Here’s the same, in early evenings.
Living in southern California is nice, but, like the view from my balcony, my routine is not what some imagine as typical. At work, some years back, a visitor from Georgia saw me with a Snickers candy bar and snarled, “I thought y’all out here only ate granola.” Weekdays, I leave for work at 6:55 a.m. and then see only the walls of my office building for most of the day. Since 1979, I’ve visited Disneyland just twice (about as often as I’ve eaten granola). I don’t “live” at my gym, shop on Rodeo Drive, or go to nightclubs (my lights are out by 9:30 p.m.). I’m not vegetarian or vegan (how I wish I could find good fresh rabbit, reasonably priced!). I’ve not had a facelift, and my hair is natural salt & pepper (more salt, these days). I’m a native and I fit in, because, as they say, here anything goes. I do wish there were more people here from the world of publishing, though.
The French family who visited last summer told me I’m lucky to live here. I accept.