A World of Garden-Variety Private Edens : City Smart / How to thrive in the urban environment of Southern California
Once upon a time--before I knew the name of the lead singer in Green Day, when the open book on my night stand was not “Spot Goes to School”--once upon a time, I wasn’t searching for escape from the hurly-burly of urban life. All I wanted was urban life, not just hurly but full-on burly, too. The problem was finding it in L.A.
The Downtown sidewalks rolled up when the evening rush hour began. No matter where you went, every good nightspot was a half-hour away. Metropolitan adventure, it seemed, had to be mapped out in advance or experienced from behind the wheel of a moving car.
Then--wouldn’t you know it?--just about the time I stopped wondering what was playing at the art-house (a half-hour away) across town, whole sectors of Los Angeles County, including vast swaths of the suburbs, started to display creeping urban-ness. Graffiti on garage doors. Bag ladies at the bank machines. Three new espresso bars between the Sears store and your house.
Suddenly, I had to ask: Now what was it, again, that seemed romantic about a city sidewalk in July? Because I knew for sure it wasn’t the smell.
So I went searching for sanctuary, and when I found it--like millions of other Southern Californians--I realized a core truth about Los Angeles and its environs: This is not the Big City. This is the Big Suburb. And the hot action is, literally, in your own back yard.
Ours is pretty standard--Valencia orange trees, rose bushes, copa de oro over the patio, a nice big barbecue. A bank of ferns and camellias off to one side. Daisies and birds of paradise. It doesn’t matter what vegetation you plant, but it’s nice to smell citrus blossoms in the morning and to have a big tall fence, with ivy, so the neighbors are invisible.
Some harried days, it’s enough just to come home and turn on the sprinklers out there, to breathe deeply of the misty, stress-free air. Some nights, my husband and I turn on the radio and listen to Dodgers games, the silken voice of Vin Scully floating over the grass as we hold hands.
This is where our toddler comes to pretend she is a pterodactyl (as opposed to a 3-year-old on a tire swing) and our 12-year-old plays catch with the family dog. This is the part of the world that was not on fire when the L.A. riots broke out, where O.J. is what you drink with your pancakes when we have breakfast out on the patio.
As getaways go, it’s as common as ice plant, the quintessential form of Southern California-style respite. But it’s also a private Eden in a megalopolis of private Edens that together have sustained several generations worth, now, of hurly-burly urban life.
