Stranger (hearing a bit of my accent): Where are you from?
Me: Australia.
Her: Wow! (insert Australia story here, about how they’ve always wanted to go, or have a friend who lives there etc)
Me: You should go! It’s really beautiful. 
Her: How long have you been here? 
Me: A year.
Her: And how do you like it?
Me: I really like it! It’s great for work, I’ve got lovely friends, and (insert standard comment about amazing LA weather and joke about the bad traffic)
Her: Do you have a boyfriend?
Me: No, I’m single. That’s the only thing I don’t like about LA, it’s hard to meet people because of the isolation of driving everywhere, and even harder to meet people you’re compatible with.
Her: I know! (insert standard conversation about bad dates, fake actor type guys and players who date five girls at once) …but YOU shouldn’t have any trouble!
Me: Why?
Her: Because you have a cute accent!

Seriously, just about every day a girl will say this to me, as if having a foreign accent means you’ll a) meet more eligible men and b) they’ll fall in love with you.
If that were the case, I’d be MRS ALICIA GYLLENHAAL. 

This photo makes my eyeballs want to explode from the hotness. STOP IT.

As soon as I walked around the corner, I knew something was wrong. I was so used to seeing her poking out of the parking garage to greet me, I noticed straight away that she wasn’t there. No, no, no, no, it couldn’t be, I chanted in my head, breaking out into a run towards the door. Maybe she was just moved to a different spot? I thought, fumbling my keys into the lock. She can’t be gone. She couldn’t be gone. Not now that we were just getting our relationship back on track.

Opening the garage door, my worst fears were realised. Frankie was not sitting in her usual spot. Nor was she anywhere I could see. I ran around the perimeter, my heart sinking with every step. She wasn’t hiding behind my car… or any of the other cars… she wasn’t even in the storage area… It was official. Frankie was missing. Stolen. Targeted for her looks, obviously. I guess it really is true; LA is a hotbed of crime.

Collapsing helplessly against my car, my mind thought back, movie flashback style; to the first time I met Frankie. It was love at first sight…

It was back in that magical winter of January 2011. The LA skies were blue and the gentle sun warmed my face as I walked along Beverly Boulevard. I was but a youngster back then, not yet 30 and looking at the world with the kind of wide-eyed wonder every recent transplant views their new hometown. I had not yet grown tired of walking the streets of West Hollywood, though the blocks were long and everything farther away than I thought; I had my trusty iPhone for a soundtrack and enjoyed how the streets changed depending on which track I played. From a gritty crime thriller to a quirky romantic comedy, this was my Hollywood movie and I was its newest star. Plus I didn’t have much of a choice about walking everywhere, having recently discovered that possessing no credit rating was worse than having a bad one, and with no magic number to your name, no-one would loan you a car.

Something caught my eye as I walked past a store window, and I found myself heading inside to look closer. I perused the racks of goods on display, and noting the high price of most, swiftly turned to walk out. It was then that I saw her. In the far corner, stacked behind flashier models, she sat patiently waiting. And I knew then, she was the answer to my current situation. Within ten minutes, she was mine, and I didn’t even notice the stares as we walked out hand in hand. Later, showing her off to my friend Chloe, she asked, “What is her name?” then suggested “How about Frankie?” I looked at her, then at Chloe, then back at her. Yes, Frankie… that suits her. Frankie the bicycle.

The next few months were a whirlwind of attending parties, events, celebrity interviews and red carpets. We were young and carefree; and if it was happening within a 5-mile radius, we were there.

I remember the good times – when we rode up to the Mondrian and were told no-one had ever ridden a bicycle to that hotel before; the look on the valet’s faces at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills when I asked if they could park Frankie for me; laughing as we turned up to film screenings out of breath and sweaty in stark contrast to the other, more glamorous TV reporters; those red carpets where Frankie held my heels in her front basket, and (mostly) concealed my modesty as I pedaled in my cocktail dress.

And, I remember the bad times. The introduction of Frankie to my new purchase, the Leashmobile version 3.0. The tears as I tried to explain that she was not being replaced, despite the Leashmobile being faster, less effort, able to travel on freeways, get valet parked, and possessing a trendy convertible soft top. The worried looks on my friend’s faces as they realized I have names for all my inanimate objects.

