I married my husband 22 years ago. Before we marched down the aisle we spent quite a bit of time talking about what our marriage would be like. Places we would consider living garnered a healthy amount of discussion time and the hot button in those conversations was debate about the places we would "never, ever, even if you dragged me kicking and screaming out of Texas" consider living. The top place on my list of never, ever locales? Earthquake prone Los Angeles. Where do I live now? Los Angeles. Do I love this congested, sprawling and crowded hot mess of a city? With my whole heart.
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| Winter in Los Angeles |
On crisp winter days, when a storm has just passed, the view from the passenger car at the tip top of the Santa Monica Pier's Ferris wheel is a visual reminder of California's stamp on my heart. The winds have blown away the smog, the sky is the brightest blue, the mountains are iced with snow and the Pacific Ocean swells and lulls beneath the wood planks of the pier. The mountains rise unexpectedly behind the steel and glass of the Los Angeles skyline. Tall palms sway in the foreground. It's more like movie magic than the casual observer knows. The palm trees-as depicted in postcards sold in tourist traps and at drugstore check outs across this busy town-aren't really indigenous to our region. The truth is like a page out of a Hollywood set design manual. The thousands of trees were planted just prior to the 1932 Olympics so Los Angeles would look camera ready for world travelers arriving to celebrate the games. They remain as a testament to the ultimate set dressing in this land where make believe and reality collide.
How I ended up living in a place that I vowed I would never live is proof of how children can soften your heart, change your mind and set you free to live life in a way you never imagined-if you let them. Our before the wedding conversations also touched on how many kids we wanted. It was always 3 or 4 but after two difficult pregnancies my doctor, in true Texas fashion, told me I was a "bad breeder" and that I better look for another doctor if I ever found myself pregnant again. (This is the same doctor who summoned nurses to the exam room by blowing a duck call whistle. Each nurse had their own duck sound and as soon as he quacked they hustled to his side.) He was laughing when he slammed my child bearing abilities, but he wasn't kidding. We stopped at a boy and a girl. My daughter wanted to be an actress. Simply put, it's all she ever wanted to do, she was good at it, and I found myself putting aside my fear of earthquakes, packing up the SUV and heading to Los Angeles for the adventure of my life. That was seven years ago. It took me a year to stop worrying about the ground rumbling beneath my feet and I still have anxiety attacks over the cost of living here. But it only took me a few weeks to fall in love with the city itself.
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| Griffith Park |
On lazy afternoons we drive through the winding roads of Griffith Park and end up at the tiny Trails Cafe for a huge slice of apple pie and their lavender vanilla cookie. A wealthy scoundrel, Col. Griffith J. Griffith, donated the land for this city park in 1896. At just over 4000 acres, it's an oasis and I'm blessed to live 5 minutes from our rugged version of Central Park. Col. Griffith was a wealthy business man who did a little prison time for shooting his wife. She lived. He apparently loved Los Angeles more than his woman.
I've met people who stay in their burbs and along their comfortable routes. They're content to travel a well worn path to work and back. I love to venture off my path. The cultures that meld into our population can't be seen from highways.
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| Phillips Barbecue |
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| Olvera Street |
I drive through Koreatown and Little Ethiopia every week. We head to Chinatown for a meal at Yang Chow's and to pick up stalks of lucky bamboo from street vendors. The cobble stoned Olvera Street is lined with "mama y papa restaurantes" selling comfort food-steaming tamales, enchiladas and little packs of Mexican Chiclets.
I drive past the ritzy high rise condos that line the western strip of Wilshire Boulevard and if I keep heading east and hook a left at Western I pass homeless men and women pushing their only possessions in stolen shopping carts.
A Saturday spent downtown brings lunch at the historic Clifton's Cafeteria and a stroll through the Garment, Flower, Fabric and Jewelry Districts and maybe a stop at Casey's Bar for a shot of Jameson and a shot of their homemade pickle juice. Don't laugh. It's called a Pickle Back and it's damn good.
Leimart Park is one of the neighborhoods with a Phillips Barbecue. There's another in Inglewood and one just off the Crenshaw exit on the 10 Freeway. If you haven't been to Phillips, you have to go. Order BBQ beef ribs with spicy sauce, add in a side of baked beans and follow up with a slice of Seven-Up Cake.
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| Did they dream of being actors? |
If we're coming home through Hollywood, I always cut down Hollywood Boulevard and marvel at the masses of tourists taking in the daily freak show. I never mind the traffic before the light at Hollywood and Highland because it gives me time to take in The Roosevelt Hotel (last place for drinks for The Black Dahlia) and look for the guy who plays Superman who also acts as the leader in charge of all the costumed characters who eke out a living by posing with tourists. I always see at least one person laying down beside a gold star on the Walk of Fame to have their picture taken. I wonder what they're thinking. I know I'm thinking "Get up. That street is filthy."
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| School children in South Central Los Angeles |
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| The view to Malibu from The Santa Monica Mountains |
We've volunteered at elementary schools in Watts where the neighborhood looks eerily similar to before the race riots of 1965. We go north to Calabasas and head west on Los Virgenes, up and over the Santa Monica Mountain range, until the road spits us out by the privileged Pepperdine University at the ocean's shore. It is a startling difference in terrain and economics but it's also one of the things I love most about Los Angeles. The good, the bad and the ugly. The bad is often found in the wealthiest parts of town and humanity at its very best is often found in South East and South Central LA in the hearts of people who work tirelessly to make life better for others.
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| Silver Lake from the reservoir |
Every one of my favorite neighborhoods has its own vibe and its own central area with shops and restaurants. I can't get enough of Larchmont Village, bordering the mansions of Hancock Park. Venice has its boardwalk, Muscle Beach and the charming shops along Abbott Kinney. Even the ocean breeze feels upscale when I walk through Third Street Promenade and the brand new Santa Monica Place. Artsy and funky Silver Lake is perched in the steep hills near downtown LA and I could drive for hours down the narrow streets and look at the Craftsman and Spanish style homes. Burbank,if you take away the studios, feels like a Midwest town and proudly flies the American flag from overpasses and balconies of retirement communities. Studio City's stretch of Ventura Boulevard has some of the best sushi in the city.
I love Los Angeles. Twenty years ago I would have choked on those words but twenty years ago I had no idea how good it would feel to step outside my comfort zone and take a chance on a new place and new people. Earthquakes? I've experienced a few good rumbles but nothing to send me packing. Yep, I love L.A. in all it's overcrowded glory. I love the people and the clash of cultures and languages. I love to study the faces of pedestrians when I'm sitting at red lights and I've noticed an equal number of smiles and frowns in Beverly Hills and in South Central. Where you live? It's all relative, isn't it?
