Driving
There's not a lot to love about commuting. The traffic, the time wasted, the monotony. Mine, which is about 17 miles one way, is certainly not as bad as most people in L.A. have to deal with. I can usually avoid the freeways.
It takes me about 45 minutes to get to work, not too bad considering what it could be. But coming home is another matter. That's actually my favorite part of the day. I leave the office usually about 10:30 p.m. and the streets are much more hospitable then. The best thing about the drive home is the portion where I drive over the Whittier hills. I start to climb up gradually once I turn away from the 60. The smells of exhaust, the noise of the roads for the most part falls away. The lights change from bright white to phosphorescent orange and become farther apart and the homes recede.
If I roll down my windows, I can start to smell the cool night air, which is a blend of sage, something sweet and chamomile-like, wet loam and sometimes eucalyptus. As I crest the hill, the hills cleave and the entire L.A. basin, it seems, is spilled out before me, a billion tiny orange and white lights twinkling in the blackness, until they stop at the coast. I can see a stadium, traffic signals and red flashing beacons.
And as I begin my descent, I am welcomed into my hometown to the scent of night-blooming jasmine, planted all the way down Colima by the fountain and the "Whittier Welcomes You" sign. I'm home and ready for whatever the night has for me.
It takes me about 45 minutes to get to work, not too bad considering what it could be. But coming home is another matter. That's actually my favorite part of the day. I leave the office usually about 10:30 p.m. and the streets are much more hospitable then. The best thing about the drive home is the portion where I drive over the Whittier hills. I start to climb up gradually once I turn away from the 60. The smells of exhaust, the noise of the roads for the most part falls away. The lights change from bright white to phosphorescent orange and become farther apart and the homes recede.
If I roll down my windows, I can start to smell the cool night air, which is a blend of sage, something sweet and chamomile-like, wet loam and sometimes eucalyptus. As I crest the hill, the hills cleave and the entire L.A. basin, it seems, is spilled out before me, a billion tiny orange and white lights twinkling in the blackness, until they stop at the coast. I can see a stadium, traffic signals and red flashing beacons.
And as I begin my descent, I am welcomed into my hometown to the scent of night-blooming jasmine, planted all the way down Colima by the fountain and the "Whittier Welcomes You" sign. I'm home and ready for whatever the night has for me.