Chapter 31: First Impression of Los Angeles

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Old Tom, who had nearly taken a punch from a Kryptonian, wasn't wrong about one thing—

The ferry from Alaska to Los Angeles Harbor had virtually no security checks. Vehicles simply rolled off the ferry, and boarding required little more than presenting a ticket. No one cared if your car or luggage contained anything dangerous.

Before the 9/11 incident in the 21st century, the United States had an odd confidence in its homeland security. They were used to stirring up trouble overseas, assuming no one would dare do the same on their soil.

As Henry drove through the streets of Los Angeles, a lingering sense of unreality stayed with him. Passing by the beach, he didn't see the sunny skies, golden sands, or carefree bikini-clad beachgoers he had imagined.

Instead, a somewhat desolate coastal view greeted him. The cold sea breeze whistled into the car. Even though he had a Kryptonian physique and was impervious to temperature extremes, driving with the windows down in winter still felt stupid—

Like an idiot in a convertible during a rainstorm, wearing a raincoat or holding an umbrella because they didn't know how to close the roof.

Only occasionally did he spot some surfing fanatics clad in full wetsuits, braving the winter waves.

To be fair, their surfing skills were excellent. Perhaps only experienced surfers dared challenge the ocean in this season. The unskilled likely preferred to stay warm.

He even caught a glimpse of a film crew shooting on the beach. Surrounded by cameras were handsome men and beautiful women in swim trunks and bikinis—clearly pretending to enjoy summer weather under the gray winter sky. In contrast, the behind-the-scenes staff were bundled up tightly against the cold. No doubt, the actors were silently cursing in their hearts.

Watching that surreal scene, Henry finally began to feel the reality of arriving in Los Angeles settle in.

So, what now?

Although he'd done some thinking on the ferry, it had only been about the general direction. Now it was time to figure out the specifics.

As he passed a newsstand, Henry pulled over, got out, and walked up. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, placed it on the counter, and picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times.

Then he said, "And a map."

"Tourist map, or…?" the middle-aged vendor behind the counter asked.

"A more detailed one. I'll be living in Los Angeles for a while."

The man nodded, pulled out a folded single-sheet map from under the counter, and handed it over along with some coins as change.

He glanced at Henry and asked casually, "Where are you from?"

"Alaska," Henry answered directly.

"No wonder. When I saw your outfit, I was wondering if it was going to snow in L.A.," the vendor joked.

Henry's coat was a windproof, moisture-resistant snow jacket—practical for Arctic climates but unusual for L.A., where people typically favored warmer, more fashionable coats. The vendor's comment made sense.

"Oh, I've seen enough snow to last a lifetime. Does it even snow in Los Angeles?" Henry asked, half-joking.

"Only when it gets freakishly cold. But that hasn't happened in years. If you want snow, head east to Big Bear Lake—some good ski resorts over there."

"No, please don't even suggest that. I feel sick just thinking about snow. Why would I go skiing? Might as well just roll down the mountain."

After that, Henry nodded at the decorations on the streets. "All those lights and stuff—getting ready for Christmas?"

"Yep. Christmas and New Year's—same routine every year. No creativity," the vendor replied with a smirk.

"If it ever was different, that'd be pretty terrifying," Henry quipped.

"Hah! Exactly." The man laughed, clearly pleased that Henry had caught the joke.

Henry grabbed his change and the map, said, "Thanks. I'm off," and turned to leave.

"Merry Christmas," the vendor called after him.

"Merry Christmas."

Back in the car, Henry resumed driving. Though it was already past noon, having just gotten off the ferry and not eaten anything, he figured it was time for lunch. He scanned the streets for a decent-looking restaurant.

Restaurants in America vary in quality. Henry avoided the upscale ones—those often required reservations and had strict dress codes. Show up in flip-flops and a tank top, and even if you were rich, the manager might still turn you away. Henry's current attire, functional but out of place, didn't make him a good candidate for fine dining.

Besides, such places were expensive—great for business meetings, but for an individual diner, they were tourist traps.

Eventually, he found a family-style restaurant that didn't reek of grease or strange spices. After parking, he grabbed his Los Angeles Times, the map, and his backpack before heading inside.

That backpack contained his entire fortune—over twenty bundles of hundred-dollar bills packed tightly. Given America's public safety concerns, Henry would never think of leaving it unattended in the car. That would be asking for a broken window and a missing bag.

Of course, he kept small bills and loose change in various pockets. Whenever he needed to pay, he'd fumble around like he was broke—pulling cash out of different pockets. It was a habit that made him look poor and unassuming. No one would ever suspect he was carrying a small fortune.

Back in his previous life, he'd mastered the art of pretending. Whether it was playing dumb or faking death, it came naturally. Hiding wealth was an instinct.

The restaurant wasn't busy. Henry chose a sunlit booth, dropped his bag and coat on the seat next to him, and sat down.

A plump waitress approached with a coffee pot. "Hot coffee?"

"Yes, please." He turned the upside-down cup over and waited as she filled it.

"Anything else you need?"

"What's on the menu, sweetheart? I haven't eaten all day."

The waitress gave him a practiced eye-roll. It wasn't hostile, just an expression that said, I've heard it all before. She replied, "Bacon, sausage, fried eggs. I can throw in a steak if you want."

"Everything, please. I'm starving," Henry said, gulping down the coffee in one go. "Oh—and sweetheart, if you don't mind, could you leave the pot?"

"Sure, if you need it." She refilled his cup, left the half-full pot, and headed to the kitchen.

Though her expression remained neutral, her steps seemed a bit lighter as she walked away. She didn't hate the exchange.

Soon, she returned with a plate piled high with bacon, sausage, and fried eggs. Her serving motions, while not particularly graceful, were noticeably more careful.

"The steak'll take a bit. Start with these. You want toast or biscuits?"

"Bread would be great, thanks."

As she watched him spread out the map, she asked offhandedly, "So, you here for school? Sightseeing? Or chasing the Hollywood dream?"

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