So last night was a treat. The exhibit was well-done (except for the Spanish translations), and I met a number of folks I knew there, but—better than that, in a way—the ride through a soft autumn night was transcendent. I'd say half of my route runs through gritty, worn-down neighborhoods that are somewhere between shabby and banal in daylight, yet at night they are sonatas of shadow and lamplight, and quiet voices murmur from porch steps as residents themselves respond to the calm of first dark.
The last part of the ride, heading homewards, follows Fourth Street through upscale Hancock Park, where what is often pretentious in the daytime is symphonic in the darkness.
And I couldn't help noticing that even at that relatively late hour, there were more cyclists than drivers on Fourth Street, which, despite the malign neglect of its council member, remains a favored east-west route through Midtown for LA's pedalers.