Two months of silence followed. I callously pretended not to notice Frankie’s fragile state as I walked past her to my shiny new car. She gathered dust in the garage, rain reduced her comfortable seat to crackling leather, rust formed on her basket, and I ignored it all. Until one day, I woke up. What have I done? I thought, as I tenderly covered her seat with a plastic bag and vowed to use her for my short trips. Suddenly, we were back on. We developed a daily routine of gym, café, home, and I realised how much I missed that feeling of the wind whipping against my face as I overtook frustrated drivers stuck in traffic.

Until that tragic day when Frankie’s lock broke. Thinking she would be ok untethered in my parking garage until I could buy a new one, I left her, exposed and alone. Oh, so alone. Perhaps I should have hidden her a little better, or taken her upstairs to my apartment, but the ten other unlocked bikes in the garage gave me a false sense of security.

Now, she’s gone. And I have been robbed of saying goodbye. Mainly, I feel bad for society. I search for Frankie in every bike that rides past, looking for that telltale plastic shopping bag on her seat. My heart breaks to think of her, probably being joyridden by a drunkard, ending up alone and on the streets, another Hollywood tragedy.

“Maybe she’s gone to a better home?” suggested my flat-mate. I hadn’t thought of that. The whole ugly incident had clouded my normally optimistic nature, so I tried to change my thinking.

Now, I like to imagine Frankie on a farm somewhere. The country air has healed her leather wounds, and an angelic blonde-haired boy is now riding her on quiet country roads, to and from his school. The boy has never known such joy in his short life, and his father, struggling on a single income since his wife passed away in a tragic accident, was reduced to driving to LA and stealing her, not knowing that if he had simply asked, I would have gladly given Frankie to the boy for free.

Yes, that’s it.

Brad Pitt’s blue eyes looked into mine as I shook his hand and tried to remember how to breathe.

“Hi Brad! I’m Alicia from Australia, howsitgoing?” my words jumbled out and locked together in a rush of nervousness.

“Hi, I’m good.” He said in his familiar voice. “What time zone is it for you right now?”

Taking my seat on the raised platform, the lights felt hot on my face. Am I shiny? I wondered, glancing at the three cameras pointed towards us. My throat felt dry and I suddenly needed to pee.

“Um, I don’t even know!” I replied, in a voice higher than normal, “I came from London, and before that Paris, and before that LA, San Francisco, New York… now here in Mexico!”

“Ok Alicia we are rolling.” Boomed an American male voice from the sidelines.

I glanced at the clock in front of me as it began to count down from 6 minutes. 06:00, 05:59, 05:58, 05:57… I took a deep breath, rearranged my face into an expression that (I hope) looked self-confident, and asked my first question.

“So… Moneyball… it’s about sabermetrics. Not such a sexy subject matter?”

Brad laughed, his eyes crinkling and his lips revealing perfect white teeth. As he launched into his answer I had a sudden thought. It’s the first interview of the day, in the first batch of press. That means I could possibly be the first international reporter to talk to Brad Pitt about his latest movie. Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt is looking into my eyes. Screw all the celebrity gossip, the sexiest man alive titles and the paparazzi that surround him. This is the guy who I watched in Twelve Monkeys. In that scene in Thelma & Louise. In Inglourious Basterds. In Fight Club.

Suddenly I was transported back in time. It’s 1999, and a shy 18 year-old, Alicia Holdsworth, sits transfixed in a small cinema in Canberra, Australia. Images from David Fincher’s Fight Club flicker across her face, as she tries to soak in everything she can about the film. The smart script. The visceral violence. The quirky editing. She loves every second, and when the film ends she immediately wants to see it again.

Brad Pitt finishes his sentence and looks at me expectedly. I glance at the clock, 05:05, 05:04, 05:03… and mumble out my next question. Brad smiles, answers easily, his interview style much more relaxed and friendly than I was expecting. Not that I was expecting to ever interview him. Brad Pitt. Brad. Pitt. It’s one of those full circle moments, and one question keeps circling through my head… What is little Alicia Holdsworth from Canberra doing interviewing Brad Pitt in Mexico?

Two weeks ago I was running along the edge of the beautiful San Francisco bay, weaving my way through suited up young professionals on their way to work. I paused for a moment to snap a photo of the morning sun rising behind the Bay Bridge on my iPhone. When I reviewed the picture, I noticed a young brunette caught in my frame, her floral dress flapping behind her as she flew past on her bicycle. I wondered who she was, what her story was, and to where she was rushing. And then a thought occurred to me… who would I be if I lived here in San Francisco? What would my job be? What would my name be?

