I. Entry Point: Written in January, 2006.

Los Angeles to me has always been a fascinatingly conflicted place. As the starting point for my exploration of this nation, I remember my first glimpse of the sprawling urban maelstrom from the window of our plane. I had just turned 15, for the second time in two days, thanks to the wonders of 15-hour time differences and 12-hour flights. The anniversary of my birth happens to coincide with that of the (non-Native) United States, and as a bratty teen unleashed upon the consumer frenzy that the Phil Knight’s of the world whirl up so successfully through ingenious marketing campaigns, I had my eyes set on one birthday gift only: A pair of brand spankin’ new Air Jordan XIVs, at the delightful price of $150, U.S. (Then, in the harrowing pre-boom days of Australian mini-recession: roughly $230).

So, after settling into our room at the Westin Bonaventure, I dragged my family out to find the nearest shoe store in which to procure a pair of these sweet, holy foot-sheaths of the hardwood, worn by none other than God reincarnate, Mr. Jordan.

We ventured away from the towering financial skyscrapers amongst which our hotel was located, into the (unbeknownst to us) far shadier regions of Downtown. Before long, hunger intervened, and we made a stop for lunch, at none other than America’s golden temple of greasy triumph: McDonalds (or “Mackey-Ds,” as Australian youth refer to it). For this gluttonous emperor of corporate standardization, the cultural distinctions—beyond the gastronomical (I’d take Aussie McDonalds any day)—were eye opening: I saw my first real homeless person take the unused ketchup packet from my bag and consume it, shot-style. Upon dashing out, I remember the foreign sense of shock I felt at the clear economic disparities which surrounded me: the unfortunate chap sitting on cardboard around the corner, the snooty disdain in which a well-to-do woman glanced around her. We’d traveled at most a couple of blocks, but the almost instantaneous drop-off in wealth was like a North Dakotans first trip to the beach; the reality of the Angeleno underclass like a brutal wave crashing over my welfare state-coddled mind.

That evening, in the bar at the revolving tower atop the Bonaventure, I sipped on the most expensive glass of Coca-cola in my life as fireworks exploded before us, capping what was at the time the most significant birthday of my life. And though I would later be rewarded with those mightily over-priced Jordans—only the beginning of a thankfully short-lived sneaker collecting habit (call it “Air Cocaine”)—Los Angeles would for me always be remembered as a place of fundamental inequity.