A few years ago, I was at a coffee shop in Silver Lake where two friends were reuniting. One had moved to the Bay Area recently and was back in L.
Bay Area friend was updating L. He missed L. At the time I was at that coffee shop alone, with my hoodie and sunglasses on. This was one of the many activities I did by myself then, one of the endless hours I spent inadvertently eavesdropping on strangers at coffee shops. I had recently graduated from college and was trying hard to adjust to a new job. My friends were scattered all over β from opposite ends of L.
I spent my free time wandering the city in an existential haze, a young adulthood melancholy. The thought that, in a city of approximately 3. I was so lonely that it physically hurt sometimes.
And I always had L. The entire time, there it was, holding me. Have picnics at the park and people watch. All the while I became more conscious of its presence and, in turn, of my own. I soon turned it into a running joke, how gloriously lonely I was.
I began hashtagging my Instagram stories lonelyinla. I gave into it, because what other choice did I have? Little did I know how much joy was to be found. You often hear that L. Of course, the city is deeply connected in many ways. Angelenos who spend the majority of their time alone can attest to the bittersweet benefits of rolling solo: While the city can trigger loneliness, it also feels special to experience alone.
