I married my husband 22 years ago. Before we walked down the aisle, we spent quite a bit of time talking about what our marriage would look like. Places we would consider living got a fair amount of discussion time and the hot topic in those conversations was the debate about places that we would “never, ever, even if you drag me kicking and screaming out of Texas” we would consider to live. First place on my list of places never, ever? Earthquake prone to Los Angeles. Where do I live now? The Angels. Do I love this congested, sprawling, overcrowded mess of a city? With all my heart.

On cool winter days, when a storm has just passed, the view from the passenger car on top of the Santa Monica Pier’s Ferris wheel is a visual reminder of the stamp of California in my heart. The winds have blown away the smog, the sky is the brightest blue, the mountains are frozen with snow, and the Pacific Ocean swells and lulls beneath the wooden pier planks. Mountains rise unexpectedly behind the steel and glass of the Los Angeles skyline. Tall palm trees sway in the foreground. It’s more like movie magic than the casual observer knows. Palm trees, as depicted on postcards sold at tourist traps and pharmacy cash registers in this busy city, are not actually indigenous to our region. The truth is like a page from a Hollywood set design manual. The thousands of trees were planted just before the 1932 Olympics to make Los Angeles look camera-ready for world travelers arriving to celebrate the games. They remain a testament to the best setting in this land where fantasy and reality collide.

How I ended up living in a place I promised I would never live is proof of how children can soften your heart, change your mindset, and free you to live life in ways you never imagined, if you let them. Our conversations before the wedding also touched on how many children we wanted. It was always 3 or 4, but after two difficult pregnancies, my doctor, in true Texas fashion, told me I was a “poor breeder” and better find another doctor if I ever found myself pregnant again. (This is the same doctor who summoned the nurses into the exam room by blowing a duck whistle. Each nurse had their own duck whistle and as soon as she quacked, they ran to her side.) He was laughing when he hit my childbearing skills. but he wasn’t kidding. We stopped at a boy and a girl. My daughter wanted to be an actress. Long story short, it’s everything she ever wanted to do, she was good at it, and I found that I put aside my fear of earthquakes, packed up the truck and headed to Los Angeles for the adventure of a lifetime. That was seven years ago. It took me a year to stop worrying about the floor noise under my feet and I still have anxiety attacks about the cost of living here. But it only took me a few weeks to fall in love with the city itself.

On lazy afternoons, we drive 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 4,000 acres, it’s an oasis and I’m lucky enough to live 5 minutes from our rugged version of Central Park. Necklace. Griffith was a wealthy businessman who spent time in prison for shooting his wife. she lived. Apparently she loved Los Angeles more than his wife.

I have met people who stay in their neighborhoods and on their comfortable routes. They are content to travel the well-worn road to work and back. I love to venture out of my way. The cultures that merge in our population cannot be seen from the highways.

I drive through Koreatown and Little Ethiopia every week. We headed to Chinatown to eat at Yang Chow’s and pick up lucky bamboo stalks from street vendors. The cobblestones of Olvera Street are lined with “mom and pop restaurants” selling comfort food: steaming tamales, enchiladas, and little packets of Mexican gum.

I drive past the luxurious high-rise condominiums that line the western fringe of Wilshire Boulevard and if I continue east and turn left on Western, I pass homeless men and women pushing their only possessions in stolen shopping carts.

A Saturday downtown brings lunch at historic Clifton’s Cafeteria and a stroll through the garment, flower, fabric and jewelry districts and perhaps 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 Pickle Back and it’s very good.

Leimart Park is one of the neighborhoods with a Phillips BBQ. There’s another one 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 short ribs with hot sauce, add a side of baked beans, and follow with a slice of Seven-Up Cake.

Did you dream of being actors?

If we make our way home via Hollywood, I always pass by on Hollywood Boulevard and marvel at the masses of tourists who enjoy the daily freak show. I don’t mind the traffic before the light at Hollywood and Highland because it gives me time to grab 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 make a living posing with tourists. I always see at least one person lying next to a gold star on the Walk of Fame to have their picture taken. I wonder what they are thinking. I know I’m thinking “Get up. That street is dirty.”

We’ve volunteered at elementary schools in Watts, where the neighborhood looks eerily similar to before the 1965 race riots. We headed north to Calabasas and headed west through Los Virgenes, up and over the mountain range from Santa Monica, until the highway spits us out. by the privileged Pepperdine University on the edge of the ocean. It’s an initial difference in terrain and economics, but it’s also one of the things I like best about Los Angeles. The good, the bad and the ugly. The bad is often found in the richest parts of the city and the best of humanity is often found in Southeast and South Central Los Angeles in the hearts of people who work tirelessly to improve the lives of others. .

Each of my favorite neighborhoods has its own atmosphere 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 of Abbott Kinney. Even the ocean breeze feels luxurious as I walk down Third Street Promenade and the new Santa Monica Place. Artsy and trendy Silver Lake is nestled in the steep hills near downtown Los Angeles and you could drive for hours through the narrow streets and see the Craftsman and Spanish style homes. Burbank, if you take away the studios, feels like a Midwestern city and proudly flies the American flag from the overpasses and balconies of retirement communities. The Studio City stretch of Ventura Boulevard has some of the best sushi in town.

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 out of my comfort zone and risk seeing a new place and new people. earthquakes? I’ve experienced some good buzz, but nothing to make me pack up. Yes, I love LA in all its overcrowded glory. I love the people and the clash of cultures and languages. I love studying the faces of pedestrians when I’m sitting at red lights, and I’ve noticed just as many smiles and frowns in Beverly Hills as I do in South Central. Where do you live? Everything is relative, right?