Watch out, world – I’m driving. I moved to Los Feliz from Silver Lake yesterday. After a month of Ubering and Lyfting around driven by purpose and necessity, the idea that I have discretionary power to go ANYWHERE is liberating.
I really first learned how to drive in South Africa. I had learned a month before going there that I’d need a car to get to the office, so I spent a month rushing through driver’s ed, approximating getting your car parked between two cars and a curb, and watched a ridiculously boring video mandated by the state. Well, I did fail my first test and amid tears and camping out for a new online appointment, I passed my driving test two days before my flight and arrived in South Africa with a shoddy piece of paper called a temporary driver’s permit and an equally shoddy piece of paper called an international driver’s permit and got into a rental with no GPS. Then I rolled along the left side of the road, occasionally forgetting and veering onto the right and turning on my windshield wipers instead of signaling. Oh right, and dodging all the animals and potholes on the road at night, particularly after one day when I decided to drive 18 hours straight across the country. Somehow I am still alive.
The current car is attached to my new apartment for the next 3 months in Los Feliz. I hope it lives up to its translation – happiness. I wished I hadn’t looked up the origins of the neighborhood’s name. It was named after a dude named Jose Vincente Feliz, who was part of an expedition that brought some of the first settlers to California. I’d like to unlearn that please.
The neighborhood itself is quaint with artsy bookshops, cafes, two vintage-looking movie theaters, and a few woowoo shops and strip malls on a few walkable stretches that are thankfully more densely clustered than Silver Lake. If Silver Lake is the industrialish mecca for hipsters, Los Feliz feels a bit like their eventual late 30s / 40s retirement home. Hollywood is to the west, Silver Lake to the East, and Griffith Park to the north.
My apartment is more like a snuggly single lady nest with white Queen Anne type chairs, modern furniture, and some furry white faux fur throw elements that are more for decor than for functional use. Its form factor makes it feel quiet, nestled, and safe, but the creaks make it sometimes feel haunted. I wonder about the history of these tenants…
It feels like a good place to be solo, hide out, write. LA month 2, Chapter 3.
