I woke up this morning to sunshine pouring into the windows. Sunshine in November. Sunshine, to the girl from the Northwest, is still a kind of miracle in itself. Colours are a blessing, anything but the constant greys and greens and browns of home. I woke up to blue and gold today, rather than the dirty lavendar and bedraggled ivory of the usual Northwest skies.
I could see the Hollywood sign from the top of the Mar Vista hill today, while driving to get bread and milk for breakfast. Weeks of intermittent rain has washed Los Angeles clean. The air is free of the dust and the smog of the eight million people and six million cars that make up this megalopolis. I could see the Santa Monica Mountains running into the Hollywood Hills just as clearly as I could see the foothills just beyond West Vancouver. And I had never noticed that I could see that damn sign, and all its symbolism, from my little corner of L.A.
It’s too warm out right now for the light sweatshirt I’m wearing – it’s at least 70F out there. And sunny, and colourful. The trees here are still green, and are only occasionally dappled with gold. The palm trees never lose their leaves. I could see the forever blue of the Pacific past the dozens of palm trees that line the streets of Venice, just to the west. Seeing the ocean from the hill, looking across this sleepy corner of L.A., with no tall buildings in sight, makes the view look more like one of the small towns along the California coast. I love feeling like I live someplace smaller than Los Angeles, yet I can go into the city in half an hour.
I love waking up on a Saturday in Los Angeles.
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