Chapter 31: First Impressions of Los Angeles

Old Tom, who almost took a punch from the Kryptonian, wasn't wrong about one thing.

That is, the ferry from Alaska — people leaving Los Angeles port basically faced zero inspection; drive on and go. Boarding only required showing a ticket; nobody cared whether luggage or the car held anything dangerous.

Before the 21st-century 9/11 attacks, America had a baffling confidence in its own homeland security. They were always the ones stirring up trouble on someone else's soil — who would dare come at them?

In any case, driving along Los Angeles roads, Henry couldn't shake that unreal feeling. Passing by the beach, what he saw wasn't the sunshine, sand, and bikinis he'd imagined.

The somewhat bleak coastal scenery came with the whoosh of sea wind pouring into the car. Even with a Kryptonian body that feared neither cold nor heat, he still thought it was stupid to drive with the window down in winter.

The kind of idiot who drives a convertible in the rain, and because he can't figure out how to close the roof, ends up wearing a raincoat or holding an umbrella inside the car.

Only occasionally did he see some surf-crazy lunatics in full-body swimsuits, braving the winter waves.

To be fair, these people really could surf. Anyone whose skills weren't up to par probably wouldn't choose to torture themselves in winter either.

By chance he spotted a film crew shooting on the beach.

The people surrounded by cameras were handsome men and beautiful women, wearing summer swim trunks and bikinis, pretending they were enjoying the sand and sunshine.

Compared to them, the crew behind the scenes were bundled up one more puffy than the next. The actors were probably cursing in their hearts.

Seeing this scene, the fact that he had actually come to Los Angeles gradually began to feel real to Henry.

So, what to do next?

Although he'd thought through a lot on the ship, it had all been big-picture stuff.

Now he had to ask himself what to actually do, step by step.

Passing a newsstand, Henry parked, got out, and walked over. He fished around in his pocket, pulled out a five-cent coin, set it on the counter, casually picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times, and told the owner: "One map, please."

"A tourist map, or...?" the middle-aged man at the stand asked.

"A detailed one. I'm going to be living in Los Angeles for a while."

The middle-aged man pulled out a folded single-sheet map and slid it across to Henry, then set down a few coins of change and asked offhandedly: "Where are you from?"

"Alaska," Henry said bluntly.

"Oh, no wonder. Seeing you dressed like that, I was starting to wonder if it was about to snow in Los Angeles."

Henry's coat was windproof and waterproof — a standard snow jacket, different from an ordinary coat focused mainly on warmth. Hence the middle-aged man's remark.

"Oh, Lord. I've had more than enough of the snow. Does it snow in Los Angeles?" Henry picked up the thread.

"When it's really cold, yes. But it's been a long time since I've seen it. If you want to ski, you'd have to head east to Big Bear Lake. There's a decent ski resort there."

"Please, no. Just the sight of snow makes me sick to my stomach now — and you want me to ski it? Wouldn't it be better to just roll downhill?" Henry grumbled, then asked: "There are so many decorations on the road — getting ready for Christmas?"

"Yep, Christmas, then New Year's. Same as every year, nothing creative," the middle-aged man said jokingly.

Henry quipped back: "If one year it were different, that'd be the real disaster."

"Ha, yeah." Pleased that Henry had caught his joke, the middle-aged man let out a couple of happy laughs.

Grabbing the change and the map, Henry tossed off: "Thanks, I'm off."

"Merry Christmas," the middle-aged man offered.

"Merry Christmas."

Back in the car, Henry kept driving. Although it was already past noon, he'd just disembarked and hadn't had time for lunch, so he had to find a restaurant along the way.

American restaurants are tiered too, and Henry wasn't heading for the top-tier ones. Because at those places, reservation or not aside, there's a dress code just to get in.

If someone showed up in a tank top, flip-flops, and baggy shorts — forget a nouveau riche, even an old-money tycoon would get turned away by the maître d'. In his current getup, Henry had a high chance of being stopped at the door.

Besides, those places were expensive. Apart from businesspeople wining and dining, they were basically there to fleece tourists.

Henry found a family-style restaurant that didn't give off any weird smells. After parking, he took the newspaper, map, and backpack inside.

That backpack held his entire fortune. Twenty-plus bundles of hundred-dollar bills, stuffed to the brim.

Considering America's public safety situation, Henry hadn't even considered leaving the bag in the car. That would be like inviting someone to smash the window and grab it.

Of course, for small purchases, he kept some small bills and a few large ones scattered in his various pockets.

Whenever he had to pay for something, he'd have to dig around left and right to scrape together the exact change. The whole routine looked thoroughly broke — nobody would suspect Henry was carrying a fortune on him.

Speaking of which, the one thing he'd been best at before transmigrating was putting on an act. Either playing dumb or playing dead. Hiding one's wealth was practically second nature.

In the afternoon, the restaurant was nearly empty. Henry picked a sunlit seat, put his things on the inside, and of course took off his coat.

The waitress came over quickly, carrying a coffee pot. "Hot coffee?"

"Yes please." An empty cup was sitting upside down on a small saucer on the table. Henry flipped it right-side up and ordered a cup of coffee.

As the plump waitress poured, she asked: "Anything else?"

"What food do you have? Sweetheart. I haven't had lunch yet."

The plump waitress, immune to sweet talk, gave him a perfectly measured eye-roll — not offensive, but making her stance perfectly clear. She said: "We have bacon, sausage, fried eggs. If you want, I can also fry you a steak."

"I'll have one of everything, please — I'm starving." Henry downed the coffee in one gulp, then added: "Oh, sweetheart, if you don't mind, you can leave the coffee pot."

"OK, if you need it." The plump waitress topped off Henry's coffee, left the half-full pot, and headed to the kitchen to put in the order.

Though her expression was full of disdain, the change in her footsteps compared to before made it clear her mood had lifted.

In no time, a plate piled high with bacon, sausage, and fried eggs came out first. The plump waitress wasn't exactly tiptoeing, but her movements were much gentler. She said: "The steak will take a bit — eat these first. Would you like some bread or crackers?"

"Some bread, thanks."

At that point she noticed Henry looking over the map. The plump waitress asked casually: "Here to study? Sightseeing? Or chasing a star dream?"

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(End of chapter)