I could write about travel, which I admittedly do from time to time. Though I am not confident in the amount of insight I have into a place that I can write about it intelligently. Take Los Angeles, for instance. Someone once wrote about it, in 1923, “Los Angeles is a white bull terrier. His hide is a little soiled and his voice is a little raucous. He dives in among the automobile wheels, upsets all the garbage cans on both sides of the street, gets into a few friendly fights by way of entertainment, and is all wrong most of the time. But oh, how he does love life! He just loves everybody!”
It’s a simple analogy, and the start of the piece was in comparison to San Francisco, and how it is like a Russian Wolf Hound. I’ve not been to San Francisco. LA, though, and bull terriers. That’s a fun bit of writing. And I don’t know that I’ve ever compared a place to a breed of dog, whatsoever.
I haven’t left the country in over two years, though I’ve been to several states during the pandemic, and now call North Hollywood home, at least until the vagabonding spirit takes hold of me again.