I’ve been fascinated with names, how they change your identity and affect the way people perceive you; ever since I changed my last name. Alicia Holdsworth was a timid film lover with big dreams and large talk of working in television, but was secretly not quite sure she actually could. But as Alicia Malone, I could reinvent myself, move to Sydney, and work hard from the ground up.

“TV is a hard job to get into.” Holdsworth agreed, but Malone answered, “I don’t mind hard work.”
“Your voice is not good for TV,” they told Holdsworth, but Malone replied, “I’ll take voice lessons.”
“LA is a tough city, how will you get work?” and Malone said, “I don’t know, but I’ll make it happen. I have to go.”
For a few years, Malone became my alter ego, helping me to fake self-confidence until I eventually had it.

But here in San Francisco, I decided I was Trisha. Riding my bike in my floral dress and sandals, on my way to a pitch meeting at the design company I worked at. I have no idea what design companies do, or what a pitch really involves, but for that day it was kinda fun. A few days later, Alice, a career minded young executive, pushed her way through the hoards of tourists in Times Square, careful not to let her Prada pumps get ruined in the process. I was actually wearing free Havianas, and was one of those tourists, but still, it kept me amused. In London I was Alex, a hipster from Shoreditch with cool hair. Paris, I became Alysia, a sexy and carefree writer eating a pain au chocolat by the Seine without a second thought of the calories.

In Mexico, I was back to being Alicia Malone, but pronouncing it in my head as Alee-sia Malon-ey, enjoying the way the Spanish-speaking people would say it. And with the clock counting down… 03:23, 03:22, 03:21… it was time to use my alter ego to trick myself into believing that interviewing Brad Pitt is a totally normal thing to do.

But I really saw the power of alter egos a week later in San Diego during Comic Con. Here was a place where people truly live out their fantasies, coming together to indulge in their unique obsessions, finding like-minded people, dressing up as their favorite superheroes, even acting the part in photos. For those four days, shy outsiders really did become Spidermen, everyday office workers transformed into Storm Troopers, and anyone could be Superman.

For many years, I’ve been intrigued by Comic Con. I had been hearing about it on television, on Twitter and in magazines, and had been warned several times how huge it really is. Still, I was surprised by the amount of people everywhere. 125,000 people showed up. And they were not just inside the convention center, where you shuffled slowly behind them; but there were people pouring out in the streets, stuffed inside bars, piling into restaurants, cafes and hotels. It was like nerd New Year’s Eve, and I have never seen so many pairs of glasses in one area.

I walked the streets of the Gaslamp district, feeling a mixture of wonder, anxiety, excitement and confusion at the snippets of conversation I was overhearing.
“Man, I played Gears of War for 20 minutes today, it was so sick, I didn’t even mind the four hour wait.” Gears of War? Huh?
“I saw this chick wearing the coolest steampunk costume…” Steampunk?
“I’m sooo buying a Tardis bobblehead…” That has something to do with Dr Who, I thought, as I walked past a Transformer ordering Starbucks.

I was beginning to realize no alter ego invented by me would make the Comic Con crowd believe I knew about comic books, video games, or anything remotely tech-y. But luckily I was there to cover the film events, and, readjusting my Big Lebowski T-shirt, that was something Alicia Malone knew a lot about.

In the press lines (a red carpet set up in a hotel ballroom) I stood for hours in the one spot, marveling at my stellar bladder control and unusual lack of hunger. The stars came thick and fast, an odd assortment of actors promoting four different films at once. There was Nicolas Cage talking Ghost Rider 2 next to Jessica Biel who was teasing her Total Recall remake. Aziz Ansari joked about 30 Minutes or Less, while Colin Farrell talked Fright Night, and next to him John Cusack promoted The Raven. I’d just spoken to Emma Stone about The Amazing Spiderman, when Channing Tatum approached, ready to talk about Haywire.

As I reached out my hand to introduce myself to Steven Spielberg, I had to swallow my girlish scream. Looking into his brown eyes, I thought of all the things they had seen. All the genius scripts they had read, the iconic moments they had filmed through a camera, and the movie stars they had seen. Now, they were looking at me.

The following day, Francis Ford Coppola’s dark eyes twinkled with delight as he finished talking about his latest creative project.
“Thankyou so much, “ I said, shaking the hand that had held five Oscars, “an absolute pleasure.”
“Pleasure,” he replied with a firm grip, “and that’s a very pretty necklace.”

As he walked to the next interviewer in the line, I allowed my smile to escape from it’s hold and briefly reverted back to Alicia Holdsworth, the girl who was excited to discover a book about The Godfather in her school library all those years ago. Silently, I congratulated that girl for a job well done, before taking Alicia Malone back to Hollywood.

