Let me preface this post by saying...I'm not entirely exaggerating when I refer to this as my new backyard. It's a 10 minute drive from my apartment and a reasonably timed hike for the rare occasion I wear my yoga pants to actually like, exercise.
On a Sunday night whim, a couple friends and I ventured up to the Griffith Observatory to take in the view and the last few hours of the weekend. It was one of those aimless summer evenings. Our night at Griffith felt like summer the same way that drinking too much Pinot Grigio on the staircase of my un-air conditioned college apartment felt like summer. Moments like this embody that intangible characteristic of the season...but have become too few and far between lately.
Next to us at the top of the observatory was a young couple admiring the view. One of them was visiting from Paris for the week, so my friends and I subconsciously stepped up our LA-game, reciting the names of streets like a scene right out of The Californians. There was even a heated debate about whether or not the bright light running down the center of the city is in fact Western Avenue—jury/Google Maps is still out if anyone would like to lend some geographic expertise.
And as we loudly pointed and squealed when we recognized a landmark, the dreamy French boyfriend (note: not just an archetype used for the dramatization of this blog post) stood in awe at our extensive, probably misguided, knowledge of Los Angeles.
It was a weird moment. Because, atop a big hill filled with buses of tourists...I felt unusually at home. Somehow, even after moving to the opposite side of town, I'm still in love with this dysfunctional city.
And yeah, it doesn't hurt that I have a telescope in my backyard.