Los Angeles is known for its traffic, for its glitz and its weather, for its beaches and shopping and wealth and poverty. No one told me if it didn't have those things, it would be known for its fantastic mountains. Driving along the highway, I turn a corner and there in the distance, though I have the AC on, is a magnificent snowcapped peak. Coming back from San Pedro over a rise and suddenly seeing that downtown LA, which seems so big and substantial from within its canyon streets, is dwarfed by the San Gabriel Range behind it, a dozen times taller, leaving the skyscrapers to look like a toy Oz on a plain of gridded streets. Flying in, watching over these mountains to the north, mountains to the east, mountains to the south, and the sea beyond, I love the vastness of this landscape, on which even the enormous effort and vitality that is the greater Los Angeles metropolitan statistical region (15,000,000 people and growing) is just a film on the surface of a deep, still pond.
Yesterday's run destination: Montana Ave.
Yesterday's menu:
breakfast: granola
lunch: leftover chili
dinner: latkes, zahtar chicken, and cauliflower, later brownies
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