“Look!” screamed my visiting Australian friend Lauren, “I think that’s Mischa Barton!”
I peered from the top of our double decker red sightseeing bus, and could vaguely make out the back of a blondish girl’s head, sitting at Starbucks. It could be Mischa Barton, sure, but it also could be one of another million blonde girls in LA.
“I love celebrity spotting!” said Lauren, getting her camera out to try and snap a photo. But just before she pressed the button, her attention was diverted to the El Pollo Loco fast food restaurant on the corner. The pre-recorded voice had just announced that Brad Pitt himself used to dress as a chicken outside this very restaurant, before he scored his big break in “Thelma & Louise”.
“…because this is Hollywood,” said the voice, strangely in an English accent, “where history is made on every corner.”
“Ooooh…” said Lauren, snapping a photo.
“What are you going to do with that picture?” I laughed, “When are you ever going to look at it?”
“I can’t believe you’re not excited by this!” She replied. “You love anything to do with movies!”
That was true, and a couple of months ago; I probably would have found this random fact about my neighborhood quite interesting. But now? The El Pollo Loco is just the dimly lit fast food joint that I ride my bike past and can’t believe that anyone actually goes inside of. Could it be? Four months in, am I finally becoming a local?

I first had that thought two weeks earlier, when I was at a café and asked for a salad to be made vegetarian, and the dressing to be ‘on the side’. Then, I went a step further and asked for the leftovers to be ‘boxed up’. They are all standard procedures in LA, but in Sydney, you would probably be labeled a diva, and definitely a cheapskate. I’ve also gotten better at customising my Aussie speak, saying ‘sweater’ instead of ‘jumper’, and being able to properly explain the phrase ‘…and Bob’s your uncle’. Though I refuse to pronounce my r’s or use a z in ‘realising’, despite this spell checker insisting I change it. You’ve gotta hold on to some things. Take that, red squiggly line.

Though my local ‘celebrity’ sights no longer excite me, I’m still amazed at what I call the “Kevin Bacon-ness” of Hollywood. Mention anyone’s name, particularly a celebrity’s, and you’ll get a story of how they know them.
“Denzel Washington? Oh my assistant’s sister is married to his agent.”
“Tom Cruise? Yeah my cleaner used to work for him.”
Apparently, you can connect anyone in LA to a star in fewer than six steps.

This concept was proven when I visited a beauty salon. In preparation for an upcoming trip to Brazil, I thought I should do as the locals do, so to speak. Holding a normal conversation with a beautician during this process is always awkward, but even more so if you stay silent. So, I persisted with answering the girl’s questions about my job and why I was in LA.
“So, who have you interviewed lately?” she asked.
“Umm…” I said, in between wincing with pain, “Jake Gyllenhaal for Source Code?”
“Oh he’s cute, right?” she said excitedly.
“Soooooo cute!” I replied, dragging out the o’s for full effect.

I began to tell her about the interview, how I thought of funny things to say in the hallway outside, but once inside the hotel room with THOSE EYES staring at me, I could only manage a weak joke about the last time we had met, whilst turning bright red. It was in Sydney, on the red carpet for “Love and Other Drugs”. I was first on the press line and once again, I thought I would be all sassy, so when Jake came over, I said, “Hi future husband!” in a loud voice.
“Really?” he said, “I don’t believe you’re not taken, let me see your left hand.”
At that, he looked up and straight into my eyes, and suddenly, I forgot everything I was going to say. Instead, what came out was… “Which one is my left hand??”
Yep, real cool Alicia, real cool.

“Oh my god, you love him!” the beautician exclaimed.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings by pointing out that I wouldn’t be in love with someone I didn’t know, I smiled and said, “Well, yeah, he’s my future husband!”
“That’s funny,” she said, “I’m waxing his mother in an hour.”
Of course, I’m in Hollywood. I forgot.
“I’ll put in a good word for you!” she said brightly, before adding, “Hey, I should take a photo to show her!”
I was thinking about how Jake is probably going to think he has an Australian stalker for realz, when a thought struck me.
“Wait,” I said, “A photo of my face?”
“Of course! What did you think I meant?”
“Oh nothing,” I said, relieved that was what she meant, not that she wanted to show Mrs G what a great job she did.

