Going out & coming back

What makes a place feel like home?

I’m in a period of change, and I have an important decision to make about where I will live. I could stay in Los Angeles, a place I’ve called home for the last five years, or move, likely back to Tampa, where I have an established network. I’m a different person now and the whole world has changed.

Five years ago, LA’s dynamism was its primary appeal. It was busy and vast. Every weekend was an exploration and there was always something happening. Spectacle was the currency and I was happy to spectate. When I heard that Kobe Bryant’s helicopter had crashed in the fog, I was hiking in the very same fog. My first taste of a summer in the city was stunted by COVID-19 and BLM marches. The chaos was charming in a way—an unsettling, creepy, Nightcrawler sort of appeal that begs you to step into the fray, but retreat to safety soon after. In more ways than one, it’s a city that’s on the precipice.

Eventually this rollercoaster became abrasive. I realized that violence and mayhem were accepted norms, and it became clear to me that most of Los Angeles is just a dump. A dirty, dangerous, overcrowded, sprawling wasteland of palm trees and pavement, bubbling with inequality and narcissism. Not exactly quaint or inviting.

The people I know live in Los Angeles for the excitement, but also for the ample high-paying work opportunities, the agreeable weather, and recreational options. There are incredible cultural experiences in LA—museums and concerts and little movie theaters playing only the best new films (think everything from A24). Last month I went to a comedy show to see Margaret Cho, shopped at a pop-up sale for trendy ceramics label Jono Pandolfi, and attended an Olafur Eliasson exhibition at MoCA—three things that are surely less quotidien in, say, Denver.

Angelenos are spoiled for choice of where to direct their attention and energy—but it can be overwhelming. There are dozens of neighborhoods to explore and parts of the city to consider living in. There are hikes, beaches, and nearby skiing spots. There are new restaurants and bars to investigate, shows to see, and parties to attend. Gays have access to all-night warehouse and circuit parties, bars, clubs, bathhouses, and invitation-only masturbation parties. Something to do every night of the week, really. But sometimes, more choice isn’t better. 

Its melting pot culture gives it an air of sophistication and worldly access, but the vibe on the ground lacks a comforting localness in its ever-churning transplant culture. In five years I’ve found precious few people or places that feel like “home.”

LA is a city designed for stimulation, cacophony, and extroversion. People here want to be in front of the camera and on display, influential and important. It’s the epicenter of the attention economy. For me—shy, subtle, somewhat tentative—it’s hard to stand out or find solitude. I’m growing weary, knowing it will never stop being so frenetic, crowded, or competitive. I used to think these headaches were the cost of the city’s incredible daily golden hour light, but I’m not sure it’s enough anymore.

Lately I’ve been questioning the long term value of Los Angeles. Being non-native, I don’t take its arrogance for granted, considering how expensive it is. Things like crappy roads, pitiful bike lanes and sidewalks, constant traffic congestion, pollution, and challenging social attitudes. I wonder if I wouldn’t be happier or more fulfilled, on the average, somewhere else. Somewhere slower and friendlier, somewhere that emphasizes a high quality of daily life. Somewhere like Tampa?

I appreciate the availability of world-class art and food, but more often than not, I find myself falling back on simple pleasures like going to the movies, taking walks at night (when traffic is calmer), cooking, going to house parties, reading, and writing. Perhaps nesting would feel less satisfying if there wasn’t a crazy world waiting outside.

What’s more likely is that I’m growing up and learning to appreciate stillness, meditation, and my inner sense of gratification. If I don’t crave the excitement, what’s the point of living here? Could I trade the novelties for something more sustainable and satisfying?

Here are five cool things I love about Los Angeles:

1. A casual, drug-positive attitude. I can smoke a joint on the street and no one looks twice.

2. The stylishness of Angelenos. I’m inspired by people’s taste in apparel, design, and aesthetics here more than anywhere else I’ve ever lived (including Italy).

3. The second-hand, resale, and vintage clothing and design trade can’t be beat, at least when it comes to mid-twentieth-century Americana. Most of my clothes now are vintage, not new.

4. As a lifelong firebuff, getting to spectate the LAFD—the third largest fire department in the US—is a fantasy of emergency action.

5. LA is anti-provincial. Many people come to LA to escape mediocrity, so there’s a multi-cultural, best-of-the-best expectation toward almost everything.

Here are five lame things I bemoan about Los Angeles:

1. People are impersonal, even cold. A city of strivers and stars means many are looking for a fanbase, not friends.

2. The extreme homelessness problem never seems to be meaningfully tackled, just knee-jerked and shuffled around. It’s dehumanizing to witness.

3. Walking, even within neighborhoods, requires high-risk interaction with speeding cars and distracted drivers. By car, expect delays and hit-or-miss parking. The auto-centric culture is exhausting.

4. Due to the expense and desirability of living here, there’s an overarching sense of predation—everyone is constantly looking over their shoulder at who might come for their job, their apartment, their partner. It’s demoralizing.

5. The main airport (LAX) is usually a nightmare. IYKYK and you fly out of Burbank, Long Beach, or Ontario.

I feel lucky because for all of LA’s challenges, I’ve cultivated a pleasant social equilibrium. But I’m also lonely a lot. It’s easy to get lost in the stampede.

What I’m craving is, for lack of a better term, to settle down. I’m not interested in chasing waterfalls anymore. I want to work hard, but not grind myself into misery, and to enjoy my environment with ease, instead of bracing for complications and hazards. I’m ready to be domestic, to spend time with my family and lifelong friends, and to relish simple pleasures rather than spectacular ones.

Knowing myself, I’ll mentally prepare to leave LA, for all the reasons listed above, and just before I’m ready to depart, a job offer will magically appear, something that’s exciting and lucrative, and I’ll have to decide whether to stay or to leave, to dive back into the chaos and rediscover my love of the city…or leave once and for all.

It goes without saying that geographic choice is a privilege. But among those who can choose—the young, professional, and mobile—there is a growing debate about livability. Quality of life. Value. Ease. Opportunity. Simplicity.

I’m in Tampa for two weeks house-sitting and it's been inspiring to see all the growth and change the city has undergone. In my quest for excitement and worldliness, I left Tampa six years ago and landed in LA. What I lost was authenticity and warmth, not realizing that I am perhaps more aligned with Tampa’s culture than LA’s. I’m imperfect and I’m vulnerable, but I’m real, and I’m connected to this place.

So, dynamism and chaos or simplicity and calm? State of the art or good enough? Spoiled for choice or spoiled for value?

We shall see.