I was in Mobile, Alabama earlier this week for a short work trip and now I have the song “Sweet Home Alabama” stuck in my head. I did not dare sing it out loud in Alabama, as it was my first time in the state, aside from driving through twice (once in 2005 where my father and I stopped at a Subway and could not understand anyone’s accent and ended up ordering sandwiches we didn’t even want; and another time in 2007 where my brother and I were stopped by the highway patrol for a speeding ticket, which I eventually forgot about and ended up getting a warrant issued for my arrest, resolved with a hefty fine and cries of worry from my mother), and, of course, I did not want someone to hear me and actually think that I would consider Alabama “home”.

Home is Los Angeles, I reminded myself as I sat in a Southern podunk eatery and sipped my unsweetened sweet tea, thinking of what was happening at home. Imagining the city, and inhabitants thereof, you can figure there is probably traffic crawling on the 405 and the 101 the 10 and PCH, and even the 110 and 134 and 118 and the 5, and anywhere that anyone can bring wheels. On the corner of Camden Drive and Little Santa Monica there is a line at Sprinkles as people are ordering the Blake Lively-inspired cupcakes, while at Literati Café on Wilshire and Santa Monica law students are hunched over their laptops, listening to the latest indie band due to perform at Coachella from the speakers overhead. Medical students wake up from their naps and get ready for the night shift at Cedars Sinai, Harbor and Olive View. Hipsters are walking on Silverlake and Franklin while texting their Intelligentsia order, and industry heads in Century City are driving in their German cars while talking on their cell phones about the weekend box office grosses. Real estate agents are showing homes in Beverly Hills and Holmby Hills and Cheviot Hills, wearing their sunglasses even though the sun has set. Cabo Cantina and Busby’s start filling up for happy hour with UCLA and USC fraternity and sorority kids, and moviegoers begin picking out their seats before the films begin at the Arclight and the Grove. People are jogging in the Palisades and putting on their light knit-sweaters in Santa Monica and catching the surf in Malibu. The alley in downtown is almost deserted, Mexicans push away their carts of chili powder-sprinkled fruit, Koreans roll up their fabrics in the fashion district, and Persians put away their display items in the jewelry district. Kitson is closing on Robertson so the tourists gaze at the menu in front of Newsroom and Kitson is closing on Melrose so the models take a seat at Urth Café and both Kitson and Kitson Kids are closing at Santa Monica Place so the teenagers walk to Third Street Promenade. On San Vicente in Brentwood you can order late afternoon lattes from Coral Tree or Coffee Bean or Starbucks and then walk over to Pinkberry or Yogurtland or Menchie’s for low-fat, high-sugar dessert. The Lakers are playing a home game at the Staples Center, a hip singer-songwriter is performing at the Nokia Theatre, and those not inside the venues stand around L.A. Live and watch it broadcast on the giant screens. Sushi chefs chop vegetables at Katsuya, hot grills sizzle with kabob in Westwood, yoga mats are rolled out in Venice and weights are lifted at Equinox. Lights are turned on along Sunset in Hollywood while the cars go up and down through the canyons, Laurel and Coldwater, turning on Mulholland and Ventura, arriving in the Valley, into the strip malls and the suburbs. All the while, dreams continue to grow, hope stays alive, and the city of Angels shines bright. And in my version of the song, I changed the lyrics to "Sweet Home California" ;)