The past few days in and around Los Angeles have been ridiculously gorgeous. Think eighty-plus degrees, sun ablazing, warmth tickling your skin, shorts-sandals-gossamer-layer-inducing days. These are the sort of days you wait for--you and your white frolick dresses dream about--and, if you live in Portland, you are lucky to have 60+ days like this a year, maybe.
Yes, it would appear that Los Angeles is casting its spell on me, slowly. They are growing on me, the ubiquitous donut shops, the churro/tamale/taco ladies who peddle their delicious wares with warm smiles, the compulsory sunshine. Even proper coffee was found. Things were looking up.
But then, I received a wake up call in the wee morning hours via earthquake. An earthquake! I forgot about these things, about the earthquake drills in elementary school when I was glad for some excitement, but ultimately annoyed by the time we shuffled back to class, in alphabetical order, or when I was forced to hide underneath the desk, invariably plastered with multi-colored, germ-infested gum.
I do not like earthquakes.