Whenever I pass the intersection of Atlantic and Valley, my memory harks back to the early days when I first arrived in L.A. for college. I was 18, and the world was without limit. I knew because I had seen commercials for Girls Gone Wild.

It is true that pretty much all I knew about L.A. then, I had seen on DVD, and so it was with some disappointment that I accepted how uneventful my arrival actually was. The palm trees of Hollywood were tens of miles away, the “excitement” of the city paled in comparison to what I was used to in Hong Kong, and most unfortunately, I learned that Hotel California was only a metaphor. I put away my steely knife, thoroughly embarrassed.

But there was one moment that made me feel I had truly arrived. I was walking from my motel room to Ralph’s, a 24-hour supermarket. Earlier in the week, they had invited me to join their savings club, and given the exclusivity of such an establishment, I felt honored to be a repeat customer.

It was in the afternoon, the sun was burning, and I had just walked halfway through the parking lot. Suddenly, from a car behind me, someone shouted, “Don’t wear orange!”

As I turned around, the car sped away, its tires screeching and raising dust. I looked down, and sure enough, my T-shirt glowed as bright as citrus fruits.

It was in that humble moment that I realized I had finally arrived in Los Angeles, where the sun does not forgive, the supermarkets and I are on a first name basis, and fashion tips are dispensed like gang shootings.