Here

I grew up in a medium-sized working-class town in SoCal that didn’t, and still doesn’t, have the best reputation. It’s not all Beveryly Hills Pacific Palisades La Jolla here. I remember thinking when I was a kid that “we” were not allowed in the fancy places. But it was not a bad place to grow up.
Our house was on a dead end. To the west, a few miles away, was the Pacific. To the east, canyon, chapparel, mountains, and the desert. Up there was the endless Central Valley, down there was Baja. In between was the narrow strip of land that millions upon millions of people want to live on. In general the further east, and sometimes south, you went, the poorer the communities.
So imagine my shock the other day when I drove, in my little town, three freeways to the east, on a six-lane road where before was a dirt track. This road is tastefully landscaped, with light fixtures and intersections waiting for subdivisions to be built. Where do all these people come from who can afford $700,000 houses, big boxy things with no yards?
My destination was a new shopping center, in itself a weirdness. It’s not a mall, enclosed or open air. Rather, it’s a group of upscale chain retail outlets and eateries built on small roads, trying to imitate a main street, surrounded by oceans of parking.
As you can see from the photo, a rain storm was also coming, and that’s surprising for September in SoCal. The song is right, it hardly ever rains. Makes you want to live here too, right?