I went on a month-long trip to California on the advice of an astrologer, to ‘find myself’ after a break-up. I hadn’t specifically sought out the astrologer, I was gifted a reading by a friend, and that random quirk of the stars made the advice — that a certain triangulation of planets indicated my destiny would be found in California — seem all the more legitimate. The break-up hadn’t been quick, and months of petty betrayals and screaming arguments on Tube platforms had left me particularly porous to messages from the universe. I felt hollowed out and unhappy — if the universe was saying I’d find something to be optimistic about in California, who was I to argue?
The astrologer suggested I head to Chateau Marmont, the buzzy Hollywood hotel where stars go to retox after rehab. Unfortunately I wanted something more ‘authentic’ — and perhaps this is where I went wrong. Maybe what the stars were saying was that I’d find my destiny among Hollywood’s dilettante elite and not in an RV park outside Visalia, northern Cali, some 200 miles away.
