Shiller arrived in Los Angeles just as evening was setting in, with the West Coast sunset exuding a gentle and lingering warmth.
Different from the clear blue sky and sea during the day, thick shades of orange and red spread over the sea by sunset, followed by a dreamy purple. Slender clouds wove a curtain of mist, and the sun resembled a precious pearl rolling off a gossamer veil.
The ambiance of the West Coast of America was unlike that of any other region in the world; it was bustling yet leisurely, vibrant and yet romantic. The slightly chilly evening breeze in autumn brushed against one's face, and a happy, lively tune was always within earshot, as if the city was born for jazz.
Stepping out of the airport, one could see skyscrapers draped in a tapestry of orange and red. The palm trees up close resembled men with long necks and explosive hairdos, gently swaying in the rhythm of a joyful dance.
Standing in front of the airport, Shiller yawned widely as the sun continued to lower. The crisp chiming of the wind chimes from a convenience store's door sounded persistently clear. Tim emerged with a can of coffee, closing the door behind him and shook the can at Shiller.
Shiller waved it off—he never grew accustomed to instant coffee. Tim adjusted his backpack, opened a can, and poured the coffee down his throat.
He didn't actually love coffee that much, it's just that his counterparts in other parts of the cosmos did, and when he chatted with them, it felt uncomfortable not to have a cup. Over time, he grew used to drinking coffee regardless of time or place.
The hotel car arrived quickly, but interestingly, it wasn't the usual formal stretch limousine, but rather a vintage Ford adorned with bright floral patterns.
The driver was a young Black man who helped Shiller with his luggage into the trunk. From the moment they got into the car, the young man never stopped talking; and how else could one explain the fame of West Coast hip-hop? The young man's speech rolled out with the rhythm of rap.
"I guarantee you'll fall in love with our Green Home, where you'll spend an enjoyable two weeks. Sir, I know you're from New York, a big city, but Manuting is different, very much a quiet small town, serene and beautiful..."
Tim had never heard of the place the driver mentioned and guessed it might be a local name. Hearing it was a small town, he glanced at Shiller, who showed him the Airbnb reservation interface.
Turned out they hadn't booked a hotel in the city center but had reserved a homestay in a location within Los Angeles City that was about 40 kilometers from Love Farm, which they were planning to visit.
This was a house halfway up a hill in a small town, apparently a popular lodging choice. Tim scrolled through the pictures and found it to be a typical woodland cottage. Its most popular feature seemed to be the living room window that offered a view of most of Los Angeles City and even the coastline.
They quickly got onto California State Route 10, which was also a quite famous road, meandering through scenery bathed in undiluted hues of orange and red. As the light dimmed, a vast array of stars became visible.
As they seemed to pass through an important intersection, traffic slowed. Shiller and Tim were taken aback—surrounded by all kinds of vintage cars, Tim suspected many were older than Thomas.
He leaned out the window to look around and soon caught a strong whiff of marijuana. After a couple of coughs, he pulled his head back inside.
Seeing the driver in front about to roll a cigarette, Tim quickly spoke up, "Excuse me, sir, I'm underage—could you wait a bit before smoking?"
"You mean this? It's just a regular cigarette," said the young man with a smile. "You don't smoke? Then I won't either."
"Cigarettes are fine; I just can't stand the smell of marijuana," Tim said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. He had an exceptionally sensitive sense of smell, and perhaps it was a habit formed from years of living in the upper city area, but marijuana always smelled like vomit to him, and it made him want to throw up.
At this moment, Shiller skillfully pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the handbag he was carrying and threw it to the driver.
At first, the driver didn't think much of it, but then his eyes widened in surprise when he saw the packaging.
"Chinese cigarettes?! God! You really are a lucky rich guy; these couldn't be from the mainland, could they?"
"Of course, genuine Su Cigarettes; consider yourself lucky, kid," Shiller said. "My nephew's family is very wealthy; they've never let him touch cigarettes or alcohol since he was young. You can't lead him astray, or I won't be able to explain it to his dad."
"Understood, understood," the Black man said, grinning and showing off his white teeth, unable to stop smiling, while Tim gave Shiller a thumbs up.
Actually, Chinese flue-cured tobacco was very popular in the West, featuring both Hong Kong contraband and authentic mainland products. Authentic mainland flue-cured tobacco sold for much more than marijuana, and even with money, it was not necessarily possible to buy it.
The main reason for this was that the processing of tobacco in the West was quite crude. Take the world-famous Camel brand, for example, which is essentially raw tobacco, akin to smoking leaves. Not only is it irritating, but it also lacks any real tobacco aroma.
Chinese flue-cured tobacco, however, is far more exquisite. The tobacco processing is skilled, the baking is just right, the nicotine content isn't as high, but it's very fragrant, and most importantly, the second-hand smoke isn't choking.
Even during the resistance against Japan and the liberation war eras, the liberation army earned foreign exchange by exporting cigarettes. Back then, they weren't cheap, so many fathers in Europe and America saw smoking Chinese cigarettes as a status symbol.
The Black man lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled the smoke with relish. After sizing up Shiller, he said, "You look mixed race. You must have relatives in China, right? Have you ever been to Chongqing? I saw on TikTok that it's the real Cyber City."
Shiller thought about it. He had indeed been there, but the Chongqing of his time could hardly be called a Cyber City, so he replied truthfully, "Yes, I have been, but that was a long time ago. Do you want to travel to China?"
