Defending California

There’s a booth at Joey’s Café in West Hollywood I sit at three times a week. Four, if I’m honest. It’s not the kind of place you’ll find in a glossy guidebook or tagged by influencers holding mimosas. It’s simpler than that. Honest. A chalkboard menu, a sun-faded awning, and a front door that creaks like an old friend. The same cook has been behind the grill for years. The same manager with the tucked-in shirt and calm smile greets every customer like they’ve been coming their whole life. The servers remember your name, your order, your drink—your story, even if you don’t think you have one.

Outside the window, the city walks by. Joggers. Nurses on break. A Russian guy in tech. A Guatemalan mother pushing a stroller. A tattooed Armenian artist in paint-splattered jeans. Gay dads with iced coffees, nodding as they pass. Korean grandmothers with sun visors and discipline in their gait. A white guy with headphones and a Dodgers cap. This, I suppose, is what they mean when they say California is diverse. But what they don’t say—what they forget or never learned—is that diversity isn’t the opposite of community. It is community. It’s the secret ingredient, not the obstacle.

When people from other states say we don’t have community here, I know for a fact they’ve never been to Joey’s. They’ve never watched the regulars wave at each other, the barista who’s worked that corner since the Obama years slipping a free muffin into a kid’s to-go bag because “he’s having a rough day.” They’ve never sat under a pale beam of morning sunlight while a Salvadoran dishwasher and a Filipino delivery guy argue playfully over baseball stats in Spanglish. They’ve never seen what I see four, five times a week: a real neighborhood in the heart of what outsiders claim is a lawless, soulless wasteland.

Spend five minutes online and you’d think California fell into the Pacific somewhere between brunch and Botox. We’re painted as a cautionary tale. A failed experiment. The state that went too far, got too weird, taxed too much, hugged too many trees, and forgot how to lock its doors. There’s an entire cottage industry of pundits and “freedom fighters” building their brands on the myth that California is unlivable, ungovernable, and unraveling at the seams. It’s a fascinating narrative. It just happens to be completely disconnected from the truth.

Do we have problems? Of course we do. We’re not Disneyland. But we’re not the apocalypse, either. We’re a state of nearly 40 million people, stretched across 900 miles of coastline, 3,000 miles of highways, deserts, forests, farms, and cities that don’t sleep because the dreams are too big to fit in a single REM cycle. We contain multitudes. And some of those multitudes include complicated issues: homelessness, cost of living, the daily pressure of being a place where the rest of the country likes to point and wag its finger. But the people doing the finger wagging tend to forget that their states have those same problems—just hidden under colder skies and quieter headlines.

Take crime, for example. One of the favorite talking points. “You can’t walk through L.A. without getting mugged.” “San Francisco is a war zone.” “California is Gotham now.” These statements float around social media like gospel, shared by people who’ve never stepped foot past Burbank Airport. But here’s what the data says: violent crime in Los Angeles is down. Not slightly—substantially. Nearly 15% lower than its pandemic peak, according to LAPD data. Robberies, homicides, and assaults are falling. Cities like Miami, Houston, and Memphis are currently seeing higher crime rates per capita, but nobody’s making viral TikToks about that. You don’t see Florida’s crime stats trending on Fox News.

Homelessness? Yes, it’s real. Yes, it’s visible. And no one should pretend otherwise. But let’s stop acting like it’s exclusive to California. Walk around Denver. Take a trip through Phoenix. Drive through any American city where rent has outpaced wages, where mental health care was gutted, where addiction became more profitable than recovery. California didn’t invent homelessness. We just refuse to shove it out of view. And while some states build walls, we build solutions—however imperfect and unfinished they may be. Governor Gavin Newsom’s Project Homekey, for example, has already converted over 13,000 hotel and motel rooms into permanent supportive housing. That’s not a press release. That’s a roof over someone’s head.

That’s dignity restored

And still, the same voices scream: “Everyone’s leaving California!” Except… they’re not. Yes, people moved out during the pandemic. So did people in Chicago. So did people in New York. Migration shifted nationwide. But here’s the part the clickbait never mentions: net migration to California is stabilizing—and in some places, it’s rising again. Especially among Gen Z. Turns out, they want what California has always offered: possibility. Weather. Opportunity. Culture. Access to the kinds of lives they can’t build in the middle of the country. The tech sector hasn’t collapsed—it evolved. Hollywood didn’t vanish—it adapted. Tourism didn’t dry up—it came roaring back. Nearly 50 million people visited Los Angeles County in 2024. That’s not a state people are fleeing. That’s a place people save up to see with their own eyes.

