L.A. in the Spring

When I was living in Tokyo, L.A. was my landing place, my stopping off point, and my spot to revisit the culture and country that I loved, but was feeling more and more distant from. I would land at LAX and my beloved friend Jill would pick me up and whisk me back to her apartment with a list of adventures we were about to have. We hiked nearly every national park in California, and did crazy, impractical and wonderful things. We got lost, walked til our feet were swollen with blisters, skinny dipped in frigid mountain lakes and rivers, talked about our lives, sex, our boyfriends, everything. But before we headed off into the woods for our annual retreat there were always a few glorious days in L.A.. And what I remember is the smell.

I remember standing in the dark behind her apartment building in Santa Monica and inhaling the night-blooming jasmine and the pitosporum, and the other sweet, intoxicating smells of LA in the moonlight. I remember driving around at night near the beach, with the windows rolled down, sticking my head out the window and inhaling the essence of sea and the flowers to hold them in my lungs so maybe I could take some of it back with me to Tokyo, land of cement, subways and a few, tired cherry trees.

It is spring again. People say there are no seasons in LA. But only people who have not lived here can say that. LA has distinct seasons, and if you live here for awhile you start to love them: the tawny dry hills in fall, the rains in winter, the green green hills in spring. And, best of all, the smells.

It is that time again. The ground is moist and the air damp enough to hold the fresh smells. At night in our neighborhood you could get drunk from the smell. In the canyons you can smell the sage. it rubs off on your hiking clothes so you take it home in a cloud of deliciousness and carry it into your living room.

Today, after a wonderful hike in Runyon with two of my favorite women Mitch stopped all of us in the middle of an animated, very important women's conversation, put her hands on our arms under a huge tree with tiny white blossoms and said, "Stop. Just smell."

It is the season. The smelly season in LA. It is LAs invisible secret, known only to those who love her.