Home?

There's no point bathing the Blue Lady here. She gets downright dirty by the next day in LA's smoke - an obscene, familiar gray halo that greets you as you approach the city from the outskirts, soon to engulf you in its twister of dust. It's frustrating, and yet in some way, I feel closer to home than in any other US city I have inhabited.

The north is phasing out gradually and the word "home" is only able to conjure up this mess of a city with its scarred highways and traffic jams during unearthly hours. With companions equally laid back and novel unparalleled laziness, I don't have urges to make the Blue Lady run up with me anymore. Gluttons rolling in penury, we know where you can find the 10% student discount, or when the kitchens of the buffets close. Who said you needed motorcycles to find zen! Ask the Blue Lady as I lean back ultra-low and traverse the backstreets under a warm sun.

#308 is nice and welcoming as we hurry up the protected stairway to escape LA's unpredictable icy winds in the evenings - basking under the sun all day from its perch so high, engulfing me in the large black cushion on the futon as Antonioni and Kubrick display their art. The pool below sparkles its blueness sometimes under that sun, tempting us to dive the three floors into its cool depth, but sloth is not something that should be thus underestimated. However, the trunks are at least within view, just in case, some day, on some impulse, we jump.