roads. Choose the rooms well and the roads become the pleasure.
Friday: arrive in the canyon
Check in at The Laurel House, eighteen rooms on a terraced slope, built around a pool that catches the last light. Ask for a room on the upper level: the view runs all the way to the ocean on clear evenings. Dinner is at the hotel’s counter, where the chef cooks whatever the market sent.
Saturday: art and an early lunch
Breakfast at Juniper Counter in Silver Lake means queuing, so arrive before eight. Then drive to Garage 9, a gallery in a former auto workshop showing young painters from both coasts. Lunch is late and long at Oro, a courtyard restaurant where the menu changes with the citrus season.
Choose the rooms well and the roads become the pleasure.
Saturday evening: the coast road
Take the Pacific Coast Highway north an hour before sunset, windows down, and stop at Terrace Twenty-Two, a clifftop terrace with exactly twelve tables. No reservations; arrive early and order the grilled fish.
Sunday: a slow goodbye
A swim, a walk through the canyon, and a final coffee on the hotel terrace. Leave for the airport later than feels sensible. In Los Angeles, the drive always takes longer — and that is part of the trip.
