I grew up in Pacific Palisades, one of the Los Angeles neighborhoods burned down by the wildfires still ravaging southern California.
It’s a small town and a big city, one of the many neighborhoods that make up the patchwork of Los Angeles, the second biggest city in the country. But it feels like you’re in a tiny town anywhere in the United States. There’s a village that’s the town square, two supermarkets, places of worship, many schools. It’s a very community-oriented place. The annual Fourth of July parade is a highlight of the community. Everyone comes out and lines the legendary Sunset Boulevard with their lawn chairs and their umbrellas and their red, white and blue. It’s a place where you know your neighbors.
But Pacific Palisades, as we all once knew it, has been wiped off the map.
The two grocery stores that I frequented? Gone. I’m standing on a street right now where the restaurant that I would go for brunch with my parents and my siblings, Cafe Vida, is gone. The Chinese restaurant, Cathay Palisades, is gone. The Starbucks at the end of the block is gone. The dry cleaners where my mom used to go is gone. I could list dozens and dozens of places that are pictures of my childhood and are no longer here.
I could list dozens and dozens of places that are pictures of my childhood and are no longer here.
Miraculously, our synagogue survived. While a third of the congregation lost their homes, the temple remains as a spiritual home for them and people of all faiths in the Palisades.
Fires were a part of my childhood, but never like this. I remember evacuating at least once when I was a kid, and there was always the fear of brush fires, living in the shadow of the Santa Monica Mountains. But I don’t think in a million years anybody ever thought that you would have hurricane-force winds combined with a bone-dry season, creating a tinder box ready to go, but that’s exactly what happened.
While reporting on the wildfires, we drove past my childhood home, which was burned to the ground. It’s gone. Nobody in my family has lived there since I was 10 years old, but it’s the kind of place that, even to this day — as recently as last week — I would drive by with my wife and kids. It has a permanent place in my story and in my memory because I was born into that house. I went to elementary school there. My best friends I still have today are the friends I met when I was living there.
Covering the fires has been a bit of an out-of-body experience. My friends are texting, asking me to check if their homes are still standing. As journalists, this is what we sign up for. Whether I’m on the plaza at TODAY, or in a polling place on Election Day, or on the floor of the party conventions during the campaign season, or reporting on horrific, awful events like this, I love connecting with other people. There’s something beautiful about being here, in a place I know so well, using the tools that I’ve learned on this job to help share this story.
I can close my eyes and you could put me in a car and I could probably drive the streets of this community, knowing the curves and the twists and the turns — it’s all just in my bones. This is a place that I know better than the back of my hand. I haven’t lived here in many years — I live on the other side of L.A. now, and my immediate family is OK — but I’m back here all the time. I spent my formative years as a kid here. It’s all in my DNA. So I’m really proud to be here. It’s hard. This morning, driving back here was very, very emotional — almost for the first time, because you don’t really access it in the moment. In a way, doing this job is part of my grieving experience for the Palisades.
I’m proud to be here. It’s hard. In a way, doing this job is part of my grieving experience for the Palisades.