It was one of those nights that started—as many summer nights do—by drinking wine on top of a hill as the sun went down.
And eventually covered four neighborhoods, four staircases and two buses—all on your own two feet.
It was one of those nights where popcorn was made just for you by a man named Ruben.
Which is, incidentally, the best dinner in Hollywood.
It was one of those nights where you somehow end up in a carpeted, stained-glass cathedral to debauchery, its interior swirling with smoke. A little slice of Vegas on Temple Street.
Where the band played a song that you had dialed into the jukebox at the last bar, and for a moment it felt like the whole world was tuned in to one cosmic playlist.
Yeah, it was one of those nights. (If this is you, I’m sorry. Really sorry.)
It was one of those nights where you ran into your oldest friends completely accidentally and realized that LA is indeed very small.
So small, in fact, that when you step out of that carpeted, stained-glass room, you realize you’re closer to where you started than you thought. Close enough to walk home, down your favorite street of Victorians, up some more staircases, past still-sizzling taco trucks.
So you do.
