Unfortunately, I had to take a trip to the Americana last week.
I grew up loving the Americana and the Galleria; visiting was a treat to be able to stuff my face with Wetzel’s Pretzels, which smell like pure gold and taste like drywall. It’s a different story now.
Parking’s a pain anywhere, but the Americana is on another level. Street parking is nonexistent; who thought to build a Shake Shack right across the street from one of the busiest shopping centers in Southern California? I’m not a fan of their parking structure, either, and having to get my parking ticket validated is on my list of the top five most intimidating things. It’s hard not to fall out of your car as you stretch out of your window to retrieve your ticket, only to drop it on the ground and have a line of ten cars watching as you sheepishly get out of your car to pick it up.
And let's not start on yield signs. Like everyone else on the planet, I didn't actually listen to online driver's ed, and I still have no idea what you're supposed to do at a yield sign. Do you stop? Do you just........ wait for there to be nothing moving in sight? The Americana parking structure has many.
Once you’re in the Americana, the fun really begins. The possibility of Americana luxury apartment dwellers spying on you while you shop should be enough to dissuade you from going. These people willingly chose to listen to Frank Sinatra 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. You do not want to interact with them.
When you first enter, you're greeted by a massive Cheesecake Factory as you descend the escalator past the self-playing piano that’s never actually playing (because it if was, it would drown out the Frank Sinatra). I have a major bone to pick with Cheesecake Factory and the people who dine there. They’re good for nothing but their bread. Have you thought of Cheesecake Factory without the sight of it accosting you? Didn’t think so. It’s a horrible restaurant, plain, and simple.
Cheesecake Factory slander aside, the Americana brings back painful memories: cringy middle school “dates,” forced formal clothing shopping with moms, and splurging on Sugarfina.
My recent experience at the Americana brought back all these memories and more, reminding me that a trip to the Americana should only be made out of absolute necessity. I struggled to validate my parking ticket, walking through about six different stores and fake-shopping while I discreetly tried to locate a validating machine. The sight of the Cheesecake Factory made my blood boil, and to top it all off, I was there to pick up an order at Brandy Melville, the land of judgy, 19-year-old, mumbling, psych-major employees and basic clothing branded as hot-ticket pieces. I won’t make excuses.
Moral of the story: don’t shop at the Americana unless you really, really, really have to. It's a minor miracle that I made it out alive.
I grew up loving the Americana and the Galleria; visiting was a treat to be able to stuff my face with Wetzel’s Pretzels, which smell like pure gold and taste like drywall. It’s a different story now.
Parking’s a pain anywhere, but the Americana is on another level. Street parking is nonexistent; who thought to build a Shake Shack right across the street from one of the busiest shopping centers in Southern California? I’m not a fan of their parking structure, either, and having to get my parking ticket validated is on my list of the top five most intimidating things. It’s hard not to fall out of your car as you stretch out of your window to retrieve your ticket, only to drop it on the ground and have a line of ten cars watching as you sheepishly get out of your car to pick it up.
And let's not start on yield signs. Like everyone else on the planet, I didn't actually listen to online driver's ed, and I still have no idea what you're supposed to do at a yield sign. Do you stop? Do you just........ wait for there to be nothing moving in sight? The Americana parking structure has many.
Once you’re in the Americana, the fun really begins. The possibility of Americana luxury apartment dwellers spying on you while you shop should be enough to dissuade you from going. These people willingly chose to listen to Frank Sinatra 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. You do not want to interact with them.
When you first enter, you're greeted by a massive Cheesecake Factory as you descend the escalator past the self-playing piano that’s never actually playing (because it if was, it would drown out the Frank Sinatra). I have a major bone to pick with Cheesecake Factory and the people who dine there. They’re good for nothing but their bread. Have you thought of Cheesecake Factory without the sight of it accosting you? Didn’t think so. It’s a horrible restaurant, plain, and simple.
Cheesecake Factory slander aside, the Americana brings back painful memories: cringy middle school “dates,” forced formal clothing shopping with moms, and splurging on Sugarfina.
My recent experience at the Americana brought back all these memories and more, reminding me that a trip to the Americana should only be made out of absolute necessity. I struggled to validate my parking ticket, walking through about six different stores and fake-shopping while I discreetly tried to locate a validating machine. The sight of the Cheesecake Factory made my blood boil, and to top it all off, I was there to pick up an order at Brandy Melville, the land of judgy, 19-year-old, mumbling, psych-major employees and basic clothing branded as hot-ticket pieces. I won’t make excuses.
Moral of the story: don’t shop at the Americana unless you really, really, really have to. It's a minor miracle that I made it out alive.