One of my favorite feelings in the world is when I bike through a part of the city that’s new to me, and I discover something beautiful that I’ve never seen before.

About two weeks ago, I rode south on Norton, a great street for biking and with beautiful scenery.  I approached a hill, the toughest one on this route, and turned left on Country Club Blvd. to avoid it.  The street was lined with beautiful houses built a century ago.  The further I rode, the darker and quieter the streets grew.  I forgot for a moment I was in Los Angeles until a police helicopter flew over head.

I took in the architecture as I rode through the neighborhood.  One house in particular really stood out to me.  It looked oddly modern amongst all the older houses.  Strangely, I learned after a quick Redfin search that it was built in 1920.  Not modern by any means, but still stood out somehow.

I thought about the people who live in these houses, and the people who lived in them generations before.  I imagine them happy and full of pride as they sit in their beautiful houses, right up until they peer out the curtains at the sight of my bike lamp.  Then I realize their lives are just like all of ours, dotted with fear and anxiety.

I feel like I’m coming back to earth when I head back in the direction of home.  It was just mere miles away, but everything felt distant.  I didn’t want to come home to the broken sidewalks of my block.  I wanted to come home to that house with peculiar beauty.