Culver City has spent a century underneath other people's aircraft. On an ordinary westerly day the arrivals into LAX file in over the Baldwin Hills with the gear already down, four or five stacked above La Cienega at once, and nobody on the sidewalk bothers looking up. A mile down Ballona Creek, Hughes Aircraft built airplanes on the flats that are now Playa Vista, and the wooden hangar where the Spruce Goose was assembled still stands. Flying is not exotic here. It has just always belonged to somebody else.
What Culver City does not have is a place to learn it. The nearest field sits four miles west with a shortened runway and a calendar nobody will guarantee, and the next one south is wedged under the LAX shelf with one strip and a lot of jet traffic. Van Nuys is twenty-one miles north: two parallel runways, a control tower whose staff talk to student pilots every hour of the day, and a fleet running from a Cessna 162 through a Cirrus SR22 to a twin-engine Seminole.
The people who come to us from Culver City tend to have weeks that never repeat. Post supervisors and colorists around the Hayden Tract, editors in the Helms building, engineers at the Playa Vista campuses, producers on the Washington Boulevard lots who are in Atlanta for a month and then home for three weeks with nothing booked. A standing Tuesday afternoon slot dies the first time a shoot moves. Booking each lesson on its own, at a school open until nine at night, survives it.
The honest way to find out whether you want this is one hour. A discovery flight costs $229 and you fly the airplane yourself, hands on the yoke from shortly after the wheels leave the ground, while the instructor works the radio. Turn south out of Van Nuys and the oil derricks on the Baldwin Hills and the concrete line of Ballona Creek are beneath you inside fifteen minutes. Enroll within twenty-four hours and the whole fee comes off your course.