Your Letters

This is my Eulogy to the Palisades.

Fifty-three years ago, two schoolteachers bought a tiny house they couldn’t really afford in a small Southern California neighborhood by the sea. They wondered if they’d ever pay off the mortgage for their little ranch-style house on a corner lot. They dreamed they’d live there forever. A few months later, one of the schoolteachers, my mom, gave birth to me. Three and half years later, my sister came along. By then, the two schoolteachers had met a group of other new parents from the neighborhood and started a preschool in the Palisades Park. We kids of the Mighty Mighty Preschool would climb to the top of the metal rocket ship or swing until we grew dizzy. We learned our letters and how to be kind from the curly-haired teacher we all called Junie Bug. It was the ‘70s and so we sang a lot. There was always a tambourine.

The preschool parents would gather for parties on weekends to blast the Bee Gees or Beach Boys while we kids rode bikes around the Alphabet streets or the Huntington. Sometimes we’d all take a road trip to Big Bear to sled in the snow. My dad started running with a group of the preschool dads and some other neighbors. They rose every single day before 5am to meet on a darkened Sunset Boulevard and run to the top of Will Rodgers State Park. Within a couple years they were christened the Ridge Runners. By the time I was in elementary school, the Ridge Runners had started a 10 K race in the Palisades and their picture hung at Mort’s Deli. And while the preschool kids graduated and spanned out to Marquez or Palisades Elementary or Village School or Corpus Christi, the parents still gathered on weekends to party in their bellbottoms. The kids were invited too, only we let the parents dance in one room while we watched Happy Days or Charlies Angels. In the summertime, we’d meet weekly for Tuesday dinners at Lifeguard Station 15. On lucky days, when my mom was running late, we got the treat of stopping at Colonel Sanders on Sunset Blvd to pick up a bucket of chicken. We’d bodysurf and boogie board as the sun set and eat our chicken picnic with the towels wrapped around us and our feet in the sand.

As early as Kindergarten, I’d meet my friends on Northfield to walk to Marquez Elementary. We were the ones who placed the tiny tiles into the rainbow mural on the entryway. We won at least one goldfish at the festival each year, carrying home the precious gold swimmers in tiny see-through plastic bags. We were bussed to Coliseum Street School for one year before we were back on the lower yard and upper yard, celebrating Rainbow Day or pretending we were the Go Gos during recess. On the walk home from school, we’d eat the Pop Rocks we’d procured from Pronto Market. Once back on El Medio Ave, we climbed so many trees. And we biked and biked, over to the bluffs or to build forts, only returning when it was too dark to play.

In the village, I checked out books from the library and hoped I’d win the summer reading challenge. At Halloween, we painted storefront windows, another contest. One year, Jenny and I got the Hobby Shop, which was a prize in itself. While we painted ghosts, we could peek next door to that amazing mural on the wall of the yogurt store (were there little elves making yogurt on a Swiss Mountaintop?) or beg our parents for sparkly iron-on decals from the t-shirt shop also nearby. So many times, we marched in the 4th of July parade. At least twice I put on my soccer uniform and held the AYSO banner parading through the streets. As we got older, I’d meet up with Robin or Sammy or Ari and we’d roller skate during the parade and through the Mobile Gas Station, sneaking sips of beer from the older teens. During Moonlight Madness, we’d blush and giggle and hope to meet up with the cute boys at Barrara’s for a slice of pizza or to play arcade games at the car wash.

The little co-ed soccer team from kindergarten morphed into years with the Palisades Malibu AYSO Girls team. First, I played with the regular team, practicing so many nights at Pali High or Paul Revere Jr High. Soon I made it onto the All-Star team, where we won championships and traveled to Tuscan with the boys’ teams each year and that one time to Hawaii. “Never Hesitate,” Coach Pat said. And we didn’t. And we cherished those games and those incredible friendships all the way through high school graduation. We played and we won. And won.

Summers were for the beach. Junior Lifeguards or long days in the sand napping and bodysurfing. Someone else mentioned that creepy slimy tunnel that took you under PCH and let you out into the perfect bay. I can’t believe we almost forgot about that.

When my mom got a job at a private school in Santa Monica, I decided to try it out for middle school, widening my world from beyond Pali to greater LA. I ended up staying at Crossroads through 12th and loving it. But my Pali roots held strong. A crew of us carpooled into Santa Monica every day, looking for the dolphins on the way to school. If you spotted the Pali dolphins, it meant you’d have a good day. Only a few of us had to ride the bus home. I’m looking at you, Hadens. God, we spent a lot of time on the Number 9.