Lying on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro, I realised exactly why that particular beauty treatment is named after the locals. Tiny bikinis were all my eyes could see. Tiny bikinis and big booty. Really, it’s quite extraordinary how they all possess these butts, large, but perky somehow. I was mesmerised, also by the men and their tiny little speedos. Apart from the lack of clothing, one of the main differences I noticed between this beach and ones from Australia or America was their body confidence. Every one of them seemed to say, this is me, this is my body, and I’m happy with it. And though some of them maybe shouldn’t be so confident, I’ll gladly endorse any country that values curves over being stick thin.

But I wasn’t in Rio just to perve on the locals; I was there to perve on some beefy stars too. I mean…. conduct professional interviews with Paul Walker, Vin Diesel, The Rock, and the rest of the cast of “Fast and Furious 5”.

A week in Rio. I couldn’t believe it. This was my job? I had been flown to this amazing city to see a film and do some interviews? The entire time I was there, I had to pinch myself, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that had I never taken the leap to move to the US, I probably wouldn’t have had the chance to be there, right at that moment. The farthest I travelled for work while living in Sydney, was Adelaide. (Still exciting… shout-out to Rad-elaide! Woo!)

Reporters from all over the world had been flown to Rio, and I found meeting them endlessly fascinating. It was like we were the United Nations of press junkets, but of course, doing slightly less important work. We had dinners, tours, saw a soccer match and went on a helicopter ride, but one of my favourite moments came at the end, during the after party for the premiere. The reporters had fashioned some kind of dance circle, and we were taking turns going in the middle to perform our signature moves, when I looked around and realised the circle had grown to include almost the entire party. I was just thinking how this felt like a “dance battle” scene from a film, when I was pushed into the middle by a stranger standing behind me. I managed a half-decent robot, and returned to my place to think up my next move, secretly hoping Beyonce’s Single Ladies would play next. Suddenly, there was a flash of gold dress and red hair, followed by a huge cheer. I couldn’t believe what I saw, until I saw it again. It was the sassy American reporter Amy, winning the world by doing a backflip. She was carried out of the circle by a local, like a trophy herself, to cheers from the entire party. Just like a movie, I thought, grinning ear to ear, what a rock star!

Returning to LA, I was walking home, recounting stories from Rio to my Australian friends on their last night in America, when suddenly there was a loud whurr and a bright light.
“What is that?!” yelled Adrian, while Lauren gripped his arm in fright.
“Oh, that’s nothing, just a LAPD helicopter, probably searching for some criminal…” I replied.
“What?! That’s SO scary!” said Lauren, straining to be heard over the noise.
“Meh.” I shrugged. “Anyway, are you hungry? I know a great vegan place down the road…”
I guess I am becoming a local after all. Now, to befriend some celebrities…

I finally met someone normal,” explained one of my new LA friends, “when he said he was a dentist, but…”

“Let me guess,” I interjected, “he was a celebrity dentist?”
“Yes!” she laughed, “With an agent and many TV appearances!”

No matter the industry, in LA, everyone you meet works in entertainment. They might be in accounting, but it’s the accounting department at Disney. If they’re an assistant, chances are they work for one of the big talent agencies. Chef? Probably a home chef for a celebrity. Personal trainer? Too easy, the only question there is how many movie stars have they transformed. Even our cleaner has a SAG card.

But I guess no-one really comes to live in LA unless they want to work in Hollywood in some shape or form, and I’m sure like my friend, soon I will be wishing to talk to someone, anyone who works in a non-related field; but for now, it’s just one more thing I love about my new home. Everyone is passionate about movies and television.

I’ve always been a film geek. Growing up I would watch as many movies as I could, taking full advantage of the ‘$7 for 7 films for 7 days’ VHS special at my local video store… back when those existed. I’d read books on Marilyn Monroe and Hitchcock, dreaming of the magical place called Hollywood where films came alive. In Year 12, not discouraged by the fact that I hadn’t been elected to the student council, I created ‘The Film Club’, nominating myself as the leader, even going so far as to make a badge with ‘Film Club Captain’ scrawled across it. Every week, I’d get up on stage during our school assembly to plead my case, lecturing the 700 bored students about why they all really need to see “Breakfast At Tiffany’s” with me after school on Tuesday. Eventually, the Principal called me into her office, and asked me not to speak anymore as I was taking up too much time.

And, unlike my friends, it wasn’t a Best Actress acceptance speech that I was practicing whenever I watched the Oscars. Standing in my lounge room, clad in my summer pajamas, I would pretend to be a red carpet interviewer, asking probing questions to the filmmakers about their movies. I’m still chasing that Oscar dream, but, a month ago, walking past the big tents set up on Hollywood Boulevard, I got chills up my spine and an excited thought that I’m now one step closer.

