Whose life is it anyway?

My journey of late has been clouded with emotion, distracted by concerns, and challenged by the typical twists and turns that accompany letting go of a child who is legally an adult but still lives at home, attending college locally.

With the help of a spiritual guide/mentor, I have unpeeled the layers of circumstances and feelings to discover the core issue creating most of my inner turmoil:

I have been caught between trying to live my life according to the scripts that others write for me and the one I try to write for myself.

Trapped might be a better description of how I have felt lately.

But I have come to a refreshing conclusion: That if I have not succeeded in satisfying people’s expectations by now, I never will. There is nothing else I can do that I have not already attempted to do. There is no end to what others might think I should do or not do.

Pleasing people is just not supposed to define my journey.

I have tried to resist these pressures by designing my own path. It has succeeded in confusing some and alienating others. Lately, I have been frustrated that this self-constructed path has not achieved its desired destination.

So, as I pause to contemplate…what next? I have come to this: It is time to discern what God’s script is for me. Apart from the defining attributes of my community. Apart from the self-constructed strategies I plan. Just apart.

A time of cultivating personal discipleship as a way of life. A time of reducing spiritual activity with the purpose of being still…so I may hear from God and God alone. A spiritual resting. A personal spiritual sabbatical.

The Jewish word Shalom comes to mind: peace. Christ said, My peace I give to you. My peace I leave with you, not the peace of the world, but my personal peace. (John 14:27 – my paraphrase).

In the same setting, the Last Supper, Christ closed his last message to the disciples with these remarks:

“In this world you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer- I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

So, my journey has taken a detour. Seeking oasis where I may nourish my soul. Still waters. Lush pastures of God's own choosing, as He shepherds this sabbath to restore my soul.

If I get to write, I'll keep you posted. ;)

Surprise Picks: An Ancient tale of Redemption

A little over a week ago, Senator John McCain shocked his party, his opponents, and the world with his pick of female Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate. Unlike her critics, I applaud her selection, not only b/c she is a conservative woman, but b/c her record in Alaska demonstrates that she is a capable leader.
Some folks diminish her track record, but I do not find her selection nearly as surprising as one God made quite some time ago when leadership was in decline and moral integrity at an all time low for the Israelites in ancient times.
The book of Judges (Old Testament of the Bible) ends with a very sad depiction of Israelite society without a judge to lead them. But in it, I found a marvelous act of redemption from the heart of God (and a surprise pick) that is often overlooked.
A Levite priest had been traveling with his new wife (Judges 19) and stayed the night in Gibeah (a town in the land of Benjamin). While there, several men in the city gang-raped the girl, and she died.
The Levite calls upon the other tribes of Israel to vindicate this horrible crime. Four hundred thousand leaders and warriors show up and vow to take revenge. This comes in two forms: one, they vow never to give their daughters as wives to Benjaminites and two, they go to war and slaughter the entire tribe of Benjamin (b/c they harbored and protected the guilty men of Gibeah), with the exception of 600 men who manage to escape.
Afterward, the Israelites mourn the potential loss of an entire tribe (the 600 will not have any Jewish girls to marry and continue an unpolluted bloodline). They find a loophole: no one from the town of Jabesh-Gilead had made the vow not to marry the Benjaminites, so the four hundred virgins available are offered to the remnant, leaving two hundred to "kidnap" (with permission) maidens who attend a festival in Shiloh.

So, the tribe of Benjamin, once favored by Jacob, is rescued from annihilation, but the story of redemption, God's redemption, is so much greater...

Judges closes with the simple commentary: "In those days, Israel had no king, so the people did whatever seemed right in their own eyes." (Judges 21:25) Moral decline. An absence of leadership. A need for change.

Moving along in the Scriptures, one comes along the book of Ruth, story of the Moabite woman who marries Boaz and becomes the great-grandmother of King David, and a progenitor of Christ.
This book is followed by I Samuel, which tells the story of the last judge of Israel and its first king.

After many years of successfully leading Israel, Samuel the judge grows old, and the people request a king.
God grants their request by selecting Saul of Kish...a Benjaminite!

When Saul himself objects by pointing out, "I'm only from Benjamin, the smallest tribe in Israel..the least important [family] of all,"(I Sam 9:21) then hides at the public announcement of his anointing, I have a much better idea now why!