High school meant parties on the top of Capri or Kenter and driving all over LA to hear a band play. We lost friends to car crashes and, sometimes, I still hold my breath going around dead man’s curve. High school also meant birthday parties where we kidnapped the birthday girl for breakfast at Rae’s or went on scavenger hunts through the ‘sades. Remember the time that one of the clues was at the top of the ropes at Revere?

And then I left. After graduation, I moved to Northern California for college.

But my parents stayed put.

I returned to the little ranch house on the corner for every holiday and long breaks. And one day, I met a guy in the US foreign service and moved overseas with him. Still, we returned to the Palisades at least twice a year. Religiously. Bringing my three-month-old, all the way from southeast Turkey to meet her Palisades family and home. Then twenty months later, making that thirty-hour trip to introduce her brother. Whenever we were back from an overseas assignment or our postings in DC, my friends and family would gather at the house. Soon they brought their partners and children, even after that one brunch where everyone caught a virus. My uncle and cousins taught my kids to surf. My sister played the piano, singing Joni Mitchell. We held countless holiday parties on the back deck.

We were there less than two weeks ago. My sister’s family, my family, and my parents—all crammed into the two-bedroom little house on the corner. It was a quick holiday visit, but we were together. Of course, we saw some of our old preschool friends, all three generations together. And we ran into old friends in the village and at the bluffs. We always do.

We had no idea that this crazy fire would rip through the entire place. That all the preschool, Marquez, soccer, Pali friends would lose their homes.

Somehow, the little house on the corner didn’t burn. Or it hasn’t yet. But everything around it did. Everything. My parents both turn 80 this year and today rented a temporary apartment in another town. For now. Maybe one day they’ll get back into the little house. In six months or a year. Or maybe they won’t ever be able to return. But it will always be home. Even though every physical thing has turned to ash around us, the memories are forever embedded, they are part of a collective fabric. Our precious community is forever. #Palistrong

— Erica Jacobs Green, 52, Pacific Palisades (El Medio bluffs)

A Wandering Daughter's Love Letter to Los Angeles

I’ve been watching the news of the fires from England. It’s snowing here, and cold, like how January is supposed to be. The coverage on the BBC is annoying. They have to explain everything, because most people don’t know what fire season is or what part of town constitutes Pacific Palisades or that PCH stands for “Pacific Coast Highway.” But I don’t have a VPN so I can’t watch anything else.

They don’t need to go over those details on local news so they get to the point quicker. Show me what I want to see, but don’t want to see. The flames, red-orange like in the movies, everywhere and anywhere. The floor, in Los Angeles, is lava now, and I strain to pick out pieces of it I recognize from grainy phone camera footage. Ghosts of places I remember but am equally horrified to see destroyed, left unfamiliar.

I struggle with the news coverage. It almost feels like they are talking about someplace else, not LA. Not my LA, my birthplace, my home. I was born in Los Angeles and lived there until I left three years ago. And what I see burning on my TV screen is not the Los Angeles of Selling Sunset or Real Housewives, it’s the Los Angeles of my youth. Back when there were still affordable single-family homes and we had seasons. Real seasons, not just one long summer with indiscriminate flash flooding. Before the internet and video games, where you had to go outside and do things, go to the parks and the beach and the mall and the movie theatre. Well, now the malls are empty and turned into office space, and almost all the movie theatres gone except for one or two that celebrities take turns saving.

But the parks and beaches, we still had those until the fires. Watching the news, it feels like watching my childhood burn down in front of my eyes. Because it’s not the shiny new office buildings on Wilshire that are burning or the latest monstrosity of a hotel on Sunset Boulevard or whatever they’re calling Staples Center these days. It’s the oldest structures, the ones that mean the most. The family homes and family businesses, the densest neighbourhoods, the architecture that we’ve pointed to for decades to prove we’re a city with a history, with culture. The places we’ve visited with our parents and they visited with their parents. Because despite what you hear, there are a lot of native Angelenos out there. Generations who have grown up in this desert oasis by the ocean, some nepo babies but most not. Most are just working class people who go about their lives complaining about the traffic and the rental prices but never wanting to live anywhere else, not really. No one loves their city like we love LA. That’s what other people don’t get. It’s not only about the loss of a house, it’s the devastation of our home. Because LA has been and always will be, a city of dreams, the first of which is to live there in the first place. And now many of those dreams are ash in the Santa Ana winds.

The city will rebuild but it will be changed. It will never be the same. Even 5,000 miles away, I can feel it, and it makes me cry. I know that the next time I see Los Angeles it ill be on the other side of this climate apocalypse, and because I was not there to witness it, I will feel a little more removed, a bit more the stranger. But still, still I will be a daughter.

