You Only Live Twice
The fire took the map. Now we're taking the long way home. The destination? West of anywhere.
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to start a Substack.
I jotted it down on a Sunday afternoon, sitting at our little backyard bistro table—a wooden three-piece foldable set we’d finally settled on after months of debating the perfect patio furniture.
That morning, I’d gone to a Pilates class in Topanga, having recently discovered a new studio I loved (a resolution for health: take more Pilates classes), wandered into a groovy little crystal shop and picked up a deck of tarot cards (a resolution for intuition: teach myself to read tarot), and returned home to bask in the pale winter sunlight, letting tendrils of steam rise from my favorite coffee mug—the one I’d found last summer on a Greek island (a resolution for love: learn to speak Greek).
It was January 5, 2025. Two days before the fire.
The garden was alive around me—a jacaranda tree that had become home to a raccoon, a birdhouse hand-painted by the children who lived there before us, and sprawling beds of native flowers drew bees and butterflies. It was this quiet abundance, the steady hum of life, that I treasured most about our home.
We had moved into our Pacific Palisades home ten months earlier, and I had fallen in love with the space instantly. I’d even hugged the tree in the backyard when we moved in.
That January afternoon, the camellias planted alongside the white brick retainer wall were just beginning to bloom, soft and pale pink. Camellias are interesting in that way—they are one of the rare flowers that don’t chase the sun. They bloom in winter, only revealing their true beauty on colder and darker days.
I’d like to think humans, in our more virtuous states, are like that too. It’s not in the warmth of the summer that many of us unfurl into our glory, but in the winters of our lives.
But back to the Substack—
I imagined my Substack as a place to gather all these threads together—stories set against the backdrop of California’s wild coastline and the sun-drenched shores of the Mediterranean; two cultures that had quietly woven themselves into my everyday life.
I’m a writer, and a fifth-generation Californian—specifically, a fifth-generation Angeleno; the great-great-granddaughter of Irish immigrants who arrived in Los Angeles in the 1880s and planted orange groves in the fertile soil before the movie studios came and paved it all over.
What’s a California girl doing writing about the Mediterranean?
It’s a fair question.
If my journalism degree taught me anything, it’s that credibility is the backbone of any good story. And so, with full disclosure: I was born with a weakness for the Mediterranean—for the olive groves, the sea, the charming and handsome men. (Not necessarily in that order.)
Which brings me to Leo: a Greek from Athens, who immigrated to California with an engineering degree, impeccable work ethic, and an appreciation for Los Angeles’s year-round sunshine and exceptional motorcycle riding.
Our first date was breakfast in Malibu.
Leo picked me up in his car, and we drove up Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean stretching out beside us. We wound our way through twisting canyon roads and ended up at The Old Place—a creaky wooden saloon tucked into the Santa Monica Mountains that served as a regular stop for motorcyclists and vintage car enthusiasts.
Leo didn’t know it then, but it was the same place my grandfather used to take my dad for breakfast when he was a little boy, back in the 1970s when the San Fernando Valley still smelled like orange groves and dust.
We sat on the restaurant’s porch under sprawling oak trees, balancing two massive takeaway containers—scrambled eggs, greasy slabs of bacon, and black coffee so strong it could gas up a truck. It was a far cry from the gluten-free avocado toast and green juice fare characteristic of LA—and it was unapologetically, gloriously delicious.
“Motorcycles are an important part of my life,” Leo said seriously, his Greek accent thick, taking a swig of his coffee. “Any woman in my life must accept that.”
I smiled back, matching his seriousness with my own brand of West Coast cool. “The ocean is very important to me,” I said. “Any man in my life must accept that.”
From the very beginning, we talked about how free these coastal mountains made us feel—how the stretch from Pacific Palisades to Malibu, where the rocky peaks tumbled to lush green canyons and the golden sandy shores slipped into the sea, felt like coming home.
And so it was decided.
If we were going to build a life together in Los Angeles, it would have to be there—between the mountains and the ocean, exactly where we both felt most alive.
They say when you truly love someone, their happiness becomes your own.
For Leo, who had left behind everything he knew to build a life in America—my admiration ran deep. He had recently become a citizen, and we kept the little American flag they gave him after naturalization perched proudly on the nightstand.
Say what you will about the current state of the American dream—when I looked at Leo, I knew it was still alive.
After all, any dream, if we breathe enough life into it—can be made real.
We followed our dream to the doorstep of a vintage mid-century modern house in Pacific Palisades—a rental owned by an elderly woman who’d lovingly kept it in her family for generations.
It had a gabled roof, big windows that overlooked a small canyon, and—most importantly—a massive garage for Leo’s motorcycles; road bikes, track bikes, race suits, helmets, tools to tinker with. And, tucked away behind the house, enough yard for my herb garden.
It wasn’t Malibu—but it was close enough to smell the salt air, and only five minutes’ drive down Sunset Boulevard to the beach.
On quiet nights, when the coyotes and crickets stilled and the swell was high, you could even hear the low, steady beat of distant waves crashing against the shore.
Life was sweet. We settled into our DINKPP rhythm—dual-income-no-kids-pet-parents.
Weekdays were for work and evenings for walks on the beach with our dogs: Momo, my Standard Poodle, and Luci, his Bullmastiff. I’d swing by Gelson’s or Ralphs in the Palisades for groceries on the way home—Gelson’s for fresher produce, Ralphs for more affordable dry goods—and fix us dinner, almost always something Mediterranean.
