Los Santos Was Real: My First 24 Hours in Los Angeles

I always had this idea in my head.

East and West.

Japan and America.

That was the mission. See both sides of the world. Experience the extremes.

But planning? Planning never ends. You prepare, and prepare, and prepare… and somehow you never go.

So one day I just said:
Enough.

This year — I’m going to the U.S.

And of course, life happened. Work. Projects. Excuses. Time passing.

Until the universe slapped me through Instagram.

€250.
Round trip.
To Los Angeles.

From Lithuania.

I stared at the screen.

Two days before departure.

I bought it.

No plan. No structure. No real preparation. Just instinct.

Ten days in America — my first time ever leaving Europe.

I packed fast. Almost recklessly.

And then I went.

Copenhagen Airport & The First Sign

From Vilnius to Copenhagen. Copenhagen to Los Angeles.

While waiting at the gate, I saw an American family near me. A little kid looked around the airport and said:

“No way… you can go to Los Angeles from this place?”

His parents laughed.

I smiled.

Same, kid. Same.

“Cash Is King” — and I Took It Literally

I landed in Los Angeles and called an Uber.

And here’s where my European brain showed itself.

I’d heard the phrase “cash is king,” so I thought: Okay. Bring cash.

Not “a little cash.”

I’m talking €2,500 in bills.

At some point the driver noticed.

He didn’t even try to be subtle. He looked at me like I was walking around with a sign that said rob me.

“Yo man… be careful. That’s a lot of money. You can get robbed.”

Welcome to America.

Downtown L.A.: The First 30 Meters

I booked a hotel in Downtown Los Angeles with basically zero research. No clue about neighborhoods, no clue about anything.

I dropped my luggage, put on my sunglasses, and stepped outside like, Alright. Let’s see the city.

Ten meters.

A woman, maybe 40 or 50, wrapped in a blanket, standing on the corner, shouting and rocking back and forth like her body was stuck in a loop.

My face stayed calm — but my eyes were screaming.

Twenty meters.

A man lying on the sidewalk under a blanket yelling:

“Yo motherfuckers, let me sleep!”

Thirty meters.

A guy walks up like it’s the most normal thing in the world:

“Yo man, you want some mushrooms?”

And right there, I understood.

This wasn’t “America” the idea.

This was America the real-life GTA lobby.

Los Santos wasn’t fiction. It was a zip code.

Overwhelmed — in the Best and Worst Way

The first hours were a sensory overload.

Skyscrapers. Flags. Sirens. People. Noise. Energy.

I’d never seen anything like it, not in real life. My brain was trying to process it all at once and failing.

I did the practical stuff: SIM card, supplies, basics.

And then I started building my “I’m in L.A., so I have to” list.

Hollywood. Walk of Fame. Bruce Lee’s star. Beverly Hills. Santa Monica. Venice Beach. The Hollywood Hills.

Not because I wanted to collect tourist points — but because I had limited time and I wanted to feel the city from every angle.

Santa Monica: The Matrix Hit

When I got to Santa Monica, it was this weird moment of déjà vu.

I’m standing there looking at the pier, the amusement park, the beach… and my brain goes:

I’ve seen this before.

Not on a postcard.

In GTA V.

And I know that sounds ridiculous, but it felt like the game had copied real life too accurately, or real life had copied the game. Either way, it messed with my head.

And then the simulation sent me an NPC.

The “Japanese” Man Who Wasn’t Japanese

I’m standing there, just staring at everything, thinking damn… this is the Matrix.

And this older man walks straight up to me — Japanese-looking, maybe 70 years old, homeless vibe, weathered face, the whole thing.

He stops in front of me and asks:

“Yo man… why Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor?”

I froze.

And somehow… I started explaining World War II. Alliances. Blockades. Geopolitics. All of it.

Halfway through I caught myself thinking:

Why the fuck am I explaining WWII to a random guy on Santa Monica Pier?

Then I tried to pivot into philosophy. I asked if he knew ikigai.

He goes:

“Ichigai? Yeah, good restaurant.”

I’m like… bro.

Then he tells me he’s not Japanese.

He’s from South America — Chile or Argentina, I don’t remember which. His father was Japanese. He didn’t speak Japanese at all.

The whole exchange felt like a side quest that unlocked itself without my consent.

Hollywood: Bruce Lee, Hustlers, and a Performance Worth Paying For

I went to the Hollywood Walk of Fame because I wanted one star specifically.

Bruce Lee.