— Polly Walter

We can receive you

We can carry the weight

of what the world took

too quick

and tossed off into the wind

We can witness

what is missing

when we listen to the words

you won’t be able to say

for so long

To the old stories that you will save

and the new stories you will make

from the ash

Your voice is unbreakable,

an incombustible vault

Your memory is made of cold steel

— Anne Carmack, Santa Monica

Dear The Bluff Above The Ocean Where The Apartment Once Stood And The Hills Behind You

It feels too soon to write you a letter while your remains have been closed off from my feet and it has only been two weeks since you so drastically shifted. Although on the larger scale my access to you does not matter. I imagine your earth is now black and filled with eerie chemicals, but that you are still a bluff above the ocean with hills behind you. I've been told that the air you breathe is full of harmful particles and your depleted water, scorched and undrinkable. According to photos the tree where my dad and I buried my dog a year ago still stands... somehow. There were times when I despised you, not your earth or ocean or hills, or the way you became so green and full of wild flowers after the storms when spring came, always early. I despised you for social human reasons of feeling that you isolated me. Of feeling that I had no space. Of feeling like an outsider in the latest version of the community in which you stood. But my dad and I stayed because of your earth, ocean, hills.

I remember when I came back to you after my first few months in New York City, your wisdom of the sand below you and the movements of the tides reminded me of the ever present impermanence of us all. That my loneliness in my dorm room would shift and change just like the sand I watched over the bay that surrounds you.

In the hills above you, there was a tree that I would speak to, every time we would meet I would press my finger into the crevices, I don't know if this kin still exists. I don't even remember my friendship with the tree starting... but an understanding was always there.

You, the bluff above the ocean where the apartment once stood and the hills behind you were where my dad and I resided for twenty-one cycles around the sun. Yes, I was always sort of in and out, coming and going, staying and leaving, but I always came back. You would stay foggy for months at a time and then when the sun pressed against you, it had the special light, sweetness, and sparkles upon the ocean that the sun only does on that coast.

The final time I stood on your ground, it rained ash above me. In my sleepy subconscious that morning I felt the winds sway me, assuming it was an earthquake and hoping for a swim in the cold Pacific below you. Instead I got up and built my own tree, with the trash and fallen leaves that scatter around your greater land. The Santa Ana winds coming from the east blowing towards the sea in the west, aggressively swaying your trees. But because of our closeness and the normalcy of fire near you, I did not think it would be the final time I would stand on your ground in that form. I know you have stood as a bluff above the ocean before apartments, with hills still behind you, long before my time and I know you will continue to long after. My presence does not matter and that is okay. I'''m sure you have seen fires before. I have felt the smoke and seen it in the sunsets red and orange hanging above you time after time. I know you have felt the earth rattle and the tectonic plates move like an old habit. I know certain types of fire are good for you and leave you with a cleansing. I know that fire is not always vicious. I think we both know this feels different, but you have stood as a bluff much longer than I. I know the wind is strong and that it has felt violence on your ground before. That so many in your land are constantly and consistently yearning for shelter. I know these flames are not unrelated to paid and manufactured flames across the globe that turn other's homes into ash and rubble. I know you feel that all this pain is related like cousins and so do I. I wish every being in this world could feel the thread and needle that sews through us all, that keeps us safe, and flattens us down to debris. Thank you for letting me grow up with you, for knowing you. Thank you for allowing me to survive. Thank you for allowing my dad and dog to get out in time. Thank you for letting all of our neighbors live to tell the tale. I am sorry the way we left you, for all the species that still inhabit you, that are pushing so hard to survive. I think of the insects, the stones, the soil, the fungi. I will do all I can to allow you to heal, to stop this forward marching machine pushing us to the edge and to let us all breathe instead. For me, all that remains is this tree. I know this kin speaks a different language than yours but she is made of us both.

—Daisy Green, Pacific Palisades

Love letter to my neighborhood: Rose Hill / Paradise Hill (NELA)

What a strange and magical hill! Winding bumpy one lane dirt roads, minutes from downtown?! Paper streets, tumble weeds the size of cars. Coyotes, hawks, owls, horses, goats, snakes, and bats live here. Sweeping 360 degree views, Catalina island on a clear day, snow on the San Gabriels, the Griffith observatory, that bridge that goes from Long Beach to Pedro. I can see dodger stadium from the abandoned house on top of the hill and I can see the abandoned house when I’m at dodger stadium. Every year, for a month or two, it turns dazzlingly mind-blowingly green, but it’s normally crunchy and brown. Sometimes my neighbors and the coyotes build little trails. One time, tromping about, I smelled a coyote den before I saw it. One year there was a huge field of lupines! We try to rewild and plant as many natives as we can. Long ago the hill was all black walnut woodland, then it was grazed, then developed, and now, what a unique urban ecological marvel!

