Not that Los Angeles is growing on me or anything...

No. Never. Ever.

...but. There's something about the quality of the air that's really nice here, as spring approaches. You can kind of smell the ocean in it, even from a few miles away. Somehow, there's even the almost imperceptible trace of the scent of lilac, too. Add to that the cooler than usual weather for this time of year, and the abundance but not overabundance of clouds, which give the skies a little more drama than they usually see, and it's actually quite lovely, and even comfortable.

I like to walk, especially at night. My cigarettes making thick, long-lasting fogs in the cool wet air, the lamps and trees making shadows on the underused sidewalks. And unlike the daytime, I'm not in my car and I'm not running late and there's nowhere I have to be. All I want to do is walk, and I do, slowly, at a pace that's impossible when you have to be somewhere, but all I want to be is right there, enjoying the feeling of coming in and out of shadows every few feet. I walk past cement cracks and storefronts and notice them for the first time, and no one else is on those sidewalks and in that time they belong to only me.

And last night, I'm driving up to Hollywood and it's late. I'm heading north fast on La Brea and I'm alone with miles of greens in front of me. A song I liked came on the radio, and I turned up the volume, and it's just me and my car and John Lennon on the wide, dark street, singing as loud as we can with the windows rolled up, and I felt powerful and triumphant the way a good song can make you feel and I drove faster even though I didn't want that moment to end any sooner then it had to, and it was simple and good and right.

And in these small ways, for these small things, if I don't come to love this city, I learn that there are ways to be happy here.