Pacific Palisades
I want to tell you a secret. I've been keeping it for a long time. I wanted to tell you about it, but until now I couldn't—at least not publicly—for reasons I hope are obvious: we don't lock our windows.
Or we didn't, at least.
When we first moved to Pacific Palisades, into a small decaying 1940's bungalow on Fiske Street, we were horrified to learn not only that a majority of the windows couldn't be locked—neither could the front door. Or the garage. We, hardened urbanites fleeing the mean streets of West Los Angeles, quickly got the door locks fixed.
As for the ancient double-hung windows, we tried. But, in time, we came to learn it didn't really matter. And so, when we moved into our current rental home, on Haverford, and I saw that the front door worked, I said good enough.
Out-of-state friends often asked me how I could stand living in Los Angeles.
"Well," I would say, "Where we are, it's kind of nice."
Which was a lie.
Yes, technically, we lived within the boundaries of the City of Los Angeles, but in reality we lived in a small town nestled atop a cliff between the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Monica Mountains. We walked—yes, walked—to the grocery and to school, bumping into people we knew along the way. We breathed clean air and enjoyed quiet dark nights with starry skies.
And whenever we wanted—whenever the fancy struck us—we drove the five-to-ten minutes it took to cross Santa Monica Canyon, and there we were, right in the heart of one of Planet Earth's greatest supercities.
It felt like cheating, honestly.
I always understood our time in the Palisades was limited. For the privilege of living there we paid dearly—rent alone cost us nearly 100% of my breadwinner-wife's income. (If you're wondering how that worked: it didn't)
Where housing was concerned I often felt like I was clinging to a sheer granite wall, holding on for dear life. But it was worth it. I confess I felt a moment of pride every time I punched "90272" into the keypad at the gas station. I gave a gentle sigh of happiness every time I turned left on Sunset at Allenford.
The Palisades are the kind of place that gets into you. The kind of place where you want to set your roots deep.
And the Palisadians, themselves, an odd but wonderful bunch.
You will hear much of the house prices and the celebrities.
You should know many Palisadians paid those prices not to live in giant mansions behind gated walls, but in little bungalows on tiny 5000-square-foot lots with broken windows where they could look into their neighbors' kitchens and watch each other cook dinner while their kids laughed and played, impromptu, in the backyard.
And the celebrities moved here not to be seen but to be unseen—to wander freely in their sweatpants, to stand in line like everyone else at the Taco Truck or the Chipotle.
Of course this was already changing.
Those tiny lots didn't stop the big-box mansions from sprouting, with their air conditioning and their tinted fully-operational windows and their vestigial backyards offering no room to toss a football.
Their eventual dominance was one possible future, I knew.
But there was also another possibility, and it is this one—the one you see on your tv—which has come to pass.
Of course we knew about the wildfires. But truth be told, we thought the full might of the City of Angels, called to duty, would hold the line. Not everywhere, of course. But south of Sunset—or, worst-case scenario, the heart of the Palisades, the Village itself?
We thought it would be safe. At the very least, we thought there'd be a hell of a fight.
If you are now homeless from the fires, I am so sorry for your loss. I am so sorry to have to welcome you to this strange and unfamiliar territory we suddenly find ourselves inhabiting.
I know you'd rather be back home—me too!
But we're family, now, of a sort. And while this is maybe not the family you planned on joining, you know what they say: you don't get to pick your relatives. Though we're scattered for now, we'll do this together, somehow, one day at a time, just like we used to when the buildings were standing, imperfect windows and yards and kids and chaos and all.
And if you are just passing by, and wondering why we were there in the first place: because we loved it. Because it was home. Yes, we knew it was a little bit absurd. We knew it was always going to be temporary. But isn't that true of all things?
— January 9, 2025
Andy Lewicky is the author and creator of SierraDescents
Walter Kible January 9, 2025 at 9:52 pm
Andy, I'm so sorry. Many of my friends and family have either been evacuated or have completely lost their houses in both the Eaton and Palisades fires. I want to go out this weekend and help victims attain the bare necessities that many are lacking. I've been asking people in this situation what would help the most. The most common answers are: food, bottled water, and clothing. Do you have any recommendations where I can find lots of displaced victims to help?
I also just want to thank you for creating and updated this website. I've been reading it for years now, and it got me through later COVID (sorry about June 2020. You've been through a lot these past handful of years), low snow years, etc.
Alex January 9, 2025 at 10:52 pm
Love you Andy and Andy's family!
Andy January 11, 2025 at 8:10 am
Walter, LA Times has a list of organizations that are providing aid here.
My kids set up a GoFundMe for themselves to help replace their belongings. My wife and I aren't asking for that kind of help for the two of us because we feel there are others in greater need. But we are deeply moved by the outpouring of love and offers of help we've received from friends, family, and the greater community. We'll take a hug anytime, if you see us on the hill. Thank you and God bless you all!
Dan Conger January 11, 2025 at 1:26 pm
So sorry that you, and so many others, have been hit by this disaster. Wishing you and your family all the best.
Paul B January 11, 2025 at 1:47 pm
Long time reader here - probably since 2005. I'm so sorry for you and your family's loss Andy. This was a lovely and moving tribute for your community. I wish you and everybody else affected the best regrouping and rebuilding.
Colin W. January 13, 2025 at 10:17 am
Hi Andy,
Longtime reader and fellow CA Native. Thank you for sharing this sweet tribute to your community. Best of luck as you move forward. I hope you keep writing and skiing.
Colin
Mark Jiroch January 14, 2025 at 10:08 pm
So sorry for your loss, Andy. It sounds like you and your family are safe and I’m so thankful to know that.