Yesterday my life was filled with rain.
I haven’t blogged here lately, because it just seems like sheer gloating. Sorry.
The holiday report from Los Angeles : 73 frikkin degrees, and brilliantly sunny. Breezy. Freezing last night, rain expected by Friday. There is meteorological variety, diversity and complexity here, versus 40 degrees, black skies, screeching, Valkyrie-flattening winds and sleet 365/24-7. The sun on my face at breakfast this morning, at an outdoor table at Paty’s Coffeeshop, was shamanic healing, with hot buttered sourdough toast. I am still thawing from 2.5 years in northern frigid stupefaction.
The street I live on is lined with what may be Chinese maples. The neighborhood is old, and the trees must be nearing the century-mark. It is as vivid as anything in the Finger Lakes or other leaf-peeper meccas, but without the annoying woodchuck accents. All over the city there are apparently deciduous trees offering up a spectrum of dark gold, deep muscadine to olive to amber, to copper and persimmon and maraschino-red. More than just palm trees.
And can I just say, breakfast out? Just like that?
Standard diner fare, served steamin’ on the table in moments, full sun, cuppa joe, blue skies over Burbank? Then I dropped off my vintage, cream-colored cashmere coat at the (shiver and sigh of gratitude and bliss) DRY CLEANER’S on the corner. It’ll be ready at 5 pm tomorrow (not two weeks from now, via decrepit stoner-granny van). I’ll need it for the next chill.