— Celeste Gasperik, 37, Born in Pasadena, raised in Eagle Rock, lives in Rose Hill/ Paradise Hill. Mourning the loss of my father’s family home and so many others in Altadena.

My mom and I had just come out the other side of the Ocean Avenue tunnel and the Pacific stretched out its blue on one side while technicolor green dripped off the bluffs to the right. To an 18-year old who’d grown up around the muted shades of Colorado cottonwoods and pine, all that water and lush vegetation was like a mirage you could reach out and touch. Passing under the California incline, I leaned my head out the rental car window to let my eyes better drink it in. Of course, I did not yet know that all that overflow of green was a seasonal garment on a landscape that is more often than not dusty and brown.

We stayed at the Casa Malibu Inn on that trip, a two-story motel built in 1950 that was razed some years ago to make way for Nobu. The motel was painted white and had lattice-trimmed balconies and felt like the last of its humble kind on a strip that has since given way to more luxurious offerings. Before bed, we watched the local news and laughed at the phrase “The Southland” and the way everyone talked about the freeways: the 10, the 5, the 101. What happened to the “I” for interstate? And then we opened the window and fell asleep to the sound of ocean waves that were just on the other side of the red-bricked courtyard and then, falling asleep to that sound, is when I knew I wanted to live in LA.

We drove east on the 10 the next day to visit a college and the vastness of the city washed over me with each freeway exit. If something happened to me here, I thought, no one would know or care. I’d just be one among millions, another number. The thought sobered me.

But the thing about this particular vast city is that there are a lot of other former 18-year olds (or 20-year olds or 30-year olds) who came from far away to see it and fell in love with it, too, whether they caught the smell of jasmine in an alleyway one April evening or stood eating an al pastor taco on the sidewalk next to sizzling spit at midnight on a Monday. And these former 18-year olds also left their families, which means that a great many of them are looking for a de facto family here. Friendships, it turns out, thrive in a city where family isn’t a given. But I didn’t know that in March of 2001, driving east on the 10. All I knew were the green bluffs near the California Incline and the Casa Malibu Inn, both of which have proven to be more fleeting than the friendships that have remained.

— Anna Anderson, 42, Glendale

Dear LA,

My love for you runs deep. My whole life, you have been home.

You may not know that you raised me twice. The first time was what I perceived to be a normal childhood in the South Bay. But as I grew, I learned that having a beach as your playground wasn’t normal. Building instruments out of toilet paper rolls while listening to the LA Phil wasn’t normal. Doing arts and crafts at world-renowned art museums wasn’t normal. It was a childhood filled with beauty, culture, nature and an eventual understanding that dreams and imagination were our reality.

After college, I moved back to LA and grew up for the second time where your heart beats hard, in West Hollywood. You healed a broken heart by showing me community, friendship, concerts and endless amounts of tacos. I dreamed big and started a career in live entertainment because of you. I reconnected with my love of music because of you. I met my husband because of you. And I learned how to navigate this world with joy and compassion because of you.

There are many amazing cities on this planet, but you are special. What you offer goes beyond the iconic hills, ocean sunsets and colorful wildflowers. You offer hope. You offer humanity. You offer a dream, a colorful life and a collection of people who refuse to quit. A life that is made infinitely better by every unique neighborhood and every individual that makes your heart beat. We love you. I love you. And together, we’ll lift you up because it’s what you have always done for us.

With hope and love,

— Emily Devine, 37, Hawthorne

A love letter to the Pacific Palisades

Living on second and California, third and Washington, and fourth and Montana, the Palisades were our sanctuary

When in doubt, we’d head north for a sunset on the bluff with a stashed bottle of wine, dinner at Cholada Thai, or a sunset cocktail and cod in the corner bar at Moonshadows; the smell of the salty ocean air and the sound of the waves lapping beneath us

A years-long standing plan with Kara to hike Los Leones and grab fish tacos at Reel Inn

Endless afternoons spent exploring the myriad trails across the Santa Monica Mountains; the first adventure I’d planned to share with my newborn son

Excitement for any work shift spent at the Getty Villa Museum

Driving north listlessly on the PCH until we hit Ventura, or traffic, or my passenger prompted me to turn around; I’d always choose to keep going

Countless memories stitched together of a place, a world that is/was/no longer is/but always will be

Guilt at what I still have/heartbreak/no words for everyone who lost everything

Hope in the hillsides that will regrow, new life, the ferns that will rise up and take root among the ashes

The community that always was, strengthens, remains

Love, loss, rebirth

A place we hold dear.

