A day at IKEA

Welcome to moderately priced furniture heaven.

IKEA is here. It is open. And it is astounding.

Everything about it (except the prices and those wrenches they

give you to put everything together) is larger than life. The store

is enormous. Arguably the biggest blue box in the history of blue

boxes. It is neither ugly, nor pretty. Just blue.

On opening day, the freeway was backed up around the Harbor

Boulevard exit and the intersection at the entrance of IKEA, South

Coast Drive and Susan Street, was a mess on Wednesday morning. Cars,

funneling into the IKEA entrance, lined both sides of South Coast

Drive, ultimately jamming the intersection.

While waiting to turn left into the IKEA parking lot, I took the

final sip of my large coffee and glanced at my watch: It was 9:25

a.m.

The parking lot was about 10 times more disorderly than the

intersection, and I started to think I would never see the interior

of this flagship store. After two people stole parking places from me

and I had unknowingly traveled down a dead-end aisle and was forced

to get out of my car to move the barricades -- and receive a

tongue-lashing from the security guard -- I found a spot.

Thankfully, the amusement park line, which had earlier snaked

around outside the entrance, had disappeared.

At 10:05 a.m., I was inside. Thank goodness the bathrooms are the

first thing in the store.

A short line had formed for the escalator that ascended to the

Mecca of Swedish furniture: The IKEA Showroom (dramatic music plays

here).

What followed was two hours of Swedish sortie and knickknack

sensory overload. Hutches, tables, lamps and beds with funny names

lined the winding aisle of the IKEA home tour. Different models of

kitchens, bedrooms, offices, dining rooms and bathrooms were on

display, and each accessory -- down to the magnet on the kitchen

chalkboard -- had a price tag.

Adorning each piece of furniture was at least one of these: pails

and buckets, tin boxes, storage containers, tea light lanterns,

picture frames, decorative knobs, pulls and handles, fake plants,

baskets, CD racks, dried flowers, pottery and much, much more.

If I had my own place, that is what my kitchen would look like.

Oh, and I wish I could do that to the bathroom. I found myself

cursing the fact that I had no right to rip out every cabinet and

countertop in my small apartment and replace them with functional --

and stylish -- Swedish wares.

The winding and extensive showroom tour ultimately dumped patrons

in the downstairs warehouse, where you can finally get your hands on

all the stuff you’ve admired for the past hour.

It was prototype pandemonium, as people aggressively searched for

the Oppala Easy Chair they had seen upstairs. Large banners announced

super-spectacular sales, in which items were being sold at a fraction

of their price.

A particular wooden flower box proved to be a popular item, and a

store employee was in the process of bringing out a cart load.

“Are those the flower boxes?” one customer asked.

Dozens of heads turned in the young man’s direction.

“Um, yes,” the frightened employee said.

He was immediately surrounded by at least 15 people clamoring to

get their hands on the half-priced item.

“You can just cut the ties on the bundle and we will unload the

cart for you,” one woman yelled from the back of the mob.

The employee did just that, and within two minutes, the cart was

empty.

That was my cue to leave.

Fittingly, the exit of IKEA is as massive as the entrance. From 28

cash lines, lighted arrows usher you out the door.

People walked out with armloads of savings and carts full of boxed

furniture. Customers wiped their brows as they stepped out of the

store and into the beautiful sunshine, pausing for a moment to rest

their arms and admire their bootie.

Then they picked up their purchases and headed for the car,

anxious to get home and break out the Allen wrench.

* LOLITA HARPER writes columns Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and

covers culture and the arts. She may be reached at (949) 574-4275 or

by e-mail at lolita.harper@latimes.com.