That was the one I needed to see in person.

But right next to all that Hollywood energy, there were guys doing the classic CD hustle:

“Take my music, man. It’s free.”

It’s never free.

But the thing is — I didn’t even care, because they were entertaining. It was like street improv theater.

Two guys tag-teaming sentences like ping-pong, reading me, keeping the rhythm going, making me laugh. I knew what it was… but the performance was good.

They asked where I was from.

“Lithuania.”

And one of them started throwing out Lithuanian names — specific Lithuanian names — the kind you don’t casually guess.

I started laughing like, okay, okay… respect.

Then one of them looks at me and goes:

“You military?”

I was like… how the fuck did you know?

He points at my face and haircut:

“That strict haircut. The way you stand. The sunglasses. I knew it.”

I showed them a clip from a shooting range back home — storming drills, guns, chaos, all that.

They lost it. Jumping, laughing, hyping me up, shaking my hand like we’ve been friends for years.

Then I asked where they were from.

One goes:

“Canada.”

The other goes:

“Jamaica.”

So I’m standing in Hollywood getting hustled by a Canadian and a Jamaican, and honestly? That’s the most Los Angeles sentence possible.

They gave me two CDs with their signatures.

I only had $20 bills — no smaller cash — and I gave them one.

They reacted like I’d just funded their entire future.

And to this day, I still have those CDs.

That’s my artifact.

That’s my proof.

Because when I tell the story, people think I’m exaggerating — and I’m like:

Nah.

Look at the signatures.

This happened.

Weed Everywhere, All the Time

Everywhere I went, there was someone offering weed.

I’m buying a T-shirt.

“Yo man, you want some weed?”

I’m walking past a shop.

“Yo man, I know a guy.”

The smell was constant in the crowded areas — like the city itself was exhaling it.

It wasn’t even shocking after a while. It just became part of the atmosphere.

Like palm trees and traffic.

Venice Beach, Bodybuilders, and Movie Energy

Venice Beach had this “anything can happen” vibe.

Bodybuilders posing like it’s a sacred ritual. People performing. Characters everywhere.

I even went to that famous workout spot where Arnold used to train — the place feels like a pilgrimage site for anyone who lifts.

Guys show up absolutely shredded, pose like statues, then disappear back into the crowd.

It’s such a strange mix of discipline and chaos — and somehow it works.

The Hollywood Hills and a Random Conversation That Stuck

I hiked up near the Hollywood sign because I didn’t just want a photo. I wanted the top. The view. The air. That feeling of being above the city.

At one point I stopped between hills and did some nunchuck drills — just me, the wind, the mountains, Los Angeles spread out below.

And while I’m there, this random guy starts chatting with me. Super friendly. Let’s call him Dave.

We talk. He asks where I’m from.

I say Lithuania, expecting the usual:

“Is that in Europe?”

But this dude hits me with:

“Basketball country. Independence in the ’90s.”

I was like… damn.

The first American I met who actually knew something real about Lithuania.

Then he starts talking about California laws and real estate — explaining why prices keep rising, how land expansion is restricted, all that.

And I remember thinking:

I’ll probably never use this information.

But it’s exactly why I travel.

You talk to one stranger and your brain gets a new file saved inside it.

America in One Crosswalk

One moment I still remember clearly.

I’m standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the green light, just watching.

A G-Wagon with tinted windows blasts rap and flies by, tires squealing.

An old dude walks through a red light screaming at traffic:

“Fuck you! Fuck off!”

People honk like crazy.

Then you’ve got homelessness right there on the corners — trash bags, blankets, the empty stare.

And in the middle of it all, there’s also glamour — like a model-level girl walking with some completely random guy that looks like he accidentally spawned into the wrong storyline.

And I just thought:

Yeah.

This is America.

Not one thing.

All things.

At the same time.

What I Took From That First Day

I arrived with no plan and got hit with reality immediately.

Los Angeles didn’t ease me in.

It threw me into the deep end with sunglasses on and €2,500 in my pocket like an idiot.

But that day did something to me.

It stretched my sense of the world.

It made the “America” in my head turn into something real — messy, loud, overwhelming, hilarious, dangerous, beautiful.

And the funniest part?

When I tell people this story, they think I’m adding details for drama.

But I still have those two signed CDs.

Once a year I play them, just to time-travel back.

Back to Downtown.

Back to Santa Monica.

Back to the moment I stepped outside, walked ten meters, and realized:

Los Santos was real.