— Brittany Saake Gonzalez, 36, Santa Monica

Our Story of Love In a City That Has Loved Us

After a long journey from a small town in India to brutal cold winters at the University of Minnesota in the mid 1950s, a car ride across the country led to my father meeting my beautiful mother in Venice, California in 1964. She was the love of his life and, in his words, his lucky charm. My mother had just arrived from Fiji Islands with her family a few months prior and was a student at Santa Monica college. Her family lived crammed above a dry cleaners at the entrance to Venice Beach.

My father proposed to my mom in Malibu, on a drive along the PCH. A beautiful wedding followed in 1965 at the Pacific Palisades Self Realization Center, around the serene Lake Shrine, which hugs the curves of Sunset Boulevard and PCH.

With my brother and myself on the way, my parents stretched their finances to buy the home of their dreams, traveling east on sunset boulevard to the canyons of Mandeville. Their home for 46 years, perched at the top of the mountain, was the capsule of their life. The memories of my childhood are of the mountain curves as I would gaze out the window as my mom drove her Cadillac down the hill and turned onto Sunset Blvd. I learned to drive those curves at 16, which I can easily recall in my mind. I would drive through the hills, turning the wheel of my car and arrive at the peak of the mountain, the Westridge trail. It's silent at the top of the canyon. It's at this spot that You can gaze and see the lines of our vast city touching the deep blue Pacific Ocean.

Although my parents have recently passed and the memories of the home are now in boxes in my home several miles south, these canyons will always be my home. Closing my eyes, I keep traveling in my mind along every curve of the canyon and traveling west along Sunset to PCH. In my mind, nothing has changed, but we know all has now forever changed on January 7th. Miraculously, The self realization center survived the flames. The meditation chapel, where my parents exchanged their vows in 1965, is untouched.

My parents, one of the many stories of our city, are no longer here in physical form, but their love story will always be etched in our city and in our canyons.

Los Angeles, I love you. May we be strong together and keep moving forward

Love and Light,

— Priya Bahl, 49, Palisades

Dear Los Angeles,

You are a city of contradictions—where dreams collide with reality, and chaos dances with beauty. Today, your skies are heavy, choked with smoke, as wildfires carve a path of destruction through your hills and canyons. Yet, even now, I see your resilience flickering like a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished.

You’ve always been a place of fire, haven’t you? Not just the kind that burns the chaparral, but the kind that burns within—the fire of ambition, of artistry, of a million souls seeking something greater. You’ve taught us to live on the edge, to build lives where the land meets the sea, where the fault lines shift beneath our feet. And though your fire now feels cruel and merciless, I know you’ll rise from it, as you always do.

I think about your neighborhoods—the sprawling, imperfect mosaic that you are. From the hills of Silver Lake to the beaches of Venice, the skyscrapers downtown to the taco trucks in Boyle Heights, you are a city stitched together by hope, grit, and community. Today, as your mountains burn and your skies glow an eerie orange, I see that community in action. Neighbors opening their doors to strangers, firefighters battling the blaze with unrelenting courage, people showing up for one another the way they always do when your heart aches.

Los Angeles, you are no stranger to reinvention. You’ve been shaped by fires before—both literal and metaphorical. You’ve burned and rebuilt, broken and healed, faltered and stood back up. This fire will leave its scars, but it will not take away your spirit. It cannot touch your sunsets, painted in impossible hues over the Pacific. It cannot erase the hum of your streets, the music of your many languages, or the soul of the millions who call you home.

So, dear LA, hold on. We’ll hold on with you. When the fires are finally out, when the ash has settled and the hills are blackened, we’ll plant new seeds in your soil. We’ll breathe new life into your air. We’ll build again, dream again, and love you still—because you are more than just a city. You are a testament to the human spirit: fragile yet unbreakable.

With love and loyalty,

— Eric Espinosa, Pasadena

Dear Los Angeles,

How do I love thee? Your mesmerizing palm trees, blue skies, snow capped mountains, and endless idyllic beaches are just scratching the surface. My husband and I moved here just 2 and a half years ago. I got a tenure-track professorship I couldn't pass up and we uprooted our established lives in Portland, OR for all the possibilities SoCal had to offer. Everyone asked us at the beginning "Why would you leave Portland for LA?" and we only had "for a dream job" as a response. But now, after having a few years under our belts, all I can think is "I wish I had moved here sooner".

