I spent a minute in LA this weekend celebrating the 30th of one of my nearest and dearest. Whenever I go visit, I can’t decide weather I love or hate LA. It’s loved by the part of me that spent the first ten years of my life there-ish. The part of me that loves the feeling of the warm evening air, the scent of eucalyptus, and the sight of palm trees silhouetted against the Pacific; the part of me that wants to buy avacados for less than $500 and wants to hear Spanish more often than English. It’s hated by the part of me that craves authenticity and space. The part of me that hates striving to become and “arriving” via your Aston-Martin wearing a sweater that cost you more that the total GPD of Mozambique. Regardless of how I feel towards the city that "reinvents itself every two days,” I always hold on to the memories I make when I’m there because they tie me to my own history in a defined way. Childhood is always close when I’m there, in a way it isn’t anywhere else. Partially because my best-friend-since-kindergarten-turned-traveling-buddy-turned-lifer resides a few blocks up from the Santa Monica Pier, and reminiscing via the pages of elementary school yearbooks and stories of sleepovers accounts for 65% of our laughter. Partly because, in a way, I left my childhood behind when we moved, for the not-so-concrete world of adolescence.
So thanks LA, for being your beautiful and fast, if not also inconsiderate, self. For reminding me of who I am and who I am not. For being home for once and a stranger for now.
*Giclee Prints available