What grace on the part of God to favor a tribe whose last mention was the shame and reproach of a sin labeled the worst since Israel had left Egypt! (Judges 19:30)

The sinful tribe of Benjamin, nearly wiped out for its stubborn refusal to deal with a brutal crime, is chosen to receive the highest honor: the crown in Israel.

In the person of Saul, the tribe of Benjamin is lifted from the lowest status (least in number and in honor) to the highest in rank and power.
In addition, God pours out His Spirit on Saul, changing his heart and causing him to prophesy (I Sam. 10:9, 10).
It's not the people's choice--it is the Lord's: "This is the man the Lord has chosen as your king. No one in all Israel is his equal!" (I Sam. 10:24)
Now that is a surprise pick!!!

On top of Moro Rock - California

As this blog title indicates...there is some drama that happens in the everyday and some that happens in those extraordinary events. The extraordinary can emerge right out of an everyday situation, but every now and again...one just comes off the charts almost out of nowhere.



Geoff and I had an extraordinary moment during a not so everyday weekend when I flew out to visit him in Los Angeles between work-related trips. We decided to drive up to the Sequoia National Park to see, of course, the sequoia groves, particularly the General Sherman - largest living tree in the world.
They were amazing as to be expected. What was not expected was an encounter with Moro Rock--which we had never even heard of before.
Moro Rock, as seen here from the Foothills Visitor Center, is a dome-shaped piece of granite topping this peak at 6,725 feet. Pretty impressive and reminiscent of El Capitan at Yosemite.

After viewing The General Sherman and several other incredibly massive sequoias with awe and amazement, we pondered the rest of our afternoon in this incredible place. A map showed a loop road to Moro Rock nearby, so we took it.

To our delight, it lead to a trail head onto Moro Rock. Can we actually climb out onto Moro Rock? - we wondered. Let's find out!

Part of the way up, I told Geoff that I didn't think I would make it. We had just finished an hour hike on one of the sequoia trails, it was very hot, and I was rather tired and hungry.

But as we got closer, the thrill was the hook and up we climbed the steps that had been carved right out of the granite. In a very short time, we had indescribable vistas of several mountain ranges and glaciers, as well as the valleys and canyons below that mark this natural wonder.

Suddenly, I didn't feel quite so tired or hungry. And we hadn't even made the top yet.

Once we reached the peak, all that separated us from the 6,000+ below were these white rails. No ranger in site. But oh, what a moment!

Way beyond the everyday---and definitely extraordinary.

What made it somewhat spiritual for me was having another real life instance when experiencing something spectacular was made possible with just a little extra effort.

There's been a conflict. A relational breakdown. An offense given. And an offense taken.

So, who are we this time? Prodigal? Father? Or Elder Brother?

Ouch!!!

The Parable of the Prodigal Son (The Gospel of Luke 15:11-31) is a comforting tale for those of us who have fallen away from our faith at one time or another. The story demonstrates the heart of the heavenly Father for redemption, at any price. The only catch, the only requirement: the prodigal has to want it. The prodigal has to humble himself (or herself), openly confess the sin, and ask for reconciliation, prepared to accept whatever consequences are appropriate.

When I am a prodigal, I am so grateful for the Father’s response--he not only welcomes the prodigal home, but restores his place in the home (with a ring and a coat), then throws a party! And I find the older brother’s stance (cold, distant, unwilling to join the party) so…stinging…so judgmental and unforgiving. Sooooo wrong!

When I am NOT the prodigal, I find it is easier to be like the Father when I haven’t been hurt directly by the prodigal’s offense. I can smile and embrace and join in the celebration. And be grateful.

But when the prodigal steals some of “my” reward or some of what I “deserve,” well, ha-ha-ha, I feel quite justified in reminding the Father of what is right and what is, well, just not!

And oops—I am the elder brother.

The first time I was introduced to the notion that I have a choice as to which role to play in the story was when I read Henri Nouwen’s book, The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of a Homecoming, in which Nouwen contemplates Rembrandt’s Prodigal Son, one of his last works. http://www.amazon.com/gp/reader/0385473079/ref=sib_dp_pt#reader-link

It is a powerful response to a powerful representation of Christ's story of hope and redemption, juxtaposing the unbelievable compassion of the character symbolizing the Divine with the remarkable lack of compassion of the unforgiving brother, who represents human nature all too well.