LA is music and art and film and nature. LA is Huntington Library Gardens on a Sunday afternoon. LA is Permanent Records Roadhouse for a $5 Fred Armesin punk rock show. LA is LACMA and The Getty and The Broad. LA is The Greek Theater, The Troubadour, The Belasco, The Orpheum, Lodge Room, & Gold Diggers. LA is a glass of wine at Wife & the Somm, a hazy IPA at Frogtown Brewery, a martini at The Silverlake Lounge. LA is having a Guisados taco sampler plate delivered to a neighborhood sports bar while watching The Dodgers destroy The Yankees. LA is hiking Griffith Park on a 70 degree, full-sun day and getting annoyed with every tourist you encounter. LA is seeing a screening of "Heathers" at Vidiots, "The Goonies" at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and "Beetlejuice" on a downtown rooftop with the whole skyline in the background (perfect triple-header!). LA is falling in love with jacarandas and being in awe of rain. LA is hating on LAX and wishfully hoping that Burbank adds more direct flights while remaining its small, charming self. LA is taking your out-of-town friends and family on a walk through the Venice canals and stopping by Gjelina's for a pizza followed by a nightcap at The Brig. LA is year-round weekend camping trips to Joshua Tree, Anza Borrego, & Big Sur. LA is a hike above the clouds in Topanga State Park and a walk with friends down Altadena's Christmas Tree Lane (don't miss the model trains and hot chocolate!).

LA is community coming together, as an entire city, to help each other when massive wildfires burn beloved neighborhoods down. LA is standing up for human rights and creating a safe place of sanctuary to be ourselves. LA is neighbors helping neighbors. LA is love.

— Michelle Ramin, Boyle Heights

320 Swarthmore Avenue, the last block on the bluffs, that was our address since my Dad built the house in 1948 on fireman’s wages In fact, he wa LAFD at that point in his career with one Downs syndrome toddler, a healthy brother and another baby on the way. There were 2 more to come as well; 5 kids and 2 adults stuffed into our little 50’s house.

The home and the blocks around the bluffs were lively and freewheeling, lots of kids playing red rover red rover and building forts in the many empty lots. And, at the end of the day, there was always a multigenerational group of people watching the sunset and searching for the green flash.

Saturdays were spent watching double features at the old Bay Theater; Yellow Submarine, Mash, Chinatown, always with Felix the Cat or Dudley Do Right cartoons as openers. Lurch was often seen in front of you buying a ticket, or Mel Brooks would be sitting behind you laughing uproariously at his movie, 12 Chairs. But mostly, the auditorium would be filled with 100’s of kids, jammed packed and hopped up on candy from the pharmacy. We would be delighting in the double features surrounded by all our buddies from the neighborhood.

Another community pastime was the painting of all the retail store windows around Halloween. It was a competition. Chaos and fun ensued uptown; Everyone holding a can of black or orange paint and helping each other up a rickety ladder. Our group won once on the old Woodburys on Sunset. Or maybe it was at the Hobby Shop, another place to be, on Via. Then we would go for a taco at Hacienda Galvan.

Ah the 60’s and 70’s in the Palisades; kids, kids kids everywhere, walking in groups or riding together on our sting rays to 31 Flavors or The Gilded Prune on upper Swarthmore. Those were just beautiful days; we were free and living a big life in our little community. Nothing fancy.

My Dad lived in the house he built until the day he died, the last day of 2018. He was 101. I’m sure glad he is not around to see the community he helped found devastated. It truly is a Crushing time. Stay strong Palisades, Alta Dena and LA. We love our beautiful city.

— Maryclaire Sweeters Buchanan, Palisades

When I left you, I marked my skin with your name, knowing I would never return. But how could I not? You made me who I am. You shaped me with your love, your people, your streets, your food. Oh, how I long for it all—the warmth of your embrace, the richness of your diversity, the flavors that told stories of places near and far.

Growing up in Mid-City was nothing short of magic. My world was painted with the colors of my Jamaican neighbors, Ethiopian friends, Korean classmates, and Oaxacan families. There was no hate, only laughter and play. I thought the whole world was like this—a mosaic of cultures coexisting in harmony. And as I grew, so did my exposure to even more beautiful souls. At LA High, I found friendship in Russians, Filipinos, Romanians, African Americans. To me, people were just people. That’s what you taught me, Los Angeles. That we can all share the same space, live together, and simply be. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the cool points that came with being born and raised in LA, in Mid-City—or, as I would tell outsiders, “by Koreatown.”

My parents arrived from Guatemala as young dreamers. And because of you, I never lost my roots. You welcomed my culture with open arms. I grew up tasting the flavors of home every weekend, meeting others who shared my heritage, and speaking the language that filled my household with love.

