I can feel the city humming from over the horizon, before we get anywhere near. Occasional sparks of light merge slowly into an organised gridwork of towns until finally it’s there just below us, stretching in every direction endlessly.
The winding ribbons of the freeways are so bright it hurts the eyes.
It’s almost too much; too crazy. I’ve never seen anything so out of control, so wanton, so… American.
At this height, as the plane begins its final descent, the City of Angels wears a halo; a filthy crown of smog encircling countless square miles.
It’s not the picturesque hills and “Victorians” of San Francisco, and it’s hard to fall instantly in love with LA. Even from a distance, she’s clearly a filthy whore of a city.
As I step out of the plane at LAX I’m wondering what new tricks she’ll be able to teach me.