As we move through the hurts and disappointments that we all experience along life’s way, as God opens our eyes to the other wounded and hurting around us, may we have the heart of the Father to reach out and embrace that one who may have failed, but wants to be clean.

Leaving the Nest

Sitting on my deck this mid-morning, I am greeted by the now familiar squawks of birds protecting and coaxing their offspring into life beyond the nest. The curtain of clouds that had cast a dismal shadow over our mountain an hour earlier has moved on, and sunshine has returned with its promise and joy.

At this moment the blue jays are particularly vocal. I spot a squirrel scrambling much too close to the two baby chicks. Blue jay young leave the nest before tail feathers have fully developed, leaving them vulnerable and rather helpless. Yet, leave the nest they must.

The other week, one such blue jay fledging perched stubbornly on the deck stair post, having attempted to scale the stair rail... only to slide rather piteously backward to the landing. He was the ugliest blue jay I had ever seen.

Past being a chick, he was gawky and adolescent. The only recognizable marking of his future glory was the black ring around his eye and the one around his neck. I am not sure how long he stayed there; but later that day, I believe I saw him flutter out of the azalea bush below.

Summer began with a bluebird family with five chicks that skipped and flew about our backyard like it was some sort of practice gym. A neighbor and I share the most heavily wooded lots on the block, plus trampoline poles, a wooden fence, and several bushes that all the birds seem to enjoy as perches. For a solid week, they frolicked and chased one another as if playing a game. I was especially grateful for the bugs and moths they swooped down and swallowed.

Recently, a female towhee, who has been groundfeeding in our yard for weeks, built a nest in our neighbor’s cedar tree by the fence that joins us. She has been quiet there for several days. I am hoping she is still there. I just spotted the male towhee, with his black sportcoat and robin-like redbreast preen his feathers on a section of the fence nearby. I have never seen baby towhees before.

Families of house wrens, on the other hand, are frequent. In the winter months, wrens nestle in the eaves of our deck, taking refuge from the cold. Last June, one couple built their nest in our garage , finding a small gap in the dilapidated garage door we no longer use to make their entrance and escape. I was gone to a conference when the chicks hatched. But evidence of their practice flights in our garage (where my car was "safely" parked) left no doubt as to their presence.

A male cardinal who is apparently molting--his head appears featherless-- is calling out pleasantly from the post of our swingset. No one replies, so he moves on.

Earlier this morning I observed a young cardinal family. We have spied on hatchlings through a bedroom window, but have found the offspring difficult to identify once they were out of the nest. This morning I realized why. Unlike the blue jays, young cardinals leave the nest with adequate tail feathers. They look like the parents, just smaller in size.

What gave them away was their constant chirping and flapping. I could recognize their behavior as offspring before I actually got a good look at them. They hopped quite nervously from branch to branch, but never more than a few inches at a time. Mother was close by. They have since left the back corner of the yard where the tree branches clustered protectively.

The morning is warming into mid-day and the commotion has quieted, except for the persistent song of a bird I have not yet identified. Perhaps it is a mockingbird taking up another bird’s song and fooling me once again.

I have come to know the chuckle and gurgle of woodpeckers, the scratching of towhees, and the angry screeches of wrens, especially when squirrels venture to close. I have thrilled to get glimpses of rare Pileated Woodpeckers and listen to Flickers drill holes in branches high overhead.

But this summer, I have watched with vested curiosity that ever so difficult parenting task of the young leaving the nest. For I, too, have one that must begin to fly on her own. Who, still living at home, must still begin to leave the nest.

"Look at the birds...your Father feeds them. And you are far more valuable to him than they are." Matthew 6:26 (NLT).

Summer Plans – Busted Once More!

I always start summer with ambitious plans of what I am going to get done or caught up on. You know—like the photos that haven’t been organized in two or three years, much less carefully crafted into a memory book! The neglected gardening—all my outdoor potted plants have died. The deep cleaning of the how-did-it-get-so-nasty corners of the house, that I am sure I just cleaned weeks (or was it months?) ago.

For the past few summers, those plans have been thwarted, oh so easily. Summer 2006, I twisted my wrist while in Italy and had to have the loose screws and steel plate (from a year 2000 horse accident) removed from my right arm. All I did that summer was some light study and type on my blog.