You feel a sense of history wherever you are in Hollywood, from the handprints outside the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre to the recognizable locations from films. So much of what I had read, seen and dreamt about as a kid, happened right here.
“That’s the diner from Pulp Fiction!” a friend pointed out, “And that’s where Biggie got shot!” Pop culture is everywhere, and this is the center for a lot of it.

Living in LA has allowed me to revel in my inner film geek. I devour books about my favourite directors, excitedly nodding my head in recognition when LA locations are mentioned. Hiking Runyon Canyon (or lying by the pool) is made more interesting by the film podcasts I listen to while doing it. NetFlix, US iTunes and the huge array of cinemas make all films accessible to watch. Revival theatres like Quentin Tarantino’s New Beverly Cinema play classic movies, film festivals are that much closer, movie stars walk the streets, you can actually meet directors you admire, and the Oscars happen RIGHT HERE. It’s a film lover’s heaven.

But as I rode my bicycle towards the New Beverly Cinema on my way to catch a Sunday afternoon double feature of Paul Mazursky flicks from the 60’s, wearing a plaid shirt, skinny jeans and sunglasses, I had the sudden, awful realization that I may actually be a hipster. But an authentic, passionate film loving one is not so bad, right? Right? Must remember to ask my Twitter followers.

“Have you seen Jesus yet?” asked one of my new American friends.
“Um… I don’t think so…” I replied
“In that case, you haven’t.” she said, “You’ll know when you do!”
That prospect intrigued me but she didn’t explain any further, and while I was trying to figure out whether she was speaking in metaphorical terms, I started thinking about the past weekend. I might have never seen Jesus, but I have seen an icon of a different kind, one who possibly has more followers. Twitter followers, that is.

It was a bright Saturday morning, and I was peddling my way to the Four Seasons hotel in Beverly Hills, chuckling to myself as I wondered whether they would valet park my bike. Since getting my bicycle I had been eagerly exploring my new neighbourhood, riding to the gym, the movies, to cafes, friends houses, and even once up to the red carpet (I put pants underneath my dress, my heels in the front basket, a helmet carefully over my freshly styled hair, and off I went!)

I was starting to enjoy the varied reactions I got when I pulled up on “Frankie”, my beach cruiser. Most people think I am nuts when I reply to their offer of parking validation with a cheery, “No thanks, I rode my bicycle here!” But occasionally I get a “That is so cool!” or “I love your bicycle!” My favourite reaction though, is when I mention “my bike” and people say, “What kind of motorbike do you have?” As if I am actually badass enough to ride a motorbike. But that sense of coolness is quickly dissolved when I explain that it’s a bicycle. Without any gears. Nicknamed Frankie.

As I pulled up at the swanky Four Seasons Hotel next to a line of black, tinted window SUV’s (or 4-Wheel Drives, as Aussies call them), Frankie looked miniscule in comparison, and not quite as “pimp”, or “fly”, or whatever buzz word means cool these days. Locating the valet attendant, I smiled and said “Valet?” pointing to my bike, in what was supposed to be a joke. He scoffed and said “Bike parking, downstairs.”

Ah well, I thought while I locked her up, I may have been robbed of seeing the crisp-suited valet attendant riding Frankie down to the parking area, but at least they have a bike storage rack. Not like the super cool Mondrian hotel on Sunset Strip, where I had ridden Frankie to meet a friend for a drink, and caused all sorts of trouble when I asked if there was somewhere I stash her.
“We have never had anyone arrive by bicycle before!” said the wide-eyed manager, who was summoned when the valet guys didn’t know where to put it. Eventually the bellman agreed to store it with the bags, jokingly nicknaming me ‘bike girl’ for the rest of the evening. I cursed myself at the end of the night when I realized I had no cash to give a tip to him, for being so kind to such a strange bike riding person.

Back at the Four Seasons, I headed up to the lobby and located the check-in desk. Not for the hotel, but for the film I was here to cover. “Rango”, a cute, animated western starring a lizard with Johnny Depp’s voice, was having a press day, and I was to be involved in my first Hollywood print press conference.

