I met a woman last night, sitting where I’m sitting now, staring in disbelief at the flames rushing through her neighborhood two miles to the north. Like most everyone else in the restaurant at the top of The Huntley Hotel, she was a Palisades Refugee who had evacuated a few hours before. Last night, there was nothing to be done but watch and wonder if she’d have a home to return to.
In the adjacent booth, another woman wept as she watched her home burn from a Ring camera mounted on a neighbor’s gate. I tried to think of something comforting to say, but learned that her dog was in the house. Not much to say in a moment like that.
Over at the bar, I met a Ryan, a fireman who had been on duty for the last 12 hours. He’d just sat down with his wife and daughter when he was called back to work. He got up and left, along with every other fireman in Santa Monica.
It’s very strange to be so close to a calamity unfolding in real time. Yesterday, when I landed at LAX around 11:30, the fire had been burning for less than an hour. From the plane, the smoke looked like fog, and I didn’t give it much of a thought. A few hours later, during my shoot, everyone’s phone started making sounds I didn’t know phones could make. Alarming sounds.
We turned off the phones and kept filming.
Around three o’clock, I headed over to The Huntley and checked in. My friend Manju, who manages the place, told me the occupancy rate was around 50%. A few hours later, there were no rooms to be had.
Anywhere.
On my way to dinner, the sky was red and black. The wind was howling, and the smoke was impossible to ignore. And yet, two miles from the inferno people walked and shopped and pushed their strollers and read their texts like it was just another day.
Strange days, indeed.
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