"I'd love to, but getting a visa is such a hassle," the Black man sighed and shook his head. "A friend of mine tried to go; it took three months just to process the visa, so I can only watch videos."
The car wasn't going fast, and normally smoking inside the car should have been quite suffocating, but Tim felt it was okay. He sniffed the air and didn't detect any strong smell of smoke—at least not like before when second-hand smoke would sting his nose as soon as it drifted in.
A little while later, they reached an intersection, and the Black man got out of the car with the pack of cigarettes, handing two to a couple of police officers in uniform. The car quickly passed through.
During the window inspection, Tim happened to be sitting by the window. His clothing from head to toe must have cost a few thousand US dollars. The police didn't even give him a glance, checking Shiller's and Tim's handbags before letting them through.
"Why has the security check been so strict lately?" Shiller asked with some confusion.
"Don't even mention it, isn't the mayoral election coming up? There have been a lot of big shots coming and going in Los Angeles."
Only then did Shiller remember that the Los Angeles mayoral election was taking place in the fall and winter, and it must be a heated time right now.
Before he could say anything, Tim asked curiously, "Who are the candidates? What are their backgrounds?"
"There are quite a few candidates, but actually there are only two or three hopefuls, to be precise just two: one is a white guy named Tussochi, who seems to be a big business owner, and the other is a Black woman named Karen. One represents the local faction, and the other is an outsider, and their competition is pretty fierce."
"An outsider? You mean you can elect someone who is not a local?"
"Not that kind of outsider, they are actually both locals, it's just that one has been doing business locally, and the other came to invest later. One represents the local circles of the West Coast, and the other represents Congress."
"Who has higher support now?" Tim asked again.
"You guys are pretty strange, coming here to visit and not asking about the tourist spots first, but rather caring about the election."
"Heh, my dad is a big shot; he's always talking about this stuff, so of course, I follow suit. Plus, I still have a social survey report to do and probably won't have much time to play," Tim pretended to complain.
The Black man chuckled heartily, saying, "One can tell you're the pampered son of a rich family. It's not strange you'd be interested in these things. As for the support rate, they're more or less neck and neck."
"A Black woman would naturally be more popular among minority communities. She has high support rates among the Latino, African-American, and female demographics. I support her too, but indeed, she only started investing and doing business in Los Angeles a few years ago, and in this respect, she's not as established as Tussochi."
"It's hard to say, though. Many local up-and-coming business people support her, as they've all had enough of those real estate tycoons."
The Black guy went on in fits and starts, and they got past the congested area as the car continued forward, moving further and further away from the city and began to climb hills, soon entering a small town.
This town was still pretty lively; even though it was completely dark, the town was still brightly lit, with stalls still out selling goods. The Black man explained, "This town became famous because of a viral video, and lately there's been a huge influx of tourists everywhere taking pictures and checking in."
"You must be making a killing, huh?" Shiller asked.
"Not really," he said even though he was grinning from ear to ear, and added, "This car belongs to my uncle, and I have to give him a cut of the profits. But if I give him half a pack of smokes today, maybe your tips will all come to me."
"You already got a whole pack of cigarettes, and you still want a tip?" Tim teased.
The Black man immediately let out a wail, "No, you rich folks!! You can't just buy me off with cigarettes! Otherwise, if you need a ride in the mountains I won't come!"
"Is it that difficult to drive on the mountain?"
"It's okay, mainly some people are too precious about their cars, reluctant to drive up here. My uncle's rickety car is about to fall apart, I don't mind, but you'll have to give me double the tip, or…"
The Black guy was eyeing the cigarette in Shiller's hand longingly as Shiller put the cigarette away and said, "Then it'll be double the tip, don't expect to get more good stuff from me; I've got other uses for it."
The Black man started wailing again.
Driving along the winding mountain road, Shiller now understood why the Black guy mentioned it was hard to get a car up the mountain—it was the kind of road that guzzled gas, which ordinary drivers were reluctant to tackle. It seemed like they had better rent a car.
The guy was a pretty good driver. He took the turns smoothly, without rushing or jostling, and he didn't sacrifice comfort to save on gas. So when they got out of the car, Shiller chucked him another pack of cigarettes along with a generous tip.
The Black man let out a shriek, half of his body poking out of the car window as he said, "You damn rich guys, call me next time you need a ride! If anyone dares to compete with me for business, I'll blow his damned head off!"
Tim was laughing as he stood at the door, watching the colorful old car swing its way down the hill.
He opened the door, and inside, with the lights on, a tall white man wearing a floral shirt was waiting for them.
"Oh Lord, you guys finally made it. I wasn't expecting you to ride in Little Black's car."
"Oh my, you're a racist..." Tim said, a bit startled.
The tall white man waved his hand dismissively and said, "That's their nickname; his uncle is called Old Black Dog, so naturally, the nephew is Little Black Dog. That guy's a slick one. Did he ask you for double the tip? Because the mountain road is tough?"
"He did a pretty good job driving," Shiller and Tim had not put down their stuff, as they were not used to touching furniture before their host had spoken.
"He says that to everyone. In fact, because of the booming tourism, the government is giving out subsidies, so he's making double money... Just throw your bags on the couch, don't be shy, after all, your bags are more expensive than my couch."