Wilton Place between First and Third in Los Angeles is my favorite street. It starts out being a 25 mile per hour zone, and then about 50 feet past that sign, it changes to 15 miles per hour. Then you see a sign with a curving road, an “S,” although the street is more like a “Z.”
When I was a teenager, I went on a ride down that street with friends; I don’t even remember their names, probably a brother of a classmate of mine and his friends. We were in a small foreign car, two in the front seat and three in the back. When the driver took the turns, we were squeezed into each other. The group had been singing. I couldn’t sing but their enthusiasm was infectious and I was singing in my heart. I remember the purity of the moment, the innocence, and the car filled with joy.
When I used to drive home from the east side and had my children with me, they’d say, “Mom, you’ve passed our street.” I’d say, “I know, I like taking Wilton home.” The thrill of that moment is always with me when we hit the curves.