Summer 2007 was a massive travel summer. I spent half of June studying at Ohio State University (Digital Media and Composition Institute) in Columbus, Ohio. In July, our family spent a week in North Carolina, including a memorable visit to the Outer Banks. Then later that month, we traveled to Canada, visiting Wasaga Beach (Lake Heron), Toronto’s CN Tower, and Niagara Falls. {See 2007 blog entries}

This summer would be different! My older children had summer jobs, and the youngest had plans to break up the monotony of summer with various friends and family members. No travel. No study. Just rest, recovery, and catch up.

Yeah, right! The second Tuesday of June, I slipped on the stairs in my house and landed squarely on my back. Sprained it. And for the rest of June, I could barely vacuum, much less tackle any “projects.”

Didn’t really get to resume my blog either—as planned. But I did get to read. I read more books in June than I can remember ever.

• I read CSI type-detective thrillers by James Patterson (about five of them I think), which deep, intriguing titles, like The Lifeguard and The Beachhouse.
  
• I read two historical novels by Thomas Quinn set in 15^th century Venice (The Lion of St. Mark and The Sword of Venice).
  
• A book on personal finance by Dave Ramsey.
  
• Finished Field Notes on a Catastrophe (UAB’s freshman discussion book for the fall) about global climate change.
• I am still reading Matthew Pearl’s novel The Dante Club, set in 1865 Boston with the poets Longfellow, Lowell, and Holmes as the main characters.
  

But my favorite—the one I digested slowly one chapter at a time—was Philip Yancey’s The Jesus I Never Knew.

Yancey writes in thoughtful, yet transparent, prose, his undisguised quest always caught in a tension between his probing intellect and his often tested faith. I admire these qualities in his writing—for he always situates his journey amid the rich spiritual and literary context of great writers and thinkers, such as Leo Tolstoy, C.S. Lewis, Dorothy Sayers, and Henri Nouwen.

And yet, these are presented as fellow sojourners. Their remarks glimmer like stars, adding sparkle and beauty to the chasm of the universe, but lacking the brilliance of the sun to light the way.

In the final analysis, the Jesus that Yancey wants to know is the one that is separated from its contemporary cultural construct—the thinly bearded Caucasian male that pats children on the head and gazes into the distance, detached from the horrors of the world we live in. He wants to know, like I do, the Christ of Christianity, separated from the iconic identity that centuries of European artists created to pacify power-hungry patrons and to justify medieval oppression.

Who is the real Jesus? The Jesus of the Gospels. The One who is called both the Lion and the Lamb. Who is this Jewish rabbi who preached a revolutionary message (love even your enemies), but shied away from staging a revolt against Roman oppressors? The man who claimed to be God and forgave those who nailed him to a cross. Who is that Jesus?

My back has recovered, and now I am on to those projects. I did get some rest. But Yancey’s book will stay with me, long after the summer is over. And I will be the better for it.

The Hawaii Chair! ["LOL" for today! ]

Trying to get in shape for the summer? Want to trim those abs, so they aren't falling out of your swimsuit? Not enough time or money for a workout at the gym? No problem. The Hawaii chair will do it all, and you never have to leave the office!
To find out more, click on the link below.

[One of my sister-in-laws sent me this. It is (literally!) fall out of your chair/LOL funny!
Enjoy.]

http://ellen.warnerbros.com/2008/01/hawaii_chair.php

Sunset Dinner in Tuscany

Midweek in our Tuscan villa stay in Certaldo, we took a day off from tower climbing for some local sightseeing….

…and ended the day with a visit to another local restaurant recommended by our travel agent: Le Grotte in Fiano, just a few miles from the villa.

The small restaurant featured beautiful views of the Tuscan hillsides, so we opted for the outdoor seating, joined only by a German couple on vacation with their dachshund.

It was a lovely evening…that lingered in true Italian fashion.

I wasn’t nearly as hungry from driving around as I had been climbing towers the previous two days, so I ordered a wood oven pizza donned with a white local cheese, olives, zucchini, and mushrooms. Geoff got adventurous, ordering gnocchi with pesce (fish) and the famous Florentine steak, Bistecca alla fiorentina.

