A cowboy is shot down on the streets of Williams… every day!

To travel Route 66 is to be peppered with the desperate whimsy of false superlatives—the world’s biggest rocking chair, the definitive museum of vacuum cleaners, the miracle staircase built without nails. As part of our coastal switch, we drove across country, and by the time we reached New Mexico and Arizona, we relaxed our pace to enjoy their sunny eccentricity.

Williams, Arizona was an unruly mix of bikers, artisans and mystified European visitors to the Grand Canyon. We checked into a classic motel with a horse bedspread and a loud mini-fridge. Proprietor cum man-of-all-work Sully periodically ejected his chewing tobacco into a plain tin can. He did this so daintily, his swish and spit more delicate than any wine taster, that I didn’t realize it for minutes. “Where are you folks from, and where are you headed?” New York City, and Los Angeles. There was a needle scratch in the conversation; a genuine “That stuff’s made in New York City!?” Pace Picante sauce moment.

“Not much different,” he said.

I was taken aback by his comment, but also pleased. What was a sea change for me was a blip on his radar: a valuable tilt-shift in perspective. I’d been focused on the differences, worried I’d be as allergic to LA as Alvy Singer. Could I learn to like it without cheating on New York, wiping out an important part of my life? Would I have to spit out my steak and whiten my teeth? Could I handle car culture, food fads, body consciousness, image everything? Did I even know what I was getting into, or was I merely stereotyping? (Not really, and yes.)

Compared to most places in the country, it could be that NYC and LA are more alike than different. They are liberal metropolises with tumultuous histories and varied people—lots to see, do, eat, be. I think now that both cities are similarly misunderstood. (California was recently voted the least-liked state.) People from elsewhere assume them to be solely the province of the bicoastal elite (sign me up!), as if everyone were the 1% instead of the 99%. Nope.

So I wonder, what can I glean from an ongoing visual comparison, juxtaposing images from each city?

Red shoe diaries
Quirky small businesses blare out their offerings loud and proud at Latin Fever Dance Studio in Brooklyn and The Pleasure Chest in West Hollywood.

Tree, building, sky
In Bryant Park and near LAX: a place to stop and a place to drive by.

The breadth and depth of shopping in New York City was astonishing, with exquisitely specialized Emporiums of Everything. Where would the editors of shelter magazines be without Mood Fabrics and M&J Trimming? If you need an intricately carved Byzantine church pew, Mad Men-model undergarments, an industrial meat slicer, or 8mm-to-DVD conversion, I can tell you where to go. I may never have needed those things, but knowing where to find them made me happy.

Starting over in a new city wiped out all that accumulated knowledge, and I’ve been shopping at chain stores. “Have you been to the Americana?” Um, yeah. It’s a mall. I didn’t need to flee the suburbs for that. The forced cheer of the little trolley reminds me of Patrick McGoohan’s island prison in The Prisoner. To be fair, it seems like a true gathering place, where families and couples walk and linger. It’s just very Anywhere and Nowhere at the same time.

Waiting to be found are those idiosyncratic community gems that make city living so interesting. Like the vast Surfas Restaurant Supply in Culver City. Or the dusty party supply store on Hillhurst with a creepy piñata outside. I may still be an observer, an outsider, but I know they’re serving someone.