Many people claim to "hate L.A." but the disagreeable symptoms they state (a superficial zeitgeist, people who chronically use the word "like", fake-mammary-toting cougars, etc.) are, in actuality, more endemic of Orange County and the San Fernando Valley. Similarly, the things that people think they love about Los Angeles (beaches, sunshine, palm trees) should be credited to a little city with a population less than 100,000.

"I want a girl to show me the raw Santa Monica" is all my Craigslist ad stated. Logically, I should have posted the ad in the "Strictly Platonic" section, but I wanted to taste Santa Monica's underbelly, the unadulterated Santa Monica. I was certainly skeptical as to whether I'd get any responses. After-all, does Santa Monica even have an underbelly? However, one named Erica shot me an e-mail just before midnight, the night before I would explore. Unbeknownst to Ms. Erica, I was here on business, so I roamed Santa Monica on my own for about an hour before we were supposed to meet.

State-of-mind-wise, Santa Monica is kind of like a San Francisco/New York embassy, where folks who are from those, or other cities, enjoy gloating about how uncultured Los Angeles is without the hypocrisy of being in Los Angeles. It's currently mid-December and the residents of this city welcome the temperature drop, as it gives them the nod to wear pea coats, scarves and other articles which enhance one's sophisticated glow. A Santa Monica December is indeed spectacular. The cold sea-air, the palm trees, and the sun all lock horns like a trio of feisty reindeer.

Erica was a lovely young Santa Monica native and a fairly accurate random sample of the general population. Befittingly, she rocked a long black pea coat. Her dark brown bubble shades made her look like a sexy insect. She despises Los Angeles and avoids crossing the L.A./ Santa Monica border whenever possible. "Like a Crip who knows not to cross into Blood territory?" I ask. "Yes, kind of, but I wear a green bandana rather than red or blue." I thought her answer was slightly clever and simultaneously worthy of an eye-roll, but I felt this was "raw Santa Monica," so who am I to judge? Erica needed to check on her gerber daisies, which she grows at the Santa Monica community gardens (Located on Main between Strand & Hollister). The garden is one if the largest community gardens in Southern California and is ideal for taking a stroll. Large and well-kept parks seem to be in short supply these days.

Expansive and covered in plentiful flora, Hotchkiss Park (2302 4th) is the last of a dying breed, but certainly great for reclaiming inner-peace. Many friendly elderly utilize the park for afternoon exercise. Hotchkiss is also frequented by couples on dates and those incognito, reading books and taking it all in.

Despite only being 1PM, it's common practice for the always snazzy Monica-ites to grab a bottle of wine or a six pack of beer and bring them to perhaps the dopest B.Y.O.B. spot in Los Angeles County, Cha Cha Chicken (1906 Ocean Ave). Despite the nippy winter, this outdoor spot had the pea-coats dropping and hedonistic beach-goers gazing up at palm trees . The jerk-chicken enchiladas are murderous, especially when supplemented by an amorous wine buzz.

Erica didn't (and doesn't) know she was being studied so she thought it a tad bit odd that I insisted she get her grocery shopping done. Santa Monica Farms (2015 Main Street) has got organic foods and produce on lock. It's sort of like Whole Foods, sans the SUV-like strollers and twelve-dollar bags of granola. Plus, the place is independently owned--Santa Monica residents love spitting in "the man's" face. The one accessory that Erica was not equipped with (though she claimed she had one at home) was a yoga mat. Almost all of the women trotting down Santa Monica's chipper streets, seemed to have one. In fact, so many women seemed to have them, I don't think it's possible that each and every one of them was actually coming or going from a yoga session. Hung across the back, the rolled-up mat resembles a samurai sword protected by a sheath. The mats may be a deterrent which silently tells any unwanted suitors that "My aura is exercised on the daily, and I'm not a hussy who's impressed by German automobiles. I am one with the galaxy."

Despite lacking a mystical yoga mat, Erica's clopping boots made warhorse sounds and commanded plenty of respect. They resonated in specialty store Horizons West (2011 Main St), one of the many surf-wear stores in the area and one where non-regulars get a shoulder on the chillier side. Her cognac tinted frames also tossed a nonchalant trajectory which grabbed the two of us a chunk of respect from the cooler-than-thou folks at Undefeated (2654-B Main Street) with their rare, panache but grown-ass-manish sneakers.

As the sun began to descend into the Pacific ocean, Erica had to end our date in order to attend her evening yoga class. I looked into the brown ovals of her sunglasses and asked, "Erica, will I ever see you again?" To which she responded, "I really like you, Paul, but...we're from different worlds." Choked up, I merely nodded. Erica disappeared into the Santa Monica dusk and I began my trek to the east. It was time to go home.