I explored you because you had so much to offer. As a child, my weekends were spent in the car with my parents, driving through Beverly Hills, staring at mansions, wondering what it was like to be rich. They would take me to Penguin’s for frozen yogurt, letting me drizzle strawberry topping over vanilla soft serve. As a teenager, I roamed Hollywood Boulevard, walked Venice Beach, shopped at the Glendale Galleria, studied at the Central Library. And as an adult, you let me taste the world—grocery shopping at Jon’s Market, discovering Eastern European delicacies, running around Silver Lake Reservoir, dancing through the nights in DTLA, and learning about world music at Amoeba.

You let me live my dream of calling East Hollywood home—a Spanish-style apartment with a courtyard, just as I had always imagined. And on days when I ached to travel, you took me on journeys within you—to Little Armenia for comfort, to Thai Town for adventure. Life with you was an endless exploration. I had my spots—Pa Ord Noodle and Pailin for Thai, my Armenian brow ladies near the reservoir who always called me pretty girl, a slice of three-berry cake at Sweet Lady Jane’s, the Guatemalan bakery, the Latin market across from Jon’s, The Hollywood Farmer’s market for organic produce, Thirsty Crow on Sundays for gypsy music, La Cita for a taste of music from around the world, Carousel for Armenian feasts, summer weekends at Grand Performances, Little Ethiopia for injera and spices, Koreatown for Paris Baguette pastries, Silverlake for Trader Joe’s…. So many places, so many memories, each a thread in the tapestry of my heart.

How I miss those days, when life felt simpler, lighter. My heart aches for what is no longer there. Who still remembers Liborio Market on Vermont? That was by my preschool. So much has changed. Some places lost, some people gone—like my best friend from elementary, now only a memory. But Los Angeles, you gave me the most beautiful childhood and young adulthood. You gave me a home that embraced everyone. And for that, I will always love you.

Thank you for being you. Always.

— Marilyn Rivas

Los Angeles sightly and slightly singed but undeterred in swagger and grit. Wildfires can always be doused and the true inextinguishable inferno is within our bellies as our city shrugs and sloughs off the soot showing what real Angelenos are made of: resilience.

And you there, Pacoima, tucked away in the farthest corners of the map showed up in a big, big way. Wholehearted and with hands full. Hefting boxes of wildfire relief assistance. The Ritchie Valens Recreation Center became an epicenter of humanity and meaningful community cooperation and it sincerely swelled the hearts of all to see help was abundant and unconditional.

And this little lettre d’amour is dedicated to all the local LA libraries that rose to the challenge during these uncertain times. And became sites of solace and a semblance of normalcy to a community fraught with the unknown and of what’s to come. The libraries cranked their air purifiers and flung open those doors and had N95s and wifi and FEMA resources for any and all displaced. They heard the call and the librarians mustered and delivered heroically.

If I was over the moon for you before, Los Angeles, well, you went and got all gallant on me too.

So swoon.

— Tommy Vinh Bui, 39, Pacoima

Dear Los Angeles,

Despite you being a vast city of incredibly diverse neighborhoods and people, despite your wackiness, despite every stereotype you accept, most of us who live here know and love you in all your vastness. You feel small, Los Angeles. We will drive miles and miles in traffic through your streets and on your highways (that we complain about -- god, the traffic sucks tonight! I'll be there soon!) to visit one another, to shop in your different neighborhoods, to revel in the beauty of the Palisades, or the ocean below, and to hike on the trails in Altadena and Eaton Canyon. My children, now grown, have friends in those neighborhoods and have played soccer and baseball and lacrosse games in the schools that have burned down. We love those places, Los Angeles, and your stubborn landscape, deeply and viscerally, the air suffused with that particular light, warm, and glowing. I feel a sense of belonging here, of community and love, especially now. I have only an inkling of the terror felt by those in the direct fires, and I have no idea what it would be like to lose every single thing, but I feel incredible grief for you, Los Angeles, our beloved city, bewilderment about the future yet tempered by hope because we all share it, both the grief and the hope. We love you madly, LA.

Love,

— Elizabeth Aquino, 61, Hancock Park

Beauty from the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook

I believe that beauty exists

whether or not the beautiful thing recognizes its own beauty and

whether or not others admire the beautiful thing.

So I find safety in assuming that beauty exists everywhere

and that recognizing it

lies at the top of my list of

things I must do.

I’ve heard people say that while in Switzerland, no matter which direction you point your camera,

you cannot help but capture beauty.

I have not heard this said of Los Angeles.

