The dogs and I arrived in LA in one piece (or three separate but intact pieces) on the evening of January 5^th. After 10 days on the road and more potty stops than I can count ~ not all of them for the dogs ~ our entrance into the city could have easily come straight out of a movie. The snow, which accompanied us all the way to Utah, finally gave way to sunshine and temperatures in the seventies. Rush hour traffic, incredibly heavy but also unbelievably fast, revved up the energy while the setting sun, falling steadily over the Pacific now only a few miles away, cast a golden glow on the buildings and the palm trees. Windows down, breeze in hair. Off the freeway and onto Fairfax Avenue . . . the hills of Hollywood beckoning ahead . . . Orange smiling serenely on the dashboard, her job now done . . . fade to black.

That feel-good ending lasted only as long as the parking lot, though. Real life, suspended in mid-air during the almost 3000 miles between Virginia and California, came bounding back in, happy and loveable and goofy as it is, in the form of Daisy heaving herself onto my friend’s clean white sofa. It became apparent within the first 10 minutes that living arrangements would need to be reconsidered. The plan was to stay with a girlfriend for a few months and get my crap together at a leisurely pace, but with my two dogs, her sweet but bladderly-stressed out Italian Greyhound and no closet, drawer or cabinet space to speak of, that just wasn’t going to work. Lollipop took a drink of water from the Greyhound’s bowl, left her tongue-smutz floating behind, and that pretty much sealed the deal.

Over the next three days I looked at four apartments in the West Hollywood, Mid-Wilshire and Los Feliz areas. I thought I had Apartment Number One but it rented without the resident manager’s knowledge before I came along. Number Two was just gross like, well, number two. Feeling slightly desperate for a room of my own, I put down a “nonrefundable deposit” on Apartment Number Three. I came to my senses a day later and realized that a bottom floor apartment with no sunlight only steps away from Sunset Boulevard and my favorite hiking spot really isn’t an ideal location for either my sanity or walking dogs 4 or 5 times a day and night when you stop to consider that the next door neighbors are 7-11, a liquor store and various and sundry homeless sleeping on the corner.

My search continued and on Saturday afternoon I found an absolutely adorable second-floor studio with large windows looking out over the hills in a 1920s Spanish Revival building in West Hollywood within one block of the Farmer’s Market, the Grove, Whole Foods, Melrose Avenue and a gazillion trendy thrift stores.  . . . all utilities included. I really wanted this place. But it was in a busy area of town and I wasn’t sure the dogs could handle that. I really wanted it awfully bad, though. I wanted that open vista view.

I still had to wait for Monday and reference and credit checks. I made that time hell, losing two night’s sleep obsessing, worrying and willing something good to happen, bouncing pros and cons off friends and practically casting spells and writing “my” new address over and over in an attempt to make it so. After informing Apartment Number Three I would not be taking their place and expected my deposit to be returned (and not hearing anything back), I decided I’d lost enough sleep, sanity and quite possibly enough money to be painfully aware that I was trying incredibly hard to manipulate and control the situation. I did my part, and now I needed to trust it was enough and believe it would unfold as it was all meant to be. So during my hike in the Canyon, I sucked it up and simply asked the Universe to choose the place that would be best for my dogs. That would be best for me. The cell phone rang on the way home; Apartment Number One was mine.

Now two week’s here and I’m in a second-floor studio with hardwood floors and 8 foot ceilings in a stately old brick 1920s building in the mid-Wilshire area of Los Angeles. There are 19 other apartments here occupied by an eclectic mix of professionals and artists of varying ethnicity, sexual preference and age. The resident manager, M., is a love and has gone out of his way to welcome me and help out. In addition, there are at least six other dogs on the property and a fenced backyard. My view of the hills has been replaced with the side of the adjacent apartment building, but the rooftop is accessible and affords a 360 degree panorama both day and night. The downstairs neighbor across the alley is a jazz musician, and most nights I sit in the living room windows and listen to the sweet sounds of sax wafting up through the air.

If I had more time and the foresight to plan, . . . I mean control . . . the situation, I probably would not have ended up here. I would have researched neighborhoods and limited my options to places within its walls. To be honest, my instincts told me months ago that the roommate situation would not work, but I didn’t want to hear that. My instincts also told me (as did common sense) that Daisy’s love of barking would be a problem in the city. Mr. Jazzman (also known as Dick, because that is his name) is not a fan of barking dogs and has already confronted M., shut all his windows tight, and given me the Evil Eye. And she’s only been alone once.

I did ask for the place that would be the best, but the best doesn’t always mean the easiest or the most comfortable or familiar. The best might just be designed to shake the status quo. So I’ll face the challenges as they come and give the Universe a big thumbs up for plopping us where it did . . . on a little street coincidentally called Orange Drive, with a view of the Hollywood Hills from the roof and my own private jazz club.

Maybe Orange really is all I need. Well, that and some furniture!

A room of my own, and a chair, too.