Cooking is my love language. I tried to recreate the flavors of Leo’s homeland as best as I could: lemon chicken with roasted potatoes, souvlaki wrapped in homemade pita and spoonfuls of tzatziki, spanakopita layered with flaky filo, avgolemono bright with lemon, fresh fish drizzled with olive oil and dressed with oregano and cherry tomatoes from my garden.
And weekends? Weekends were for motorcycles.
We’d ride Leo’s BMW R 1300 GS—in red, white, and blue—him at the helm, me on the back, both of us armored in protective riding gear and helmets. Together we’d glide through the empty canyon roads in the early morning—Latigo, Piuma, Kanan, Mulholland—dappled sunlight spilling through the trees onto the blacktop.
My hands wrapped around his waist, leaning left, right, left, right into the tight turns, carving the mountainside like surfers carve waves—metal cutting cleanly through air—ascending the mountain until the coastal fog drifted far below us, shielding the sea.
This was our life.
And while it only lasted ten months, it was a shared dream we had each carried individually for decades—inevitably catalyzed when the universe brought us together.
So, on January 5, 2025, sitting in the garden, I began planning my Substack—a platform to talk about home, culture, about the everyday connection to the divine—God, the Holy Spirit, HaShem, Allah, Brahman, Dharmakaya, the Universe—
All different names for the same presence that lives within us and beyond us, moving through us, and somehow also being us.
It’s a lot to take in, I know. But I’ve always had a soft spot for the vastness of things.
In my opinion, the great mistake of religion (not God, religion—there is a fundamental difference) isn’t in believing too much—it’s in making something boundless seem restricted and small.
I’d like to believe we’re here for the ride—to learn, to love, to grow—and to leave the world, and ourselves, a little better than we found them.
And to do things, in honest moderation, that revive that bright-eyed wonder we were born with—the wonder that reminds us, again and again, why we’re here at all.
Writing is what makes me bright-eyed.
It always has, ever since I was a little girl, scribbling stories into notebooks while the other kids played at recess.
So, in pursuit of that same simple joy, I resolved to start my Substack—a small act of bright-eyed pleasure from the comfort of our little home, nestled between the mountains and the sea.
As they say we make plans—and God (or whichever name you prefer) laughs.
That same night— January 5, 2025—I dreamt our street was on fire.
In my dream, the sky turned black with smoke. A roaring wall of fire rushed down our street toward our home.
And then, in a flash, I was no longer on our street. I was on the back of Leo’s motorcycle—not his usual BMW, but a Ducati we’d never ridden before—speeding past unfamiliar landscapes, searching for something I couldn’t name.
But the feeling was all wrong. There was no freedom in it, no exhilaration—only a heavy, aching grief. I was searching for a home we already had, desperate to hold onto it.
But we love our home, I thought, confused. Why are we searching for a new one?
What a silly dream.
When I woke up, I called Leo, who was away at a track day in the California desert. I didn’t mention the fire part—he was about to race, and I wanted him focused and safe.
“I dreamt we were riding a Ducati,” I teased instead. “Maybe it’s a sign you should trade in your Aprilia for the Panigale V4.”
It wasn’t the first time one of my dreams came to fruition.
But prophetic dreams are not as prolific a phenomenon as one might think.
Dreams are like eggs: most crack open exactly as expected. But every once in a while—about one in a thousand—you get a double yolk.
The trouble is, dreams are the same: there’s no way to know which ones are ordinary and which are special—not until life cracks you open.
And this dream was a double yolk.
Two days later, on January 7, 2025, one of the most devastating wildfires in U.S. history swept through Los Angeles—destroying Pacific Palisades and much of eastern Malibu.
Over 23,000 acres burned—an area roughly the size of Manhattan.
More than 6,800 homes and structures were lost. Over 153,000 people displaced.
We had ten months to live our dream.
We had seven minutes to leave it behind.
At 11:45 a.m. on Tuesday, January 7, as the flames plummeted down the mountains toward our home, we loaded Leo’s truck with our two dogs, our laptops, a jewelry box, and a carry-on suitcase containing a few sentimental things.
Everything else would soon be reduced to ash.
[Brief intermission: if you rent—please check your renters insurance policy.]
By the time the fire reached our neighborhood, there was no water left in the hydrants. No firefighters on our street—there was simply not enough manpower to fight the flames.
Our neighborhood was declared a lost cause. Every home left to burn.
But this isn’t a story about fire. It isn’t even a story about loss.
This is a story about the people and places who define Home when you have none—and what you find when you lose everything.
It’s about healing. About rediscovering joy. About finding your way forward—even when it doesn’t look the way you thought it would.
It’s been nearly four months since the fire. Since then, we’ve crossed oceans and continents searching for a new beginning.
[Disclaimer: This isn’t a wanderlust story either—though there are a few passport stamps.]
We weren’t trying to “find ourselves” when we lost our home.
We already knew who we were:
Two adults with stable lives and a Five-Year-Plan that included babies, a KitchenAid mixer, a promotion, a mortgage, and everything on The List.
But you know what they say about lists—
God laughs at those, too.
And our list literally burned in the fire, alongside every notebook I’d ever written in.
So now, I’m writing again.
Not just a new page—
A new life.
Your gift of storytelling is so beautiful and inspiring ❤️ can’t wait to read more