Los Angeles is a city of many things — smog, angels, eight-lane freeways, Kardashians, imaginary celebrity sightings, pot doctors, real celebrity sights, Hollywood, etc. It’s also a city of frozen yogurt (or FroYo, as you trendy eaters call it).

I hadn’t heard much about FroYo, this stuff that’s basically ice cream with candy thrown on top, before visiting my sister in the L.A. last spring.

There I realized frozen yogurt stands are kind of like hot dog stands in Chicago, counterfeit watch and purse brokers in New York City, slot machines and female escorts in Las Vegas — they’re on every corner.

Go to The Original Farmers Market in L.A. and there, among all the fresh fruit, veggies and candy apples is a place to get FroYo.

Then walk out of the market and into The Grove right next to it and see pop-up FroYo stands placed sparsely among everything else (a Barnes & Noble, Mario Lopez filming his Hollywood access show and probably an Apple store).

“Oh look! FroYo,” I shout and point. My sister just says something like, “Yup,” like it’s no big deal, “Keeping moving.”

Well, it is a big deal, Molly. FroYo is trendy — it’s attractive; at least that’s what I gather from driving by Charleston’s new Fruit Chill Frozen Yogurt place. It’s like the big man on campus. Everyone wants a piece of it (or in this case, a cup of it).

Fruit Chill, which shares a building with L.A. Tan (coincidence? I think not!), always looks busy. The inside looks crowded and there is spill over crowds leaning against the building outside eating their yogurt.

Monday I decided I needed to get a bite of my own before there was nothing left.

As soon as I walked into the place, they knew I was a FroYo virgin. I was the guy who walked straight to the cash register, instead following the directions written on the walls. I later found out the directions clearly state step one and two as fill a cup up with yogurt on your own. Not even your mom is there to help you!

Unless, of course, she is.

I was supposed to fill up my cup with yogurt. I thought this would be simple until I saw the dispensing machines. I was intrigued, yet frightened, by the one that was labeled caramel pretzel yogurt.

Caramel and pretzels? Might as well be cheese puffs and chocolate syrup. I stuck to classic French vanilla.

Once you get to the table of goodies, the maker overwhelms you with options. I mixed strawberries, blueberries, Nerds and Butterfinger bites.

I didn’t think about keeping it simple like two students I talked to, who were also eating FroYo for the first time. One just got cashews, but had the caramel pretzel stuff. The other got almonds.

Safe. Smart. Most importantly, inexpensive. FroYo cup in hand, I started chatting with them eager to find out how much they paid for theirs. Mine put me out $7, the price of their two cups combined. Price goes by the weight of the cup at the end. Apparently, I’m fatter than they were.

It’s O.K. to have fat moments, though, because $7 isn’t bad at all to pay for a large cup of fancy ice cream.

The experts at Wikipedia tell me FroYo began in the New England area, but it started in L.A. for me.

Next time I visit my sister, maybe I wont be so befuddled by the many FroYo stands on L.A. streets.

Alex McNamee is a senior journalism major. He can be reached at 581-2812 or [email protected].