It’s the Fourth of July, 2023, and I’m stuffed to the brim on carne asada, climbing up the hills of Whittier College to watch la batalla de Los Angeles AKA Independence Day over the L.A. basin.
I had recently moved to Whittier from Highland Park, trading the edge of Eastside gentrification for something quieter, slower—if not sleepier, at least more affordable.
That night, I was hoping for the kind of Americana that really only feels possible in the suburbs of Southern California: folding chairs on front lawns, bottle rockets, the smell of carne asada, and corridos and cumbias bumping under the sounds of “rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air.”
I got some of that. I also got something else.
Up in the hills, a ring of light spun silently over a steep road called Summit Drive. It looked like a Ferris wheel. Or a leftover set piece from Coachella. The house it came from glowed and throbbed above the city like a nightclub trying to sneak into the sky.
It was hard to tell if it was a massive house party that was just beginning or a days-long industrial rave refusing to end.