I lived here once, in this City of Angels, all heat and grit and gnashing teeth. I fled to the faerie land of San Francisco and haven't looked back, not once.

Driving by an apartment I once did time in, history looped upon present. I found the same conversation still running between myself and Los Angeles. In the past, I did all the talking, and this city, ignoring me, did whatever it wanted to do.

A sudden urge to write overcame me whilst listening to synthetic feminine directions from the Magellan NLIII by my knee. Slipping gingerly out of double-speed traffic into this magically vacant parking space on La Brea, I find everything I might need is ready and waiting.

Two doors down: an all night service station with, it's unbelievable... organic green tea.

Two doors back: a trendy restaurant with gorgeous creatures in sheer outfits and impeccably messed coiffures... no honest work going on, but walking past the car they provide physical motion, a blanket of conversational atmosphere and an occasional distraction.

Right next to me: a fine tree, pushing up sidewalk slabs, covered in year-round holiday lights. At their power source is an open socket, and I always carry a 4.5 meter extension cable.

In the very air: not one but a trio of wide open wireless networks, all nicely warm in strength and competing for a chance to provide me bandwidth.

Perhaps Los Angeles has rethought itself in the time since I've dwelt here.

Perhaps it's softened and grown more giving.

Perhaps it remembers and feels a twinge of sorrow still over losing me to its elvish sister up north.

Perhaps I've simply learned how to ask for what I want using a language Los Angeles understands.