Los Angeles Nights: Hollywood Bowl

If you live in Los Angeles and if its summer time, most likely you will find yourself nestled within the hills at night, with only the stars and faintest breath of clouds for shelter. That is where I found myself this past Sunday evening, listening to the ballads of Ray LaMontagne, that beautiful bursting of soul, at the Hollywood Bowl.

My friends and I parked in the stacked parking lot off of Highland Avenue, in the truest part of Hollywood, my Acura squished between thousands of other cars—absolutely trapped—until all of the surrounding vehicles would eventually drive away later that night. Annoying? Of course, but for $14 in Hollywood, and only a short jaunt to the outdoor amphitheatre, one can’t complain.

Girls dressed in delicate sundresses and billowy tops; men in board shorts and flip flops—we all made the stroll up Highland, through the underground tunnel, up the winding hill until you reach the amphitheater doors. Everyone arrives at the Bowl with picnics and wine and blankets. A man on the street played sad songs with his saxophone; we passed three hot dog stands on the way to the tunnel; college boys in the park next door tossed a football around.

We found our seats on those old wooden benches; really, you can’t help but sit there and touch thighs with your neighbor. But you don’t care, at least not for long, because soon you pour a glass of crisp summer wine and then—right away—you’re exchanging cheese and salami and other fun snacks with your seatmates and all is well.

Dusk fell on the hills and we sat there in the periwinkle glow, waiting for Ray. We were his congregation and when he stepped out on stage, it was as though an army of 18,000 children hushed and leaned forward, ever so slightly, like waiting for a bedtime story.

I first bought Ray’s music years ago at a dumpy music shop in Marina del Rey with my exboyfriend. We listened to it as I packed to go back home to Arizona. We smelled of summer in LA: chlorine, sunscreen and salty sand, and a lump started in my chest when I realized that I wanted to tell him that I loved him but I was too scared. Instead, I became awkward and quiet as I packed, bustling about, keeping my head down and thoughts to myself.

Years later, I would listen to Ray’s music when I moved out to LA from Arizona, in my car by myself screaming across the July desert on the I10 freeway, wondering what lies ahead.

And years after that, I would listen to Ray as I crafted sauces and bruschetta in my galley kitchen in Brentwood with Infatuation.

And, well, so there I was, listening to Ray, yet again, as I sat underneath the stars with a friend, enjoying the night in all of its simplicity.

It’s summer in Los Angeles.