God, I miss Los Angeles. Don’t get me wrong; my new home is great. The people are friendly and hard working, the city isn’t too crowded, and the teenagers call me ma’am.
But it’s just not home. Home is a place paved with concrete, where the sun shines down on incongruent palm trees, and jacarandas drop purple blossoms on your freshly washed car at night. Home is a place where a nanosecond is defined by the time it takes the streetlight to change to green and the idiot behind you to honk his horn. It’s where drivers aim for pedestrians in the crosswalk and pick their teeth with jaywalkers’ bones, not where they politely hold up traffic so you can sprint across against the light.
Home is where the teenagers not only wear gothic, but really think they’re vampires, and God help you if you cross their paths alone at night. Home is where I can get a craving for a barbeque chicken pizza (no cheese) at 2:00am on Christmas Eve, and by gosh I can find someone to serve me one. It’s where the only rainbows you usually see are in the colors of the people around you, but no one ever utters the words “colored people.”
Home is where my friends are. Home is where my extended family is.
I love L.A. And I always will.