Sitting in the ballroom, which had been converted into a pressroom, I checked out all the other journalists. Since this was a domestic press day, I was amongst a sea of American reporters. There were the seasoned professionals taking up the front row, their recording devices at the ready; the eager film buffs in the middle, chatting to each other, dissecting both the movie and the lunch on offer; the latecomers sneaking in the back, and me, who was too overwhelmed by all the food choices to grab anything but a Red Bull, and sat quietly sipping it in the corner. In the days that followed I would quickly get over this, and now can be spotted piling my plate as high as it will go while promising an extra gym session to make up for it the next day. As far as I can tell, an abundance of catering is one of the main differences between an event held in Australia and one in America.

I spotted a new friend, Hyla, an entertainment reporter on radio and TV here in America (who you can also hear and see in Australia from time to time) and we chatted for a few minutes before they announced the stars were on their way. iPhones, mini-discs, and old school cassette recorders were whipped out and placed on the table, most centered towards the space reserved for Johnny Depp. A few seconds later, in he walked, followed by director Gore Verbinski, Abigail Breslin and Aussie Isla Fisher.

The press conference began, and the cast was great, particularly Johnny who joked with the press, and dodged any strange or intrusive questions with the ease of a seasoned Hollywood star.

The microphone was passed around to reporters with questions, and when Hyla asked about his kid’s reaction to the film, Johnny mentioned how his daughters were far more interested in Justin Bieber than their father’s work.
“Are you a Belieber?”yelled the now mic-less Hyla
“A Belieber?” Johnny laughed, “I’ve actually never heard that one. That is my favourite. And you know what? Yes. I am a Belieber. I am. And I shall remain so.”

The conference continued as normal, until suddenly there was a commotion to the left of me at the entrance, and looking over I saw a very good looking boy, casually leaning against the wall, waving at Johnny, flanked by an entourage of beefy security guards and harried looking publicists. From nowhere, Justin Bieber had appeared. Maybe, like “Candyman”, that’s what happens when you repeat “I’m a Belieber” five times?

“We just established that I’m a Belieber!” Johnny said, shaking his hand.
“And I’m a big fan of you, so I had to come and support you!” Justin said, waving to the press, “Hey everybody!”

And just like that, Justin and his shiny hair vanished. Johnny and the cast quickly followed, and reporters scrambled to grab their recording devices and get back to their offices, in a race to be the first to get the word out that Johnny Depp beliebes.

Intrigued by the hullaballoo that surrounds him, a few days later I took Frankie down to see Bieber’s film, “Never Say Never”. I admit to looking slightly silly, being 29 years old and walking in alone to a 4:30pm Wednesday showing, but really, the young cinema attendant didn’t need to smirk as he handed over the purple 3D glasses. Justin’s favourite colour. I can’t believe I know that.

Justin Bieber makes me feel old. It’s the first time I haven’t understood a teenage phenomenon. Zac Efron, yeah I can see that he is cute, Jonas Brothers, sure I get their squeaky-clean appeal, but Bieber? Almost a year ago, Justin was due to appear on the Australian morning TV show “Sunrise”. A friend of mine, who works on the show, sent me an email to gauge the interest in this young kid.
Hey Leash, you know about this stuff, is Justin Bieber big in Australia?
Nah, I wrote back, I don’t think so. He’s big in America, but not really in Australia.
The day he was due to appear the police had to cancel the concert because so many fans had stormed the Opera House. It was official. I was out of touch with the teens.

A week and a couple more (Bieber-less) press conferences later, I was riding my bike back to the cinema, this time to see the slightly more highbrow Oscar nominated short documentary films. On the way I spotted a familiar face walking towards his car. Orlando Bloom. Seconds later, I rode by another person I recognized, this time it was Michael Patrick King, the creator of the brilliant “Sex and The City” TV show and yes, the disastrous second film.

I rode my bike a little further, and suddenly… there he was. On the corner of Sunset and Fairfax, there was Jesus. It was unmistakably him. He stood out from everyone else, dressed in a long off-white robe, with flowing hair and a beard, waiting patiently to cross the street, iPhone in hand. (Good to know he is up on the latest technology.) WeHo Jesus is apparently a legend in these parts, walking around the neighbourhood of West Hollywood spreading good vibes and being (as a fan Facebook page explains) “another guy in a dress” in the gay friendly suburb. He also likes himself some Starbucks, but hopefully he uses his powers to turn that terrible coffee into something drinkable.

In the space of ten minutes I had seen three very different icons, and it felt like it meant something. A sign of the apocalypse? With Bieber as the fourth horseman? Or just the fact that I am in LA, where everyone comes to be famous, even Jesus?