Of course it’s expensive. Paradise usually is. But let’s not confuse cost with failure. People aren’t willing to pay more for something they don’t want. The price of California living reflects demand—and it’s still high. Because this place gives you access not just to palm trees and rooftop patios, but to the kinds of dreams that still feel possible. You can surf and ski in the same day. You can hike through redwood forests, then catch a vinyl-only DJ set in Echo Park before midnight. You can live two, three, five lives here—reinvent yourself as many times as you can afford to try.

And the food. My God, the food.

If California were just a dining destination, it would still be worth defending. It’s not just that the food is good—it’s that the food here means something. It’s the story of migration, resilience, creativity, and risk. It’s a Guatemalan grandmother’s mole in a Boyle Heights kitchen. It’s a French-Vietnamese fusion pop-up in Silver Lake run by two queer chefs who met at culinary school. It’s taco trucks that beat brick-and-mortar fine dining, strip mall sushi that humbles Michelin inspectors, farmer’s markets where the avocados have names and the strawberries taste like confessions.

Nancy Silverton’s burrata could end wars. Jon Yao’s tasting menu at Kato is what happens when elegance and umami fall in love. Guelaguetza in Koreatown has been serving Oaxacan food so good it made the James Beard Foundation blush. Mariscos Jalisco isn’t just a food truck—it’s holy communion wrapped in a fried tortilla. And all of it, every bite, every dish, is powered by the simple truth that California grows the food that feeds the nation. Two-thirds of all fruits and nuts. One-third of all vegetables. If you’re biting into a perfect peach in Minnesota, thank a farm worker in Fresno.

You can taste our soul in the spice.

And yet, there are people online—loud, defiant, misinformed—who genuinely believe this place is hollow. That we’ve lost our way. That California is nothing but fake smiles and Teslas running over tents. That it’s just movie studios, overpriced rent, and politically correct zombies wandering around farmer’s markets trying not to offend each other. These people love to talk about how the “real America” is somewhere else. That this place isn’t grounded. That we’ve abandoned common sense in favor of crystals and self-help podcasts.

What they’re missing—what they’ve always missed—is that California isn’t some polished utopia. It’s not trying to be. It’s a bruised, brilliant mosaic. A place where struggle and celebration live on the same block. Where people come not because it’s easy, but because it’s possible. It’s the promise of a second chance dressed in denim and sunshine. It’s the waitress working two jobs and still smiling as she tops off your coffee. It’s the aspiring musician who bartends in the Valley and plays to ten people on a Tuesday, chasing the same dream that gave birth to Springsteen lyrics. It’s the undocumented gardener who sends half his paycheck to Oaxaca every month and still finds time to coach his daughter’s soccer team.

And let’s talk about that—about them. About the working class that makes this state function. Because if we’re going to defend California, we’d better start with the people who get up at five in the morning and keep it moving. The line cooks. The Uber drivers. The nurses. The teachers. The electricians. The people who don’t go viral but still make everything run.
This isn’t a billionaire’s playground. It’s not just Westside real estate and Malibu cliffs. It’s Fontana. It’s South Gate. It’s Fresno. It’s East L.A., Pacoima, Inglewood. It’s single moms clocking in, cousins watching kids so their sister can finish nursing school, uncles fixing brakes in alleys. It’s people helping each other move on weekends, lending each other rides, splitting the bill at restaurants and Venmoing five bucks when you forget your card. It’s not glamorous. It’s not polished.

But it’s real. And it’s everywhere, if you’re paying attention.

So no, California isn’t dying. It’s living. Sometimes messily. Sometimes too loudly. But always with intention.