Yet beauty finds me everywhere in my city of angels.

This beauty includes a grittiness, granted,

particularly in today’s 90-degree weather.

Dry, dusty grasses and sages smell like California.

I look upon my city in all directions and see

brilliantly colored graffiti looking back at me from the base of the overlook,

a cherry red ’57 Chevy lowrider,

a monk’s bright orange robe,

a Fender Stratocaster in sparkly teal,

a mural with extraordinary greens and blues with a portion of yellow.

I hear a low murmur of traffic, music, and languages.

I taste both hard-earned and easy sweat,

exquisite kisses, and

tears of life-saving joy and of

excruciating grief.

I sob with relief knowing that my very hard heart has softened and is recovering.

The beauty of love, joy, ease, and safety has won.

I spend some time in this mikvah of

smells, sights, sounds, and tastes.

Then I step out of it, dry myself off, and return to my city down the hill

knowing I belong in it with everybody else.

— Heidi Harmon, 59, Westchester

Dear Los Angeles,

I fell in love with you a long time ago, when I was a boy, growing up in a small town far away. The images that captured my imagination and that I fell in love with came from watching episodes of your classic programs including Emergency, CHIPS, and of course The Brady Bunch. These images filled my head with adventure, idyllic family life and California living that I never knew existed. Roller skates, BMX, and Van Halen, I wanted more! I knew then, that I loved LA and I would someday get there and live it for myself.

I live here now, and I have loved you Redondo Beach since we first met in 1996. I love your waves, sand, peacefulness and views. When I go up, just a little bit above RAT Beach, I feel like I see all of you LA. Especially when I ride up into Palos Verdes.

From the hills of LA’s South Bay, I can see you Malibu, I see you Palisades, I see you Santa Monica, I see you San Gabriels, I see you Downtown and beyond! Our vantage point from here is a stunning and a constant reminder that we are all LA. When the smoke poured out of your canyons that dreadful week and trailed out over the bay, watching the blood orange sun setting… I cried… for us.

I love Los Angeles and it sprawling messiness. I love especially, riding my bicycle up your “Strand” past LAX, into the Marina, and slowing down through our eclectic and always interesting Venice. I again go slow to enjoy the outdoor workouts in the early morning sun and watch the gymnasts on the rings in Santa Monica. Your pier and towering Malibu Mountains keep me awe struck as I ride on. I love lunch in the Palisades and Mandeville Canyon on my bicycle.

I always find new places to explore and I love you for that. From the Treasure Chest thrift store in Topanga to the Busy Bee sandwich joint in Pedro, from the North End Bar in Hermosa to the Parkway Grill in Pasadena, I love you.

LA you have let me be myself, always welcoming and never judging. I love your endless parties and limitless possibilities. We have shared many crazy adventures you and I. I hope they never end.

P.S. I also love my KCRW family. You are always On, and always Home.

Your Dearest Friend,

— Danny Lasdow, 55, Redondo Beach

It's OUR LA, it’s MY LA! I feel Los Angeles is love, because it is an open city, with her arms outstretched…always welcoming. Come play here, she says! Come work here and make it big, make it happen, experiment and hopefully make it fun and successful, righteous and forward-changing. Make the world a better, more entertaining place. Because with each one of our single souls co-existing side by side, we make up one huge boundless city…All our dreams and abilities make things happen every day on her wide avenues and crooked hillside neighborhoods. We’ve discovered our favorite streets, boutique stores, cinemas, our beloved restaurants, repair shops, hair salons, pre-schools, city parks, hidden staircases, vistas… These places have become part of our psyche, our habitual home. We who are sticking it out here in, or next door to the newly fire-ravaged neighborhoods, we who are intent on staying and making the most of this vital and world-adored city, we are strong. Our resilience to whatever comes our way proves we can stay here. And call it home. Los Angeles lets us taste the flavor of freedom. The freedom to be who we want to be, to invent ourselves...always with room to grow, under her bright, soothing sunlight. The unstoppable drive that is inherent in Los Angeles doesn’t come from its freeways, its boundless horizons or magical hillsides and slices of endless ocean, but from us, each and every one of us. So dream big LA, continue to dream big everyone! Hope will keep us together as a community should be. Dream deep as the communities we are, to create our future.

— Grazia Caroselli, Culver City

LA is a tiger,

Hard to wrestle to the ground.

It prances, bats me between paws,

Then turns its head and eats catnip.

But the colors! I cannot avert my eyes

From the cat tongue pink and saber tooth yellow.

I cry when it walks into the smoke

And its stripes blend with flames and ashes.

— Martina Blumenthal, 46, Palms