"Darling?" R. inquired.  "Tell me these aren't images of your ancestral home or, possibly worse, the place you stayed."

I allayed my friend's concern (family homestead long gone; accomodations up the road, much nicer).

"Good," he said with relief.  "You know I told everyone you're probably drawn to images of abandonment and decay because they speak to you on a deep unconscious level.  Now that you're getting old."  He patted my hand.

Back in L.A., I enjoyed a lovely lunch yesterday at Le Pain on Melrose with S. who is younger and more radiant than ever, back visiting from a glamorous career in New York.  We took pictures of each other in sunglasses looking off into middle distance.   

Then a peak into the Bodhi Tree before going off to my cranial-sacral massage.  Other worldly.  

You'd barely recognize Melrose these days, shops opening and closing faster than you can shake a stick.  You'd never imagine the economy was in dire straits, which it's clearly not for some people.   I like the Paul Smith store best, a big pink box.   Alas, speaking of fashion, Percy Savage, who helped nurture so many designers' careers and hid Nureyev when he defected, is no longer with us.

Next stop Cosmopolitan Books on Melrose east of LaBrea for a little browsing, then Golden Apple, across the street for manga.  The Master and Margarita is now a graphic novel.  Then on to my little social club where I caught up with old friends, many of whom likewise have been travelling. 

Country or City? I wondered to myself, braving the after-work crowd at Trader Joe's on my way home.  And neither choice, to my mind, has anything to do with getting old.