All around, everyone was both hip and seemed to give no shits about said hipness. Not in the “hey look at me not giving a shit” modality you often find in “cool” parts of cities, but in the sort of addicted-to-cigarettes-and-not-caring-about-cancer way of not giving a shit.
Much of a small quadrant of the city was walked. I loved it. I loved the impossible coolness of the people, the thinly veiled disdain all the cars seem to have for walkers. There was technically a sidewalk in my neighborhood, but I think I may have been the first one to use it. The looks: What is that man doing? And the sidewalks themselves: Often simply disappearing, dissolving into grass, the pavers having evaporated mid-job.
On good days, I go for walks alone. I never really did that in New York. I was always on the go, but I always had a place to get to. It's different in Los Angeles. I wander for the sake of wandering, inspecting the scenery, watching people, roam through the expanse of the city's industrial zones. I move through liminal spaces, cross wasteland, abandoned ballparks. Some places feel like a world after the end of civilisation.