FINAL APPROACH

I'm flying from Medford to LA on a crappy turbo prop plane of a size and age that would suggest it was once used to shuttle the Lollipop Kids to and from the set of the Wizzard of Oz. Whoever had the idea to put full grown adults in this plane should be shot. The guy next to me should probably be up against the wall with him. He seems to believe that his ticket entitles hin to his seat and mine. He's asleep and his cell phone keeps ringing. I want to answer the phone and scream, "Stop calling! You're going to kill us all!" (Note to self: The next city you live in must be served by full sized jets.)

We're essentially following the California coast south, but it's a little hard to tell. Morning clouds have obscured most any view from up here. But then the clouds clear and I can see Los Angeles below me. It's unmanaged urban sprawl shoots out in every direction (except west, of course, that's that ocean). As we desend, the small, ugly strip malls that dot the roadsides are easier to see. I notice the 405 as we get closer to landing. Looks like 20 mile long parking lot. There is a thick, brown, and clearly unhealthy haze of pollution over the city.

And as I take in the scene below, my heart leaps inside of me. I'm almost there. I'm almost home.

I'm still a little shocked I feel this way. I know it is most uncool to love LA. I was raised in upstate New York and was taught that Los Angeles was the very embodiment of all that is wrong with America. In 1995 I visited my friend Thomas in LA, and I hated it so much I vowed never to return again, not even to visit.

Nine months later, all my crap was in my car and I was driving towards LA. It was mostly an act of desperation. I was living in my Subaru, and Thomas had a wide couch, so I might as well move to LA. It was a place to crash, nothing more.

When I first arrived, the city seemed to swirl around me. It was big, it was loud, it was fast, and more than a little overwhelming.

But over time, the place grew on me. I met some friends, moved off the couch and into someone's garage, and slowly made a little life for myself. I began to notice that the city wasn't an sterile string of stucco laid out along a basin. Ok, some of it is--West Covina, anyone? But buried among the sprawl are some great neighborhoods, with a real personality and sense of place.

A dear friend threw a surprise birthday party for me at Pink's when I had been living in LA for about 8 months. As I saw this small gathering of people, all bearing good wishes and Hostess Twinkees, I realized I had found my home. This was the first place I had ever lived that truly felt like home. Not even my home town of Rochester felt this comfortable.

This was horrifying, in a way. Only bad people love LA, right? Doesn't something precious inside you have to die in order for you to enjoy this place? But the facts were there, and there was no denying it.

Over the next 8 years, I went back to school to finish up a long abandoned bachelors degree, began performing with a comedy troupe, and met and married a wonderful woman. Life was good.

But we eventually left. I had a journalism degree and LA is no place to start a career. So we moved to Texarkana, one of the most nasty places in the US (sorry Winter, but you understand). We got out of there and now live in a beautiful little corner of Oregon. I love Medford, but l miss Los Angeles every day. Every single day.

I'm on the ground now, waiting for my rental car shuttle. The air is warm and moist, with just a little hint of salt from the ocean. It tastes good. Tastes like home.