“You see, I have all these stories I want to tell,” she said. “I know I could write a good movie script, I just know it.”

“Go for it,” I said. “It’s a tough world to break into, but you’ll never know if you don’t try.”

“I don’t think I could have written it when I was younger,” she said. “Because I hadn’t lived enough. But now I have all these stories that are just bursting out. I really – really – have to tell them.”

“Now is your time,” I said. “Don’t question yourself, get up tomorrow, sit down at your computer and do it. Just do it.”

“You’re right,” she said. “It is my time. Time for the creative me to find her voice at last. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to start. God, I have such good stories to tell. You’ll see – next year the Oscar for Best Screenplay!”

“I’m rooting for you,” I said.

She took a sip of her coffee and looked thoughtful.

“And if the screenplay doesn’t work out,” she added then, “I thought I’d try designing handbags.”

The world laughs at Angelenos for their cock-eyed optimism. It points to the grizzled bartender valiantly describing himself as an “actor” on the back of one scene in Battlestar Galactica in 2005; the serial dieter gulping the miracle weight loss potion to wash down her cheeseburger and fries while eagerly checking bikinis on the Internet for the summer; the multiple divorcée decking herself in virginal white frills for her sixth wedding, overcome with excitement that this time she has found true love.

Ludicrous? Possibly. But I also find in this dogged determination to hope for the best, no matter what, something somehow touching, something even admirable. Los Angeles, after all, is the city where all things are possible. In a continent where everyone dreams of going west, it is so very far west that the next place beyond it is the east. It is the city where almost everyone who has come here – whether they arrived by plane through sleek space-age LAX, or by train through the architectural splendor of the briefly bustling, now all but deserted Union Station, or bouncing in a battered jalopy from dust-choked Oklahoma, or just barely surviving the grueling covered wagon trail from the ice-bound winters of Missouri – has come looking for something better.

Often, they have found it. Los Angeles is the city where magic happens. It is the place where Chinese chicken salad was invented, and water sprinklers, and hula hoops, and electric guitars, and much of the Internet. Where a hundred and twenty years ago an eccentric entrepreneur called Abbot Kinney won a stretch of marsh land in a coin flip, installed some canals, called it Venice, and founded a playground for the rich that flourishes to this day. Where a smalltime vaudeville player from a dirt poor family in the West of England donned a tuxedo, acquired a faintly ridiculous accent, and created Cary Grant. Where the Wilson kids and a couple of their buddies got together in their Dad’s garage in a sprawling inland suburb, decided to call themselves the Beach Boys because one of them liked to go surfing on the weekends, and produced a sound that defined a generation.

The dreams haven’t always come true. Life isn’t a movie, as much as it often looks and sounds like we’re living in one, and most of us learn in the end that we don’t always get to find that happy ending as the credits fade. We don’t all get to be Hollywood stars, or even working bit-part players. We don’t all achieve eternal youth and beauty – we don’t all even live long enough to grow old. We don’t all manage to raise our families in houses that are safe from fire, or to be governed by the sort of political leaders we voted for in the last election. The last couple of weeks have shown us, all too plainly, that life in the City of Angels is as short, and as unpredictable, and as sometimes brutal, as it is anywhere.

It is already becoming apparent, in this latest version of our many times reinvented city, that everyone who lives here now won’t want to stay here. After the fires, there will be some people who will find they have had enough of roller coaster hopes and natural disasters, and decide to build their life somewhere safer instead. There will be others who will take a hard look at their finances, calculate the soaring prices that will hit the market as the city begins to rebuild, and resign themselves to moving somewhere more affordable. There will even be those under this new political administration who will choose to leave America altogether.

Mr. Los Angeles and I are staying. Because we are fortunate enough to live in an area that has not been touched by the fires, our house – barring a blown-down privacy fence and the shellshocked Mexican sage it landed on – is undamaged. Because the brightest hope we once had – that of becoming parents – remained one of those dreams that didn’t come true for us, we have only ourselves to consider in where and how we choose to live. But for others who are leaving, either for themselves or for the good of their families, this is a wish of health and happiness to you all.

If the fires have made you realize that you really don’t like living here after all, then thanks for giving us a try. If you would prefer to stay but have accepted for whatever reason that it’s not practically possible, then we understand: we love you and will always miss you, and please take a piece of Los Angeles optimism with you for wherever you do end up living – we have plenty to spare.

For the rest of us who are hanging in, we’ll keep on doing what we always do. We’ll deal with it. We’ll rebuild the new city, and in the meantime, we’ll look after those neighbors who need looking after: we’ll donate to GoFundMe’s, we’ll pass on food and clothing to housing shelters, we’ll support local businesses that are struggling. Politically, we’ll make our voices heard: we’ll sign petitions, we’ll go on marches, we’ll do whatever we damn can to fight for social justice, and, oh, you’d better believe we’ll vote in the next election. We’ll do like Fred Astaire, and pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again. And again. And again. And, if we have to, again. Because that’s what Angelenos do.

And that’s one of the reasons why I love this city.

The Handbag Designer

The Immigrant Chronicles