life would be perfect if i had a lemon tree

on learning to love l.a.

we set the clocks ahead last night, and spring is around the corner, but it’s ::checks notes:: technically still winter in new england. and i know that not necessarily because of the frigid temperatures or bare trees, but because i’ve been daydreaming about L.A. again. and since january, i’ve been absolutely heartbroken about the devastation caused by the wildfires to this city i’ve — slowly but surely — developed such an affection for.

i still remember the palpable feeling of disillusionment and disappointment i felt after my first trip to los angeles in may of 2006. i was just a couple weeks shy of 21 and — as a lifelong northeast native — had still never been west of michigan. but i had stars in my eyes and sunshine on my mind, and eventually reached an agreement with my parents that we’d split a vacation between L.A. and vegas, a place they wanted to explore but that i had absolutely zero interest in, despite the fact that my high school best friend had moved out there two years prior.

from the moment we landed in las vegas and i saw slot machines practically flanking our arrival gate in the airport, i wondered if perhaps I had judged sin city too harshly and quickly, based solely on stereotypes of elderly gamblers hauling oxygen tanks across windowless and perpetually dark casino floors and washed-up magician and wayne newton residencies.

i mean, vegas is absolutely both of these things, too, yes. but, having been five times since, it’s also so much more: it’s a place where:

• you have the complete freedom to assume absolutely any identity that you want. while wearing a skintight, sequined dress and lash extensions. in the middle of the afternoon, if you so desire.

• you can order and consume a peanut butter and jelly old-fashioned.

• you can lounge in the pool at caesar’s palace across from former NFL player junior seau (RIP).

• when you’re sick of slot machines, you can play pinball for hours in an unlit, nondescript building without interacting with a single soul.

• you can have a peaceful solo brunch on a weekday morning and feel ever-so-slightly fancier than usual, because you’re at the freakin’ venetian.

• just a few miles off the strip, you can marvel at wildlife and walk nature trails.

• you can learn about whitey bulger and wash down your education with a shot of moonshine in the basement of a museum dedicated to the mafia.

• you can wander the strip with thousands of of dejected fellow elder emos.

• you can be serenaded with free’s “all right now” by a washed up hair band member.

• you can go clubbing with a 50-something divorce lawyer from north carolina.

everything about it is so garish and so excessive that you just have to lean into the surreality (or not, but that’s usually at your peril).

but much as i love it, this post isn’t about vegas. in complete contrast to my immediate and burning-hot desert love affair with vegas, my love for L.A. has grown at a positively glacial pace; maybe it’s even an enemies-to-lovers arc, as the “booktok” girlies say.

i didn’t like L.A. at first blush, because what it’s portrayed to be is so dramatically and jarringly at odds with what it actually is, and a few days was hardly enough to rectify the contrast in my mind. everything was so far apart; nothing like the movies! there was just as much (if not more) shit as there was sparkle. i went home obsessed with vegas and very unsure what to make of los angeles. i was totally confounded.

but my solo, pre-pandemic trip in 2020 revealed many glimmers underneath the smog: the back room of a coffee shop that felt like an enchanted forest or a treehouse, with a huge, snarled and winding trunk that anchored the room. stunning views of laurel canyon from homes where joni mitchell and glenn frey penned songs and john lennon sequestered himself with yoko. and, perhaps most importantly, the casual ubiquity of citrus trees. bright yellows and oranges speckled amongst the green leaves as i strolled the streets.

the delight and novelty of waking up, stepping outside in my sleep shirt and slippers, and pulling a ripe orange or lemon off of a tree in my very own yard could cure anything and everything that ails me, i thought. how could one ever be sad when they have on-demand fresh fruit? i would be, i could be the real-life version of gwen stefani on the cover of no doubt’s tragic kingdom album, minus the patent leather red dress and bleach-blonde hair.

and by the end of my most recent visit in january 2024, it clicked. at some point between sipping my cold brew amongst silver lake hipsters, passing the los feliz tudor cottages which allegedly inspired snow white and the seven dwarves, winding through the multimillion dollar contemporary houses of beachwood canyon toward my airy airbnb that boasted a view of the hollywood sign, and stepping out of my lyft and over human feces on hollywood boulevard to eat prime rib and baked potato at musso and frank grill (possibly in the very bar seat where jimmy stewart or marilyn monroe warmed their derriere), i got it. los angeles is a sometimes beautiful, sometimes brutal exercise in contrasts. the dazzling and the dirty. the glittering and the grimy. and i finally, finally kinda dug it. and this time, when i arrived home, i even missed it a little bit.

but while i couldn’t transform my home into a spanish-style villa or conjure up a casual celebrity sighting at a coffee shop, i could nurture a fruit tree in my apartment. probably. maybe. suddenly, they seemed to be everywhere i looked, including a tour of a new york city woman’s apartment on youtube. her lemon tree was thriving in its sleek and contemporary upper west side home, giving me unwarranted confidence, despite the fact that this lady of leisure almost certainly hired someone else to care for the plant. it felt like a sign. and within the next couple months, fate seemingly did me a solid; there, in my town’s “free stuff” facebook group (where, incidentally, i’ve sourced about half of my apartment’s decor) was a post in which a woman was giving away her meyer lemon tree. never mind that she was giving it away because it was no longer bearing fruit; at this point, my 20-something dating brain took over, screaming “i can fix it!” hours later, it sat in front of my dining room window, bare as a baby’s ass. but i had a lemon tree! i. had. a. lemon. tree. a new lease on life was just a blossom away!

as march turned into april, and april into may, the tree remained sparse, empty, and sad, even after i moved it out onto my deck as the outside temperatures warmed. not even a glimmer of a bud or leaf, or whatever you call the beginnings of a lemon. yet, i remained resolute in my belief, despite a glaring, stunning lack of evidence.

around july or august, i finally admitted defeat, quietly removing the brittle, empty branches from the soil and tossing them into a trash bag.

so there i had it. i understood now. much as i tried, it had become abundantly clear to me: so many of the aspects that make los angeles one of a kind — whether it’s fruit trees, tar pits, or casual run-ins with hilary duff — can simply not be found or even replicated elsewhere. and while my citrus-picking fantasies may have been temporarily dashed, i accepted and respected that i can’t have everything i want all the time, and L.A. will always be there to give me its smoggy, sparkly magic if i need it.

that still didn’t stop my eyes from lingering upon a lime tree during my next visit to home depot.