Dear WeHo: Goodbye New York, Hello WeHo

I packed up my fifth-floor walk-up in the East Village and traded the cacophony of the subway for the purr of a my used Honda Civic heading out west.    My job eliminated in a re-shuffle of the company and my need for a fresh start at 43.   I thought of Florida but then decided to be brave and move out West.  The move from New York to LA was not just a change of zip code; it was a transition from one way of life to a completely different one, a shift from constant, high-energy hustle to a more curated, sun-drenched existence.  Except today when I saw my first rain.  

What I love about West Hollywood is the sheer walkability.  After years of navigating a grid of subway stops, the ability to step out my door to and take a walk with blue skies in full view.   Holloway Drive offers the best of all worlds from the Sunset Strip to Santa Monica Blvd.   The neighborhood coffee shops, restaurants, and a park and farmers market a few minutes on foot feels like a luxury.  The weather, of course, is a constant marvel to me, every day is sunshine.   It feels like a cosmic joke for someone used to looking out a window for ‘open’ space. There’s a certain magic to sipping a glass of rosé on a rooftop bar without a jacket while overlooking the city skyline on Sunset Blvd, as the sky turns a shade of cotton candy. The creative energy here, though different from New York’s gritty, artistic intensity, is a constant hum of inspiration.   I’ve met so many creative people here.    New York is suits,  WeHo is shorts.   And as a queer person, the LGBTQ+ presence along Santa Monica Boulevard—the “Rainbow District”—feels like I’m meant to be here.    

But not everything is bathed in that perfect California light.  The thing I hate most is the car culture and the slow, grinding traffic.  There are more homeless than I expected, and its feels safer to walk the streets in New York at night.   I thought I’d escaped the transit nightmares of New York, but instead of a crowded subway car, I’m stuck on La Cienega, a prisoner in my own vehicle. In New York, at least you could read or people-watch; here, you’re just staring at the bumper in front of you.   But I love looking up at the houses on the hills.   You can literally see snow capped mountains in the distance on a sunny day.  

There’s a certain influencer-driven artificiality that can feel grating.  It’s a city of perfected aesthetics, green juice, and expensive athleisure, where genuine grit can feel conspicuously absent. The sense of history, the layers of stories built into every cracked sidewalk and worn stoop that defined New York, are harder to find here.   It feels like the history here has yet to be written.  

Ultimately, living in West Hollywood is still fresh and new.   The rents are cheaper.   My apartment is $2200 and would be 4500 in New York if you can find one.   LA is not Madison Ave. but work has been easy to find.    If you can make it there you can make it anywhere.   

I’ve traded the immediate, pulse of the city for a slower, more deliberate beat. I miss the tough, collective urgency of New York, the feeling that you’re all in it together. But then I’ll find myself sipping a coffee at Dialog Cafe and can feel the California vibe. – -walking to a yoga class, and realize I’ve also gained something irreplaceable: a little more breathing room. It’s a different kind of life, and I’m still adjusting but feel very at home in West Hollywood.   Thank you for inviting me to tell my story.