A Los Angeles weekend

My parents made the trek out to Los Angeles this past weekend and somewhere amongst the drinks and traffic crawls and city lights my Dad spoke of the past. Of when his grandmother lived out in green and sunny California, back when milk was still delivered to the front door and people believed what newspapers printed. I thought about what California must have been like back then. I thought of black and white photographs and drive-in movie theatres. Of ferris wheels and hot dogs and cars with curves and class. Of a time when the beaches weren’t so crowded with bodies fighting to get past other bodies; when the farmers markets didn’t even know what the word organic meant; before the 405 became one of the most congested freeways in the United States.

We met up with some old family friends and the Mom of the group asked me if I would be here long term. I shrugged and shook my head, “no,” and she pointed out, “It’s hard to go back home after you’ve left. You realize how much more there is out there.” And I suppose that’s my problem these days. Her thoughts gave me something to chew on.

Equally chewable (and shocking) was my Dad’s comment that he made as we stood on top of Griffith Park in the hum of the night, just outside the Observatory, underneath a sky of twinkling light. Looking down, the city looked like a sparking jewel…or like the most tangled mess of Christmas lights you ever saw. You pick. Out to our right the famous white Hollywood sign sat in the hills of the Santa Monica Mountains, as though sleeping, while the rest of Los Angeles kept moving and partying. “You know…I think it’d be pretty cool to live here!” my Dad exclaimed. “I never thought I’d say it!” (Neither did I, Dad!)

Beyond Griffith Observatory, we hit up a farmers market where my brother picked out a mini cactus and my dad devoured an organic peach. We cruised through Malibu on the PCH, so far up that we hit rural agriculture country, then took back roads, winding roads, through the mountains until we got dumped out in Ventura County. We ate at a beachside pancake house; flashed by the UCLA campus; draped ourselves on the railing at the Brentwood Getty like hungry vines, admiring the gardens and the light.

I wonder what my great-grandmother would have thought of the beautiful conundrum that is Los Angeles, oh, this fickle city! The cacophony of the cars; the magic that gushes forth from the beach. The constant buzz and spill of people, the light, even in the darkest night. The winding-ness of it all.