When Schiller arrived in Los Angeles, it was just evening, and the sunset over the West Coast was gentle and lingering.
Unlike the blue sky and sea blending together during the day, at sunset, a rich orange-red spread above the ocean, followed by a dreamy purple. Fine streaks of cloud wove themselves into gauzy curtains, and the sun was like a pearl rolling down mermaid silk.
The American West Coast had an atmosphere unlike anywhere else in the world. It was busy yet leisurely, lively yet romantic. In the cool evening breeze of autumn, cheerful, lively tunes could always be heard while walking down the street. It was like a city born for jazz.
Once they left the airport, they could see rows of skyscrapers bathed in orange-red light. Closer by, the palm trees looked like men with long necks and wild afros, swaying gently in the wind as though dancing happily.
Schiller stood outside the airport and yawned. As the sun sank lower and lower, the wind chime on the convenience store door kept ringing crisply whenever someone pushed it open. Tim came out with a can of coffee, shut the store door behind him, and waved the can at Schiller.
Schiller waved him off. He was not used to this kind of instant coffee. Tim tightened the backpack on his shoulders, opened a can, and poured the coffee into his mouth.
He did not actually like coffee that much. It was just that his counterparts from other universes all loved it. Whenever he chatted with them, he felt uncomfortable without a cup of coffee. Over time, he had gotten used to drinking it anytime, anywhere.
The hotel car arrived soon enough, but rather amusingly, it was not some proper stretched luxury limousine. It was an old Ford covered