We don’t have cars. In fact we don’t have even one car to share between us. We don’t get out much. This isn’t to say we live like recluses, keeping a thick wall of musty tomes, dirty coffee mugs and crunchy underwear between ourselves and the outside world. We "party," we attend "sports events," we have carried our share of red cups, but all this we’ve done only within the confines of the Pomona College micro-cosmos–and isn’t there a whole universe out there to explore? (By the way, we’re not counting going to Nick’s and the Village Market as getting off campus. They are satellites of the 5-C system.) Lately we’ve come to dread the weekend–perhaps "dread" is too strong a word. Sure, we feel the obligatory thrill at the prospect of two days without structured academics, but frankly, we’re not freshmen anymore: we’ve attended our share of 5-C grind-a-thons and we find that, for a while now, weekends have taken on a routine all their own. Somehow, sometime, we have to get off campus. Specifically, we have to get to LA. Rumor has it, it has more to offer than Claremont, Rancho Cucomonga and Upland combined and it’s a mere 30 miles away.

Which brings us back to the car, or lack thereof. If we had one, 30 miles would pose no great obstacle between us and Destination: Bliss. Basically, we’re capable, independent, adventurous girls. We are both licensed drivers, have 20/20 vision (at least after correction) and one of us can even boast an inability to get lost. However, our talents and ambitions come to naught without (you guessed it) a car. We haven’t got the money to finance one and evidently our parents lack sufficient human sympathy to give us one. Interjection: Have you noticed that a disproportionate number of boys have cars? Is this fair? We think not. Unfortunately, our parents seem to accept the situation complacently enough. In fact, they think it’s great that we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of hitting the road behind the wheel. If we see the I-10 sign at all, they’d prefer it was from the passenger’s seat. Mommies in Missouri and Washington agree: "With legs like those, why would you need a car?" They’re not talking about walking. They want us to get boyfriends. Um, yeah, thanks, I guess that solves all our problems. Does it occur to them that they are endorsing prostitution for transportation?

The older generation can be so crass.

Fortunately, there’s another way: Public transportation. Yes, it’s slow, filthy and inconvenient, and the risk of being a bench companion to a man with urine-stained warm-ups may deter those less than committed to leave Claremont–but when you’re desperate…well, let’s just say we sat next to the guy with the urine-stain.

Some might be drawn to the big city for its hip nightlife or awesome cultural events. We went there for food, specifically Persian food. (One of your correspondents wanted to get back to her roots.) Apart from a craving for something a little more exotic than Frary fare, we didn’t have a plan. (That same correspondent had a hunch that there were a large number of Persians cooking in the UCLA vicinity, ‘Really, I’ve eaten there a couple of times," she claimed. "Really, where?" we pressed. "Uh, I forget the name, but I think I could get you there," she answered. "Cool, what’s the address?" we asked. "I don’t really know," she answered. "All right, let’s go!" we decided. Stupidity or free-spirited spontaneity? You decide. In the end, we arrived at our destination without too much trouble, although it took us a while–nearly three hours, in fact. This does not reflect our own incompetence but rather the reality of the LA public transport schedule. Claremont to Los Angeles: about 45 minutes. Union Station to the end of the Red Line: about 20 minutes. Bus from the Metro to Westwood and Wilshire: forever. Just kidding. A good 40 minutes, though. The name and exact location of a good Persian restaurant would have come in handy starting when we got off the bus but the correspondent who suggested the trip seemed the incarnate of all our ideals: "Live life dangerously, leave Pomona." And so, as we walked seemingly endless spans of miles down Westwood Blvd. we looked for anything, or anybody looking remotely Persian. Fortunately, with Farsi bookshops on every corner and quaint little grocery stores (no Albertson’s!) selling Basmati rice by the sack, we knew we would not wander too long without finding a meal. Eventually, when it seemed like we might get to Melrose without having looked inside a menu, we swallowed our pride and asked a local bookseller if he could recommend us an oasis of Persian food. Without too much condescension, he pointed us in the direction of Shamshiri Khelokabobi–which our correspondent claimed was exactly the place she had wanted to go anyway!

Shamshiri Khelocabana, which lies just off of Westwood Blvd.– 1916 Westwood Blvd. to be exact (310)474-1410– did not disappoint. Aromas of fragrant Persian food greeted us at the door and disarmed us of our fatigue and frustrations after the three-hour commute. The uninitiated in Middle Eastern food must admit that upon first opening their menus, they were a little daunted by the foreign names they found therein and words like baba ganouche (eggplant dip), sabsi (an hors d’oeuvre platter) and tadik (the crispy saffron rice from the bottom of the pan–who would have known?). And then there was dough, a cold drink made from dilled yogurt (available carbonated, too)–a drink the Persians won’t even drink themselves. Of course, we had to order one, for the sheer novelty of it. And it turned out to be pretty good. Well, pretty good. We didn’t drain the glass, but we sipped consistently. We found it a little too rich and savory to be thirst quenching. Ok, that’s the opinion of the non-Persian correspondent, who is probably trying a little too hard to be culturally tolerant, open-minded and all that good touchy-feely liberal arts stuff that the PAC 9 tries to instill in us. The one half-Persian correspondent does not hesitate to describe dough as "repulsive to the core: slimy, sour and stomach-curdling." Thank you, Krista, for that frank opinion.

The Dinner: Hors d’oeuvre: We began our culinary adventure with a plate of sabsi–a traditional Persian appetizer which amounts to feta and pita bread and everything green and leafy on a plate (i.e. mint and scallions and basil). This in particular appealed to correspondent Lilas’s love of all things fresh and good. A standout, all agreed ($4.00).

Most-o-chiar was another hit of the evening. A Persian cold soup, which at its base contains a mixture of yogurt and dill given a crunchy pep on account of chopped cucumber ($4.00).

After this whirlwind of tasty appetizers our palates were whetted. We were ready for some entrées. Sherini polo: long grained basmati rice, a staple of all Persian food, mixed with saffron, pistachio pieces and slivers of orange peel. While one’s teeth crunched, one’s taste buds experienced divine bliss ($ 8.00 ).

Fessin june: The correspondent who ordered this dish deserves kudos for her bravery. Traditionally known as the food of kings, this dark sauce, gingerly placed on a bed of basmati rice, is an ambitious order for any rookie. However, if you feel brave enough, the combination of chicken (often duck or pheasant), ground roasted walnuts and pomegranate juice works divinely on the tongue. This is a delightful, albeit peculiar, juxtaposition of all that makes life good: sweet and sour, crunchy and smooth ($9.00).

Barg: The entrée by which all Persian restaurants are measured, this fine piece of filet mignon, accompanied by a generous helping of basmati rice and grilled tomatoes, was as tender and flavorful as Shamshiri claimed. Though the portion was simply huge it was a must for anyone wanting to experience true Persian cuisine ($12.50).

So, you ask, was the seven hours of bum-fatiguing, spirit-trying travel worth any amount of delicious Persian food? Well, yes and no. First of all, let’s just be up front and dispel the myth that there is anything efficient at all about public transportation. Had we a car, the price of gas would have cost us half what our assorted train, metro, bus tickets amounted to. Also, some might consider seven hours a bit excessive for a dinner outing. But because we were brave, fierce, and hungry, and because nothing, not a seven hour commute, not pricey bus tickets, and not even our neighbor with the stinky undies prevented us from having quite a lovely time of it all. Undoubtedly, LA has lots of other things to explore: museums, shops, and much more. Soaring high on the wings of public transportation, we will discover them all!