In these small, family-run restaurants, the meal is made to order from the fresh ingredients available, so a wait is to be expected, even welcomed. We settled in to a slow sunset and reflected on our visit thus far: the spectacle of Rome, the vast treasure of Florence to be revisited tomorrow, and the unexpected jewels found in our off-the-beaten, just-follow-the-map discovery of surrounding Tuscany.

After an hour or so, my pizza arrived. Sometime later, Geoff’s gnocchi. And somewhere in our conversation, a man casually walked past us and began to light a fire in the outdoor grill. He also lit some outdoor lamps, and we barely gave a passing thought to any connection between the grill and our dinner. Meanwhile, daylight began to fade into early evening.

Between the gnocchi and my pizza and several glasses of water, we were happily satiated and sedated, drinking in the quiet beauty of dining in the sunset on a Tuscan hillside. Then the man walked right past our table with an enormous side of beef on a plate, proceeding directly to the grill of chestnut embers. We jokingly wondered aloud if that could be Geoff’s steak! Couldn’t be! But, indeed it was.

It could have easily been 45 minutes later, but by now we were lost in la dolce vita and time no longer had any relevance. It was, however, dusk when the man presented Geoff with a T-bone that could have easily fed our entire family of five. Our mouths dropped open before we remembered to say grazie to the man who stood proudly over his culinary achievement.

No longer hungry, we ate for the sheer relish of it. I can’t imagine a tastier, more perfectly seasoned cut of steak. The seasonings (drizzled with olive oil and topped with rosemary) were unlike American/western beef, but the flavor of the beef was not masked. Rather, it was intensified.

Dusk descended into a starlit sky, and more locals drifted in for the more typical Italian ritual of late evening dining. For us, the night was already full, as were our stomachs. We had spent four of the loveliest, most leisurely hours around a quiet outdoor table for two that we had ever known. The food was incredible. In one of the most perfect places on earth. At sunset. La dolce vita.

Secondi Piatto - "Second Course"

Chiribiri, gnocchi, and tiramisu!

The next Tuscan dining highlight came in nearby San Gimignano- a medieval town famous for its many towers. Only fourteen of the original sixty remain, but their imposing presence recalls a turbulent time of rivaling families. To get this photo, we climbed the largest of the fourteen towers - Torre Grossa. It was quite a climb and quite a view!

After climbing the 200 ft. tower, we were ready for dinner. But the tiny Trattoria (restaurant) Chiribiri we had read about was full; reservations were not available until eight.

We decided to wait (we were starting to get used to it by now). Once we were seated, with little more than elbow room between tables (so unlike our personalized open air dining at Il Castello!), we became reenergized with the buzz of happy diners. Here I enjoyed by first gnocchi-- potato dumplings in a tomato sauce—and I have been hooked ever since.

Geoff complimented the minestrone soup---it is Italian, after all---and ordered the grilled pork. I tried the beef in Chianti wine. A dish much like a pot roast with vegetables, but not being a red wine drinker, I felt like the wine overpowered the dish, rather than enhance it. Not bad, but not my favorite either. But wait, there’s more!

My appetite usually limits me to one or two dishes, but climbing those towers, waiting an extra hour for dinner, and perhaps the wonderful Tuscan scenery, all inspired me to order a famous Italian dessert: tiramisu. And it was fantastic! The best I have ever had…anywhere in Italy, anywhere ever! Yum!

Tasting Tuscany - Primo Piatto

Every recollection of our trip to Italy in 2006 is inevitably linked from scenery and place to the food experienced and savored there. Keeping breakfasts to simple espresso with pastry combos like the locals and patronizing the occasional deli for lunches ensured generous gelato sampling and remarkable dinner cuisine.

Our "first course" in Tuscan dining...

Primo Piatto – Certaldo Alto

By far, the best overall eating experiences were in the Tuscany region, particularly in the Certaldo/Fiano region. Having a kitchen in our villa apartment at Il Pozzo coupled with a visit to the modern supermarket in nearby Poggibonsi meant the food budget could be stretched for more dinners out—and each was deliciously long and memorable!

Our first night in Certaldo, we drove to the medieval part of town, called Certaldo Alto. As we waited for the hotel’s restaurant Il Castello to open for dinner, we wandered about the ancient stone bricked city that once housed the governor, but was now home to art and relics of the past.

When it finally appeared that the restaurant was open, our host greeted us warmly—all in Italian! He didn’t speak a word of English. His first customers for the evening, we practiced the spattering of Italian we had learned -- and mostly pointed to the items we identified in the menu.

