On Friday I left Los Angeles for good. After four years I gained nothing professio

nally or financially, but I gained a little self respect the moment I put that place in my rear-view mirror. I’ll miss some of the people, a lot of the food, and most of the weather, but the “city” of Angels became unsustainable (the moment it was founded).

This was probably the nicest thing I saw on the close to 400 miles that connect Los Angeles to Phoenix via interstate 10.

That’s perfunctory enough.

It got hot the moment I crossed the 110 and headed east through San Gabriel. I tested my air conditioning and was reassured that running it might be a bad long term plan, especially if I planned on getting to Philadelphia in the Flying Dutch Master, rather than via several Greyhound buses.

About 130 miles inland, in the heat of the Palm Desert, is Cathedral City. I stopped in at El Gallito, where for a few meager pesos, amidst a bunch of old ladies with close cropped, impossibly peach and plum colored hair, I enjoyed a deliciously tender Chicken Mole. After a stressful twenty minutes searching for a gas station where I didn’t need to be a member to fill up (fucking Costco has taken over that town), I headed to Phoenix. The temperature gauge spiked from 97 to 111, as I idled on the 17N, caught in Friday rush hour traffic. My lip curled and I imagined the bottomless glass of Scotch my cousin Andy would be furnishing me with in just a few moments. It was so delightful to envision that my salty sweat tasted almost like highland peat. Finally, I arrived at my cousins’ home, and as I basked in the coolness of their central air, I thought of nothing but the day as it had been.