countessian
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home: part one, draft one
I live in Echo Park, Los Angeles. I was born in Orsett Hospital, Essex, by caesarian section. My mother says she felt like she cheated by being knocked out for the entire process, and I think I inherited that feeling of guilt for having things too easy. The first thing English people think of when you tell them you live in Southern California is the weather, and it scares me how much of a difference the sunshine makes. Popping to the shop requires no preparation beyond slipping on your Havaianas — there’s none of the boots and coat and hat and gloves and braiding your hair to keep it out of the wind and writing out a comprehensive list because God knows you don’t want to go out there more than once that was so normal in England. Somehow, though, after a month or so the novelty wears off and the amazing ease that permeates everything here becomes normal.
The cities out here are so new they’re mostly grids so exploration’s easy, particularly if you developed the Euro-city intuition required to get around London with any level of efficiency. Most people say there’s no public transport here but the buses shoot across the city’s straight lines quite well, carrying the thousands of Angelenos no one bothered to ask. At first I walked to work, marvelling twice daily at the jacaranda blossom, ridiculously cloudless skies and lack of a commute. Before the first year was out, though, I missed the hour-plus ride to work like crazy. The ease of everything got tiresome.
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