As we sat outside in a covered terrace, we relished the purely Tuscan moment we had anticipated: an authentic Tuscan meal with a non-English speaker. Our host poured bottled water into our water glasses, and we began our first of many Tuscan dinner rituals: waiting!

I took the opportunity to order a famous Tuscan soup called Ribolitta (mostly made of leftover bread and vegetables, white beans, and olive oil; Geoff ordered a White bean soup. Our host, observing our inexperience, leaned over a drizzled olive oil over my ribolitta and motioned toward the bread loaf. We had already discovered that the saltless, sourdough Tuscan bread did not appeal as an appetizer; but it made a great partner to the hearty soups.

My ribolitta would definitely qualify as a comfort food, especially in the cooler months. It was a meal in itself. But dinner was not over.

Rosemary made its first grand appearance on my grilled meats: chicken leg, pork loin, steak, and sausage. These were accompanied by an order of deep fried vegetables: mostly artichokes. Geoff played it safe with a steak, but was pleasantly surprised by the Tuscan seasonings that enhanced the beef so well.

This would be the first of several dining moments in Tuscany that we still yearn to repeat.

Carolina meets UCLA?

When Geoff and I visited Los Angeles early in January, we were disappointed in one thing: the weather! LA has a reputation for nearly perfect weather: mild temperatures, lots of sunshine, very little rain. In one weekend, two major storms came through SoCal, dumping snow by the foot on the nearby Sierra Nevadas and providing Hollywood and Bel Air with record rainfall.

While much of the rain came through at night allowing us to get out during the day, the skies were gray and the air misty, cool, and damp. My jacket was simply not enough. During our visit to the famous Promenade shopping district, we found a Champs store selling college logo hoodies: buy one, get one free! Our son would be thrilled to get a North Carolina Tarheel hoodie, but what else? Then Geoff confessed. He had always been a secret UCLA basketball fan. That John Wooden was one of his basketball heroes. So, why not! It was buy one, get one free!

We hunted for a medium for our son, only to have the sales clerk swap it for a large when he needed a SKU number! By the time we discovered the error, we were back at our hotel ready to take a walk on the beach. And the perfect attire was this cool, blustery evening? A hoodie!

Out we strolled, UCLA and Carolina. All the way down to Hermosa Beach, a good thirty minute walk. After buying a few postcards, we headed back...just as the rain picked up. We had no umbrella and thirty minutes of walking to go. Somewhere on the way the postcards completely blew away as we bent into the wind and rain. I was glad I had layered a rainjacket over the hoodie. Although my jeans were soaked, the/my (it was mine now, I figured) hoodie had kept the rest of me warm and dry.

It rained like cats and dogs that night, but the next morning--our last morning in LA--broke somewhat clear and dry. We decided to take one last walk down to the Redondo Beach pier, wearing our hoodies!

After a lovely, invigorating walk (everyone walks or jogs here!) with several other walker/joggers, we decided to head back to the hotel for my return to Alabama. Two ladies came up on us, on their way for their walk, and one remarked aloud as we passed: "UCLA and Carolina!?! How did you guys meet?"

We turned and looked at each other.... and just laughed out loud.

At the Getty in LA

What a welcome to 2008! Geoff and I traveled to Los Angeles the first weekend of the New Year and had an incredible time, in spite of unusually wet and dreary weather conditions. So much for sunny SoCal!
This is a picture of me at the Getty Center (www.getty.edu) which houses quite a large collection of art up from ancient and medieval through the 1600's and 1700's. The Center itself is an architectural wonder, constructed of travertine and surrounded by gardens, fountains, and rock sculptures.
While the storm dumped snow by the foot on the nearby Sierra Nevadas, Geoff and I ambled the damped coastline, in search of icons like the Hollywood sign and Graman's Theatre and open to the new and amazing. We found both in LA.
Besides the Getty Center, another unexpected delight was the Griffith Observatory overlooking Beverly Hills and greater Los Angeles. The sky broke that afternoon just enough for a memorable view. The observatory, which houses a large telescope open on clear skies to the public, has found its way into movies as recent as Transformers and as far back as James Dean's Rebel without a Cause.
Definitely a place for a return visit, Los Angeles is as dreamy as you can imagine--even without the spectacular weather it is known for.