See that's what I'm talkin' about. LA has "The Last Bookstore." Wanna trade some used books? You get to schlep your ass downtown, find parking somewhere (budget 20 minutes during off-peak), drop off your books, give them a phone number, wait six goddamn hours, get an embarrassingly low offer, tell them to keep your books because you've long since had lunch stuffed the meter twice and left, and then order 1/10th of what you were thinking on Amazon.
Fucking anywhere else you haul your hoard, wait fifteen minutes, take your twelve bucks and buy four books you didn't know you needed before the ice cream in the trunk melts.
Yet Angelinos will go "zomg The Last Bookstore is teh awesomez!!!!!!!" because there's some MFA with a $250k debt from Art Center manning the counter when he's not busy arranging five editions of JP Guen's The Art of Cinematography into a pentagram on the table or covering scripts for 40dollarnotes.com so that he can afford to live with six people in an 800sqft hovel in Silverlake because his girlfriend scoops gelato for a living and doesn't like to drive.
You hit three bars. In college I mixed in five bars that were walking distance from each other; they were five of the seventeen clubs on Pioneer Square joint cover where you could get into all of them on a weekend for $8. LA? LA you can pay for pizza by the inch and then wander into a dark hole with a McIntosh playing obscure dubstep into Klipshorns over tables with placards reading "please respect our listening environment and keep your conversations hushed" while paying twelve fucking dollars for Voss.
I'm glad you had a great time but "three bars and a bookstore" should not constitute an epic weekend, should not be subject to the vagaries of "traffic, parking, assholes and so on" and it is a distinctly LA attitude that holds that somehow, this meager diversion should be enough.