I swiped this espresso pot from my first apartment in Rome. I love this thing so much; it’s even earned a pet name from me. Ladies and gentlemen of the World Wide Web, please meet the lovely and talented Fiorella.

Having always had an aversion to espresso, I was more than hesitant when my Scottish roommate offered me a shot one night after dinner. What he served was unbelievable to my ignorant, American palate. What I’d always thought of as being akin to mud, both in taste and texture, brewed by the Scottsman was extraordinarily smooth, nutty, and sweet. I can’t remember that roommate’s name anymore, but he and his girlfriend took me through the steps of making a perfect espresso–using this very pot–as taught to them by their Italian housekeeper.

I’m a little ashamed to say Fiorella is nothing but a cheap proletariat whose provenance is the cheerful, exclamatory, mass-marketed world of Ikea. I could have easily bought an espresso pot just like her anywhere in Europe or stateside, but I was so successfully–and surprisingly–swayed into unparalleled fondness for Italian coffee that night, I was afraid if I didn’t own this very coffee pot I’d be subject to a life of discontent, where I’d forever compare every espresso I had to the one perked by Fiorella.

So, I dragged Fiorella in my roller bag across sloping cobblestone streets from one Roman apartment to another and, when the time came to return to the states, made the decision to ditch a perfectly good pair of red shoes in favor of making space for her in my backpack. It’s a decision I’ve occasionally been sheepish to talk about, but I’ve never regretted it for an instant.

This week my friends Al and Bridget took me to Echo Mountain in Pasadena, one of the coolest hikes I’ve experienced since moving here.

We started our hike late in the day, so we had a pretty clear trek up, encountering few fellow hikers along the way. And, since it had rained for a few days prior, within about 15 minutes we already had clear views of the city unfolding into the Pacific.

Al, our local horticulturalist, gave Bridget and me a little lesson on local flora; on our hike we collected black and white sage, wild rosemary, and wild buckwheat. It smelled like we were hiking through an herb garden the whole way up.

The best part of the hike is a lower peak that has an abandoned hotel foundation, complete with a stairway to nowhere. It’s like this awesome, above water, mountain-top Atlantis… or something awesome and mythical.

On July 11, 2009, I crammed all of my worldly possessions and one very good, very skinny friend into my 2006 Ford Focus hatchback, and left Salem, Massachusetts for Los Angeles, California for no other reason than I really had nothing better to do.

Jobless, relationship-less, nonplussed by New England’s endless winter, and bored with spending most Friday nights making-out with whichever douche bag du jour I was dating at the time: I came to the conclusion that living on the North Shore of Boston, Massachusetts was much like living in an abusive relationship.

The Boston-area had proven itself to be a total dick: Cold, emotionally unavailable, and always screwing around with college students; I became tired of holding out hope for the one-sided relationship I’d been leading with my hometown. It was time to dump Massachusetts and, since I’d always had a little crush on California, I figured I had nothing to lose by going westward ho.

So, I set my sights on the shimmering lights of dream-factory US: Los Angeles, CA. After three decades in MA, I wanted to live on a different planet and, if you’re from the bookish, blue-blooded Boston-area, there really is no place more different in the continental United States.

While I love the rich history and gorgeous architecture of Boston, I’m charmed by LA’s ability to always look toward the future. Some people may call LA plastic and youth obsessed, but I disagree that it is more of those things than any other city I’ve experienced both stateside and abroad. What’s different about LA is that it’s unapologetic about its flaws. In that light, it’s possibly the most genuine city in the country. I would also argue that it’s the most diverse and, at 420 square miles, I’d welcome any commentary to the contrary.

Under a veneer of silicon and Botox Los Angeles is a city full of best-kept secrets. It’s like the youngest child in a family of over-achievers:  Because no one has any expectations of Los Angeles, it’s free to be whatever it wants. From that unimpeded existence, LA has developed an incredible creative, culinary, and cultural community.  I promise to share, but first I have to find a paying job.

More soon… promise.

xoJ