Tomorrow I am going to Los Angeles for two weeks with a collaborator on a writers’ retreat.
When I tell people this, I generally get a reaction of disdain mixed with pity. “Oh, Los Angeles,” they say. “I hate Los Angeles.”
The thing is, the writers’ retreat is my aunt’s 6,000-square-foot house in Beverly Hills, with a grand piano, a kidney-shaped swimming pool, and a TV bigger than me.
Go ahead and hate Los Angeles. I’ll send you a photo of me in the pool and you can pity me if you dare.