It had been years since my last visit. Once I made it past the waves of radiant heat and roaches gunning for my feet, I was hit with the incredible foreign beauty that went unnoticed when I grew up there: the shed sheaths of palms cluttering sidewalks, alien succulents, architectural pastiche, haze and distance plying their lying magic. It was like visiting a new city, albeit one I had been reading about for years.

To that end, it’s not often I admit to being born here, for the length of time I have spent away, the language being one I am unsure of. And yet, I know the map well enough not to get lost. If I say that I am from this place, I am of this place, and that says more about me than I would prefer to admit. The creation of personal legend is central to the point, and so is my own undoing.

The myth of Los Angeles is founded on myth, preserved in myth, and confounded by myth. But this is not a complaint, for what city worth visiting presents its honest face? Given the choice, we want the seduction of a good narrative. Dreams such as the ones worth having would go hungry and starve without the shared delusion, the dirty light, and the received idea.

But given the size of the cockroaches, there is enough feast to go around.