The only option for outdoorsiness in my tiny urban space is potted plants, and I’ve been building up a collection over the last few years. For the most part, I’ve had a faithful and hardy peace lily (that has never bloomed) and a variety of short-lived orchids. The current orchid bounced back from a near-death experience and is doing tolerably. Our current apartment also came furnished with three large plants: a languishing rubber plant, a fig that regularly sheds three quarters of its leaves in protestation of its abominable water/light/soil conditions, and an unidentified treelike object that promptly drowned during the winter rains.

Although I’ve proved fairly inept at keeping plants alive, this spring I decided to try potting some vegetables. They’re fairly short-lived anyway, and maybe I’d get some edible rewards out of the deal. The first experiment was a prairie-born potato that I packed along on my last flight; it started out spindly but has been flourishing outside—I’ve not yet explored below the soil so there’s no telling whether or not there are any actual potatoes in there.  The second was a bean plant, which remains as spindly as it started out and has three, small, sulky pods; large pieces break off in the wind every time I try to introduce it to the balcony. Third was basil, which is possibly the only experiment that will have any measurable production. Fourth is zucchini, which is currently in a 2-inch pot with little hope of transplanting unless the potato hurries up and finishes.

Fortunately, this city is extraordinarily green and there are plenty of parks where I can escape the reproachful houseplants.

I’ve had great bus drivers.  One gave us university students—peeved at the buses’ repeat tardiness offenses—tips on how to achieve some effect in the transit system; another time he abruptly stopped the bus and leaped out to aid a fallen and confused cyclist. Another driver would hold the bus’s entire population in conversation, telling hilarious anecdotes and speaking loud enough for the rear passengers to hear easily.

Then a new month rolls in, the routes change, and someone surly has usurped the driver’s seat. One snarkily berates you for neglecting to have your bus pass re-validated for a new term; another leans out his window and shouts advice to jaywalkers on what constitutes a crosswalk. One driver sulkily insists that you’ll have to actively wave him down next time or he’ll refuse to stop; another disregards bus stops and stop requests alike, parks in the centre of the street when a passenger hollers a plea toward him, and leaves the passenger to cross a traffic lane to get to the curb.

A tradition of civility persists in the buses of this city; upon disembarking, almost every passenger offers a grateful thanks to the driver (who may or may not respond).

There’s a special spot for everything—old-fashioned ice cream in waffle cones; tourist whale-watching boating expeditions; a more salty seal-infested harbour for practical sailors; Victorian horse-drawn carriages along wide tree-dappled streets; European-inspired cafe communities; old-world cobbled pedestrian plazas; fine French dining; gritty weathered homelessness; British-style tea houses with crocheted cozies; jungly gardens with mock-stealthy cats; sand or pebble beaches overrun by off-leash dogs and driftwood sculptures; lush green parks with burbling streams and duck-crossing signs traversing the highway; abandoned lots overgrown with blackberry brambles; high summer midways and barbecues; shady streets lined with chestnut trees, or blossoming cherry trees, or stately maple trees. One area inspires an east-coast accent; another short dresses with sandals; another business suits and heels; another sunscreen and sand-wear.

In summer, the heat percolates through all these disparate communities, melting them ever so slightly into an epic seasonal adventure.

There are some things that maps just can’t tell you. Google Earth is more revealing than traditional maps, but you can’t even rely on it to tell you all you need to know about a new city. I zoomed in and scoured the Google-mapped community of Westwood to see what I could see. It looked like a nice place—a quiet-looking area with plenty of green, and there were inviting, open sidewalks (an important detail). There wasn’t anybody on the sidewalks (which would have been more comforting), but there sure as heck were sidewalks. It was a sunny day in Google-photographed Westwood, so all in all the map indicated good things.

But maps don’t give you the human perspective. They show you the topography, but not the character. So I did a quick online search and stumbled upon a forum for LA Q&A. “I’m moving to such-and-such area; what should I know?” “I’m going to be visiting LA; what should I see and what should I avoid?” This was perhaps not the most confidence-inspiring discovery I could have made, and much of the advice on the forum turned out to be fear-mongering, unfounded or inapplicable to my own trip. But this is the way you learn about the city, not just the urbs, and the advice opened a fascinating window into Los Angeles culture.

What colours of clothing you shouldn’t wear in order to avoid gang warfare (red and blue, FYI). What areas of town you should steer clear of if you’re Hispanic, or if you’re Black, or if you’re White (know the safe territory for your skin colour). In which parts of town you do NOT want to take a turn into a no-exit side street. Motorcycles will be “white-lining.” The boundaries of various unsafe areas. These are the things you don’t learn from maps.

Then again, these things are largely inapplicable to tourists. Don’t be paranoid.

It strikes me that I haven’t been downtown in ages, excepting one excursion a few days ago. I never have any reason to take the bus in that direction, especially since I moved across town. But summer cannot be allowed to pass by without many agenda-less trips to the main streets at the heart of the city. Pretty soon, now, I’ll be free to do plenty of drifting.

My favourite thing to do during this time is to join the masses downtown and stroll along the harbour, or along the street of antique dealers. Sit at the window of a coffee shop and people-watch. Meander through book shops, wander around Chinatown. Forget about classes.

Living in residence during the summer adds an extra layer to the mix. I’ve only lived in residence for one complete summer, at my previous school. The dorm-dwellers dwindled to just a few handfuls, and the local CFL team infiltrated the building for their summer training session. The rooftop walkways made great biking grounds that summer… so did those long, empty hallways. The wonderful thing about my old campus was that almost all the buildings were linked in a large horseshoe-shaped configuration. Theoretically, you could bike right through the interior of the campus (if you disregarded the “NO BIKES” signs on all entrances).

But even better than going to campus for summer classes is going to campus in the summer and not having the burden of classwork on your mind. Or maybe, disregarding that guilty burden as though it were just another “NO BIKES” sign.

I was waiting for the bus, when some guy with earbuds trickling from his ears started having a conversation with the warm spring air. Apparently the air was answering him, too. I soon realized that he was talking on a phone, via his earbuds; I suppose it must have had a microphone somewhere, but this guy apparently didn’t “do” the microphone thing. Instead, he shouted so that everybody at the busstop—and every passing downtown shopper or businessperson—could have the pleasure of sharing in his conversation. I wondered, as he chatted loudly with thin air, if he was intending to exude the image of a crazy person orating to the downtown public.

But I know he was talking on the phone, because he was holding his cellphone (into which the earbuds were plugged) and waving it around as he spoke (I guess “hand talkers” benefit from making gestures even when their conversation partner can’t see them). The thing is, he had to shout every single word (probably because he scorned talking into the device’s microphone)… your phone is in your hand, is it so hard to raise it to your ear and speak into it like a normal person?? Well, the guy boarded the bus with everyone else and continued to shout into general airspace—which happened to be mostly my airspace since he chose the seat next to mine.

I have never owned an ipod, and earbuds hold a particular disgust for me… especially so, now.

But every city is twofold. On the one hand you have the buildings, the walls, the architectural foundation—the empty shell in which urban life unfolds. On the other you have that very urban life, comprised of people joined by social bonds. The 7th-century encyclopedist Isidore of Seville termed these the urbs and the civitas, respectively. For him, the essence of the “city” was the inhabitants, not the building stones. In this way, too, the city isn’t rooted geographically, but exists where its citizens dwell.

Or is this duality so concrete? Literature and life has long proven the urbs and the civitas to be undoubtedly interconnected. Perhaps urban life really takes place in some compromising middle ground, where citizen and edifice interact. The civiturbs?