When one lives in Los Angeles, one inevitably spends a lot of time in transit. This is an unfortunate aspect of life in a city of sprawl, but it has its perks. Whether walking (which no one does, by the way. I used to walk to work from my old place in Hollywood, a 30 minute walk, and people were incredulous), driving, or bussing, time rather stops during the journey from point A to point B. I spend my transit time thinking about the city, which is interesting since I spend most of my other time—while working, eating, laughing, sleeping—thinking about whether or not to leave it. But while in transit—these days, in the car—I reflect on LA a lot. Mostly with how huge it is, but also how full of possibility it is.

There is a lot of room for dreams in this city. Certainly, there are the big ones—those who want to make their money and their fame making movies and music, but for every kid with stars in her eyes is one who is here to make a life. I haven’t figured out my dream LA scenario yet, but I like to try them on. Am I Canyon girl, hiking down to market for a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine? A West Hollywood groupie, spending my evenings on the sidewalk cafes of the center of the queer community in LA? A lazy Santa Monican, jogging on the beach and enjoying heaping brunches on Main Street? Or am I a Valley girl, embracing the relative peace and quiet and easy living of life over the mountain? Or might I be more at home in Silverlake with the cool kids and hipsters? Or in Westwood, the artificial college town that UCLA calls home? None of the above is the real answer, but somehow in LA, a choice must be made. Each neighborhood is different, and the city is so large and traffic so bad, that adopting multiple neighborhoods seems logistically impossible. Right now I have no home base. Valley doesn’t quite fit, but Hollywood wasn’t perfect either. I like Westwood, but don’t feel at home there. Santa Monica is nice, but too far away from everyone else. And Silverlake’s hipsters—not my style. In the car, driving through these different neighborhoods, I can picture myself in all of them, and yet picture myself in none of them. So instead of choosing, I live the scenarios in my head and put off decisions until later. Which really is why I’m still sleeping on the floor. I would move, but moving requires picking a neighborhood, and picking a neighborhood requires picking an identity—and right now, that’s out of the question. I’ll drive around and think about it. In which direction is anyone’s guess.