Los Angeles – Arriving Between Routine, Reality, and a Shift in Perspective

Los Angeles – Arriving Between Routine, Reality, and a Shift on Perspective

Between passport control, pizza, and charred palm trees

A Smile at the Border

Sometimes, arriving begins with a smile.

Passport control in Los Angeles is unusually relaxed this time. At the counter, an officer with humor, curiosity, and that particular tone that immediately signals: we take this seriously — but not too seriously.

He asks what we come here for every year. Reinhold talks a bit — about family, about returning, about staying for a while. And then, almost in passing, he mentions the Salton Sea. Because of me. Again. Yes, I love this place. I feel drawn to this morbid lake, to its austere, stubborn charm.

The officer rolls his eyes.
OMG.
“You’re probably going to Salvation Mountain as well?”

Reinhold nods.

“Poor guy,” the officer says sympathetically — looking straight at Reinhold.

We laugh. And we’ve arrived.

Welcome Back to Reality

Reality checks in shortly after. Our suitcases take their time. Despite the priority tags. We stand there for almost an hour, waiting, watching the baggage carousel dutifully deliver everything — except our luggage.

Apparently, in Munich they were packed very carefully into the farthest possible corner. That, too, is part of it. Welcome back.

Same Procedure Every Year — and Yet Never the Same

And yet, every time it is different.
This reunion.
This brief pause.
This joy that doesn’t need anything spectacular to feel real.

Lena is waiting. Patient, as always.
We pick up the rental car at Alamo.
I drive with her, Reinhold follows behind — a familiar little ritual, almost like a promise.

Then on to our small house for four nights: familiar enough to feel at home immediately, small enough not to overwhelm. A place for a short while. Exactly right.

New Year’s Eve with Pizza and Jet Lag

By now it’s almost seven in the evening on this last day of the year. A long flight, a long day behind us. We are restless and exhausted at the same time.

Jet lag hits, just as it always does. And at over seventy, it shouldn’t be underestimated.

We spend New Year’s Eve as four. With a huge pizza, good conversation, lots of laughter — and very little stamina.

A Quiet Ritual by the Sea

Driving along the Pacific Coast Highway is non-negotiable for us. It means arrival. The drive to Zuma Beach is part of it — a quiet ritual.

This time, it starts to drizzle. And this time, the drive feels heavier than before.

Where beach houses once stood, charred palm trees and fragments of walls now rise into the gray sky. What the last major fire left behind. No explanation. No interpretation. Just what remains.

California does not show itself as merciful here. Only honest.

Moving On

Three days in Los Angeles pass in a blur. We’ll return in March — but today, we don’t want to think about that yet.

For now, we move on. Toward Palm Springs.

Where Age Has Room

If I were free — from rules, obligations, and all theoretical considerations — to choose where I would like to grow old, this corner here would be my choice.

Palm Springs. Palm Desert. La Quinta.
In short: the Coachella Valley.

Not because people here want to be younger.
But because they are allowed to be older.

I have the feeling that here, older people stay young for a long time.
Not out of defiance. Not out of ambition.
But because they have space.

Space for light.
For openness.
For a pace that doesn’t constantly need to prove itself.

Perhaps that is exactly what one needs not to keep getting in one’s own way — and sometimes even to like oneself a little.

This journey can also be read as one continuous story:
California Winter – A Journey Between Desert and Pacific