I’ve walked along Venice Beach at dawn when the mist hasn’t yet burned off and the air smells like salt and something old. I’ve stood on Mulholland at midnight, the city stretched below like circuitry, every twinkle a heartbeat. I’ve driven through the redwoods in silence and come out believing in God again. I’ve hiked in Malibu and watched dolphins jump like punctuation marks in the surf. I’ve sat in traffic on the 405 and felt both murderous and in love. I’ve eaten tacos better than most marriages. I’ve watched strangers help an old woman cross Sunset Boulevard. I’ve seen trans kids get hugs from drag queens outside The Abbey. I’ve seen the quiet grace of California in the eyes of a bus driver waiting for a late rider.

I’ve also seen the dark parts. Of course I have. I’ve seen tents. I’ve seen overdoses. I’ve seen despair on the steps of City Hall. I’ve seen gentrification steal families out of homes they built over decades. I’ve seen promises broken and futures priced out of neighborhoods where they once belonged. And that’s all real, too. But the thing about California is: we don’t look away. We argue. We vote. We show up to town halls. We yell at council members. We start nonprofits. We push, drag, and demand better—not because we think we’re perfect, but because we believe we still can be better.

That belief is what makes this place different. We still give a damn.

And yes, some of that credit goes to leadership. There. I said it. Gavin Newsom gets his share of flak—some of it earned, some of it predictable, much of it completely detached from facts—but here’s what I know: the man has governed with a spine. While other states play dress-up with authoritarian cosplay, Newsom leaned into science when it mattered. He didn’t get it all right. No leader does. But his investments into clean energy, climate resilience, public education, paid family leave, and housing aren’t theoretical. They’re showing up in real people’s lives. Quietly. Steadily. Without a Twitter thread to follow it.

He protected women’s reproductive rights when half the country was unraveling them. He raised the minimum wage. He pushed for electric vehicle expansion while the rest of the country was still debating if the planet was warming. And while others passed laws telling teachers what they’re allowed to say in a classroom, he told them to keep teaching the truth.

You can disagree with him. You can challenge his policies. That’s democracy. But you can’t say he doesn’t care. And you definitely can’t say he hasn’t fought to keep this place livable, breathable, and equitable—for the working class, the dreamers, and the everyday people who call this coastline home.

And maybe that’s what really bothers some people about California. Not the taxes. Not the politics. But the nerve we have to care about each other. The audacity of compassion. The radical idea that diversity doesn’t mean chaos—that it can, in fact, be a kind of order. A social rhythm. A shared beat.

It’s easy to mock a place you’ve never felt. To dismiss it from the window of a cable news studio or the passenger seat of an anonymous tweet. But it’s harder to mock when you’ve eaten pupusas next to a stranger who became a friend. When you’ve had your oil changed by a mechanic who called you “mijo.” When you’ve had your bad day rescued by a stranger who held the door, cracked a joke, made you feel seen.

And that brings me back to Joey’s Café. Back to the table by the window. Back to the regulars. The local dog who gets scraps under the counter. The barista who hums old love songs. The cook who makes the omelet exactly how I like it without ever asking. The joggers who wave. The nurse who always picks up her cortado in scrubs. The couple that walks their three-legged golden retriever every morning at 8:15, like clockwork. The same people. The same smiles. A small, perfect, persistent rhythm of kindness in a city that outsiders insist doesn’t have a heart.

But it does. It always has.

This place—this state—is not for everyone. It never claimed to be. It’s complicated. It’s exhausting. It’s too much and not enough. But if you live here long enough, if you actually see it, not just visit it—you understand. You feel the pulse. You forgive the flaws. And you realize that you’re lucky. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s alive.

So if you’re out there, reading this, thinking about canceling your trip to Los Angeles because some guy on YouTube told you it’s dangerous—don’t. Come. See it for yourself. Come walk the boardwalk at sunset. Come sip mezcal on a rooftop in Echo Park. Come visit Griffith Park and watch coyotes trot down the trail like they own the joint. Come sit at Joey’s Café. Watch the world go by. Watch community happen in real time. Watch the stereotypes fall apart like overcooked brisket.

California is not a headline. It’s not a tweet. It’s not a caricature drawn by people who’ve never once heard a mariachi band echo off the walls of Olvera Street. California is a feeling. A momentum. A million stories clanging together in a great, imperfect, astonishing chord.

You don’t have to love it. But if you’ve never really seen it—don’t pretend you know it.

I do. I live here.
And I’ll defend it with everything I’ve got.

-Editorial by Thommy Kane (Food & Travel President)