A letter to the city of angels

Oh, Los Angeles. When I first moved here six and a half years ago, I loathed you. I despised your smog, your traffic, your graffiti, and your awful public transportation system. You, in turn, scoffed at my curly red hair, my pale skin, and my aversion to wearing bright colors. We've had our difficulties over the years, but we've come to know and accept each other's quirks and idiosyncrasies. I learned your freeways like the back of my hand, and your sunshine put color in my cheeks and brought joy to my soul. Your traffic became a time of solace, where I could listen to music or make faces at the people in the cars around me. Your smog became just an indication of the borders of the place I tentatively called home.

And then I left you for the hustle and bustle of New York. On my first day there, someone told me I looked "way too approachable for Queens." Everyone there was busy and rude. The street smelled of trash and exhaust from the subways. And then the day came when a rat scurried past my feet on the sidewalk, and a crazy man started following me home from the bus stop (turns out I AM too approachable for Queens). And the worst thing of all was that I had to try three different grocery stores before I found one that carried corn tortillas.

So now I come back to visit you, L.A., and your deliciously thick smog says, "Welcome back, Emma," in its raspy, throaty vibrato. On the train there's a man carrying what I think is a hammer but what turns out to be a collapsible cane (I wouldn't have questioned it even if it was a hammer). There's a girl who can't be more than thirteen with tattoos all over her bare arms and stomach (Does she have parents? And WHERE does she get the money?). A woman with sideburns tells her kid to "SIT DOWN" for the fifth time. But L.A, your strange citizens on this train are endearing to me, rather than repulsive.

Even though "home" will always be Nagano, Japan, you've managed to carve out a little space for yourself in my heart. Someday I'll drive your streets again, Los Angeles. And we'll play our little car flirting games, and go get tacos on Tuesdays, and watch the sun set over the Pacific. I promise.

Thoughts from the open sky

There are moments when I hate my job. It drains me physically and emotionally. It provides no sense of stability. I'm often away from family and friends. I seem to live outside the boundaries of what is considered "real life." I live in the transient; I live the journey, in the most literal sense. But on nights like tonight, while my passengers sleep, and I get to savor a moment looking out at the city lights down below, I realize, I LOVE my job. I hope it never ceases to hit me how small things look from high up. How our entire lives, every little detail that seems so huge in the moment is part of a bigger picture. We're insignificant from way up here, but for some reason we matter. All we are is dust, if not for the breath of God coursing through us.

One of my favorite things about my best friend is that she sees the strange, quirky qualities in every person and appreciates them for it. I tend to feel critical towards those who stray from what is socially normal and acceptable, but she seeks these weirdos out and finds them lovable. This has always inspired me, and has challenged me to see people through the eyes of someone more compassionate and accepting. It's a gift to see beauty in all things, and to protect our sense of wonder. So much around us is reduced to dollars and minutes. We are self-absorbed. We are caught up in things that will mean nothing tomorrow, next year, or at the end of our lives.

So these are my challenges to myself:
-Never lose my sense of wonder.
-Look for the beauty in people.
-Remember that nothing lasts forever, so discern what to cherish in the moment and what to discard as a waste of my time and effort.
-Learn how to converse with children (backstory on this one: there was a little girl traveling on my flight today whose mother had just died. She was flying on an airplane for the first time in her life, completely alone, going to see her birth father whom she had never met. She had the sweetest spirit, and I felt lucky to have been able to hopefully help her through her flight, even if it was just in the smallest way).
-Work hard, play harder.
-Take risks--I never regret the things I've done, just the things I didn't have the guts to do.

I tend to oscillate between being sarcastic and jaded to the core, and being deeply touched by the complexities of life and beauty. The thoughtful side of me feels like it tried pretty hard to limit the cheesiness, but the jaded side is still totally grossed out by this post. Just had to add that caveat. Gotta be true to yourself and all that. Never fear, jaded side, you will rise again as soon as the next passenger in a fur coat refuses to check her Louis Vuitton luggage and proceeds to demand a "sparkling water with just a splash of cranberry juice and a slice of lime." Never fear.