(For more on WeHo Jesus, check out this blog: http://www.isawjesusinla.com/)

“Oh my gosh!” I screamed suddenly, making Kate jump, “A yellow school bus! I thought they only had those in the movies!”
“No,” Kate said, “They’re real. I used to catch one to school everyday.”
“Cool!” I said, my eyes full of wonder.

The most surprising thing about LA is that it looks exactly as it does in the movies. Every street is a familiar film location; every person an actor you’ve seen on screen but can’t remember the name of, and every situation feels like it was ripped straight from a movie. Kids really do ride on yellow school buses, teenagers do use plastic red drink cups at house parties, thin blonde girls with huge sunglasses carry gigantic Starbucks coffees everywhere they go, and I’m pretty sure somewhere out there, a frat party is happening.

Walking down Hollywood Boulevard I have to check behind buildings to make sure they aren’t just cardboard sets, and it doesn’t help that Spiderman, Marilyn Monroe, Charlie Chaplin and Maverick from “Top Gun” all hang out there. The last time I was on Hollywood Boulevard, I felt like I had stumbled behind the scenes of some bizarre movie. Flash Gordon invited me to his comedy show (who knew he was funny?), the Hulk walked awkwardly across the road, narrowly missing cars but not seeming too angry about it; and I realized Zorro lives two streets away after I spied him going into his home, costume and all. I don’t know why, but I do feel safer knowing I live so close to a masked swordsman.

But if Hollywood is really one big film set, then I’d be the bumbling extra, knocking over expensive equipment, accidentally getting in shot, and making the stars feel uncomfortable by being too earnest. While in Australia I am considered (relatively) normal, apparently in America I’m embarrassing, and stick out as a honky bit player amongst the professionals.

The scene: a classic Superbowl party, as seen in countless Hollywood TV shows and movies. Alicia Malone, a plucky Australian, comes up with the inventive plan of making her own jersey for the event, and also for an American football themed TV shoot. She grabs her flatmate’s Australian Olympic T-shirt, (which happens to have the same colours as one of the teams playing) and ingeniously customizes it with some sticky tape and a scrap of paper, on which she has enthusiastically scrawled the team’s name: “PACKERS!”
Filming done for the day, she hops on her bike, chuckling to herself as she imagines how she will be the hit of the party. From what Alicia has seen in the movies, she knows everyone will be dressed up, but surely no one else will have their own customized jersey.
Arriving at the party, she is greeted at the door by her friend and introduced to everyone gathered on the couches and floors around the TV. Not being able to contain her excitement, Alicia opens up her jacket and yells to the crowd, “Look, I made my own jersey!”
Fifteen pairs of eyes slowly turn to look at this strange new person. It is only then that Alicia realizes no one else is dressed up in any kind of ‘theme’. Somewhere in the background, crickets chirp.

Placing my jacket back on, I settled into a corner. This was almost as confusing as when an LA reporter told me that the robot (my signature dance move) would not be considered cool here, and another warned me not to take my shoes off in a nightclub in order to do the moonwalk. But… how did he expect me to do it in heels?

Thankfully everyone at the party was extremely nice and welcoming of the foreign invasion. After I revealed to the guy next to me that this was the first time I had seen an American football game, and I had no idea what was happening, he patiently explained (and re-explained) the rules to me. Which, it turns out, are a lot more complicated than they seem in the movies.

I tried to join in, making a few comments here and there, improvising as best I could. I thought I had redeemed myself when one of the guys I had barely spoken to came up to give me a hug goodbye. Excited, I jumped in there. Maybe he was impressed with my jersey making skills after all! But when he uttered a surprised “Oh!” I realized he had actually just been going for a handshake. Feeling myself going bright red, I did my best to act my way out of the gaffe.
“Umm… I’m Australian, we like to hug everyone!”
“Okay…” he said, seemingly unconvinced.
Well, we are a friendly nation. That was true.

Despite Australia and America being so similar, they can be quite different in many ways. The standard Aussie kiss on cheek maneuver is regarded as a strangely intimate thing to do to someone you barely know, and while my self deprecating humour is absolutely hilarious at home, here in the land of talking up your talents, they tend to take it seriously and just feel sorry for me. On the red carpets here, amongst a sea of tall, thin, hair-extension-wearing, tanned, slick entertainment reporters; I stick out with my short hair, pale skin, quirky sense of humour and embarrassing antics.

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. After all, here in Hollywood the sexy starlets may get on the Best Dressed lists and score the romantic lead, but it’s the character actors who get the interesting roles and take home the awards.

Or end up on Hollywood Boulevard dressed as Zorro.