It starts, like so many stories in LA do, with a parking situation. Specifically, my family’s driveway in Beverly Hills, which was somehow always full despite an embarrassing abundance of space. The weekend lineup included my dad's Mercedes, my mom's hybrid (she’s always been ahead of the curve), my older brother’s beat-up convertible from college, and, inexplicably, a neighbor’s Range Rover. To move one car meant moving at least three, and by then, nobody actually remembered why we needed to leave the house in the first place.

Growing up in the land of palm trees and perpetual traffic jams, my childhood looked like the glossy Hollywood version of itself—at least to outsiders. But the truth? Beverly Hills didn’t just shape my zip code; it quietly sculpted my character. It sharpened my wit, skewed my sense of normal, and handed me a crash course in human connection. If LA is famously a city of reinvention, then Beverly Hills was my proving ground for authenticity, irony, and, yes, the occasional lesson in humility.

Where 90210 Meets Shabbat (Or: An Identity Crisis on a Silver Platter)

Picture an intimately lit dining table, the kind you see in Nancy Meyers movies, but swap the brie-and-baguette spread for challah and my great-aunt’s hyper-specific demands for gefilte fish. That was Friday night at my house: Shabbat dinner, Beverly Hills-style, where tradition met The Industry.

By tradition, I mean we lit the candles and said the blessings. By "The Industry," I mean guest stars of 90s sitcoms sharing kugel with my rabbi. My parents mastered the art of blending religious custom with a networking opportunity, cultivating what felt like the ultimate metaphor for life in this city: sacred and absurd, all at once.

It was here, under the soft glow of Shabbat candles, that I learned my cultural identity wasn’t some one-size-fits-all template. I wasn’t just "the Jewish girl from Beverly Hills." I was the Jewish girl from Beverly Hills who could organize a proper Havdalah while debating the merits of an Oscars afterparty. This duality shaped me; navigating spaces where I was both part of the in-crowd and slightly adjacent to it became my superpower. That, and the ability to explain what matzo ball soup actually is to someone who had only ever seen it on "Curb Your Enthusiasm."

Love Lessons From Rodeo Drive

Rodeo Drive taught me a lot about relationships. I mean, not directly. But growing up near a stretch of real estate dressed in diamonds has a way of skewing your perspective on value—both literal and figurative. On Saturday mornings, my friends and I would grab overpriced smoothies, wander past the giant display windows, point at shoes we couldn’t afford, and then declare which ones we’d buy when we "made it."

Here’s the thing about Rodeo Drive: it looks dazzling, but nobody’s really buying anything there. The shoppers? Mostly tourists striking a pose in front of a Lamborghini for Instagram. And the locals? They already have an appointment with their stylist—or therapist.

Dating in LA is like that, too. Lots of window shopping, plenty of posturing, but way more curb appeal than actual substance. What I came to learn, though, is that figuring out who to swipe “yes” on, romantically or otherwise, is a lot like knowing which designer bags hold their value and which ones are just having a moment. It’s about knowing who’s worth the investment because they’ll be timeless, versus who’s so trendy they won’t even make it to Valentine’s Day.

The School of Unfiltered Talk

Growing up in an environment where everyone looked like an award show afterparty taught me to distinguish between charm and sincerity—quickly. Nobody does surface-level quite like LA, where compliments are abundant, but commitment can feel like spotting a unicorn in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. Coveted, rare, and probably fictional.

In this world, I developed what I call The Beverly Hills Radar™: an ability to cut through the noise and find the real story behind someone’s perfect hair or glowing résumé. My friends joke that I’m like a human IMDb page when it comes to relationships—I ask the right questions, look for gaps in the narrative, and, occasionally, cross-reference. (Kidding. Mostly.)

This knack for honest conversation came in handy during dating, too. After a particularly heinous first date with a guy who confused banter with cutting me off, I created a rule: Life’s too short for conversations where you don’t feel heard. The people who matter will lean in, laugh at your jokes, and ask the follow-up questions that make your heart go ka-thunk.

Lesson from home? Never be afraid to tell it like it is. Beverly Hills may be built on “brand strategies,” but authenticity always has better lighting.

Behind the Velvet Rope (And What Happens Off-Screen)

In LA, everyone wants to feel like they’re on the guest list—invited, included, seen. Maybe it’s no coincidence that our strangest collective fear is not earthquakes but FOMO (fear of missing out). But my Shabbat dinners taught me this lesson early: the velvet rope doesn’t matter nearly as much as who’s on the other side of it.

It’s a lesson I’ve carried into my adult relationships. The Instagram-worthy stuff—the rooftop dinners, the flashy parties—won’t actually carry you through the moments that matter. What does is closeness, trust, and the occasional ability to sit quietly in someone else’s company without feeling the need to post it.

Some of my favorite childhood memories aren’t the red carpets or black-tie galas. It’s the hours spent sitting on the floor in my best friend’s room, watching her attempt one of those disastrous at-home manicures, and talking about life. No crowds. No filters. Just the joy of being with someone who gets you. What I’ve learned is that—even in relationships—the best things are often found when nobody’s looking.

Takeaways From the (Literal) Land That Made Me

Beverly Hills might not be your hometown, but if you’ve felt the pressure to curate your life into something polished and perfect, then in some ways, we grew up in the same place.

So, here’s my unsolicited advice from a girl who grew up where valet parking is its own love language:

  • Cut through the fluff: Whether it’s a first date, a friendship, or rewatching a Nora Ephron movie for the 100th time, go for substance. The glossy parts won’t sustain you.
  • Stop window shopping: Invest in people (and handbags) who will hold their worth over time. Seriously, a Chanel classic flap doesn’t depreciate, and neither will a good partner.
  • Own your contradictions: Are you a minimalist who likes to collect Sephora points? Or an introvert who loves karaoke nights? Great! The paradoxes keep life interesting.
  • Be picky, but not judgmental: My mom always said, “There’s a difference between knowing your standards and being unkind.” She’s right.

At the end of the day, Beverly Hills taught me that life is equal parts staged photo ops and stolen moments—and we get to choose which ones we chase. Would I trade my hyper-meta upbringing for something simpler? Never. But would I rearrange the driveway so it’s easier to leave on time? Absolutely.

That, I think, sums it all up: value the chaos, love the mess, and take a good parking spot when you can get it.