Seriously. It was a little ridiculous at times. I even cried as I dashed into the elevator at work because that would be my LAST. EVER. MORNING. DASH. TO. THE. ELEVATOR!!
Um, yeah. Can we say pathetic much?
Everyone at work was just amazing. I'm not even sure I want to talk about how amazing they were because it will just make me start sobbing again. But basically, every single person I work with was supportive of me. And they all said ridiculously nice things about me, and people, I don't know how I got this lucky. How did I get such wonderful co-workers and friends and family? And how am I leaving them all?
In eleven days, I would have lived in LA for seven years. Seven freaking years. And oh man, I love this city so much it hurts. I love everything about it: its freeways, its freakish weather, the palm trees, the hills, the beaches, the 101 and the 5. But not the 405 because, I'm maudlin and sentimental, I haven't taken leave of my senses.
Mostly I love that this city is littered with memories. I remember that apartment in Palms that Honda and I checked out that looked like it had literally been the site of a drug bust like the night before. I'm not exactly sure why they showed us the place ... did we look like the kind of people who preferred our windows smashed and our walls caved in?
I remember the apartment in Hollywood where the landlord opened up the place, and we walked in on a girl lying on the floor having an overdose.
I remember the apartment in Hollywood which we finally chose. It was next door to a meth lab, sure, and there were screaming children in the courtyard at all hours of the day, and the balcony was built wrong so when it rained, water seeped into the bedroom and ruined the carpets, and the roof leaked, but it was home for five years. And I loved it.
And I remember my current apartment. And what a bitch it was to paint with the high ceilings, but how much I freaking loved the color.
I remember the street in Los Feliz, which to this day, I still can't walk down without running into someone I know.
I remember eating Korean Barbecue, and then driving to Mashti Malones for ice-cream. (Mashti Malones, in case you were wondering, is an Iranian ice-cream place that took the place of an Irish pub called Molly Malones many years ago. The sign from the pub was left over, so the new Iranian owners decided to incorporate the Irish name into their Iranian ice-cream shop.)
I remember singing my heart out at The Brass Monkey.
I remember hearing the Silversun Pickups at the Echo. And then at the Wiltern.
I remember hearing the most amazing jazz vocalist at a tiny little bar off of Crenshaw.
I remember eating the most delicious pancakes with a bacon-infused syrup at this great restaurant that only serves local and sustainable food. If you're in LA, go there! It's called Square One and it's basically on the corner of Fountain and L. Ron Hubbard Way.
Yes, there is an L. Ron Hubbard Way.
Several years ago, when I worked in casting, I remember meeting an actor who had just moved out here from New York. The casting director asked her how she liked LA comparatively.
She paused and thought about it and said, "You know, it's different. When I lived in New York, it was very obvious where the fun! cool! places were. It's like they basically had neon signs above them saying, 'This place is fun! Come here!' Whereas in LA, there are no signs telling you where the fun places are. It's more like a treasure hunt. But then once you find the fun, it's even more special, because you had to search for it."
In all my years here, I have never heard a more apt description for LA.
LA, I found the fun. And you, my City of Angels, are my heart. I love you.
Until we meet again.