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I have always wanted to live in one of those LA houses stylistically called a Hollywood Spanish Revival. White walls, red tile roof, arched windows and shiny Mexican tile floors. I’d linger in deep white sofas while overhead dark beams traced the ceiling and a turquoise pool lay beyond the living room windows. A sweeping staircase would ascend to a second floor from which I could see the hint of the San Gabriel Mountains. I’d have a small balcony with a deliciously comfortable chair where I’d have my morning coffee.

The kitchen would have an enormous island, also covered in earth-colored tiles. Hand-painted ones would line the backsplash behind a deep sink or two. A custom range of deep cobalt would grab center stage. And I’d be surrounded by young women, one who’d be my adult daughter, the rest, her friends. We’d be making platters of appetizers for some sort of event. We’d be sipping from large glasses of white wine. And we’d be laughing.

There would be a pool house big enough to accomodate a young man or woman who’d live there full time and attend to the place when I was gone. They’d be reliable and never announce they were moving on. The sun would shine and the house would sit far from landslides and the most active earthquake faults.

Perhaps I’d have a grand piano in an alcove close of the cozy living room where my one famous musician friend would serenade us during parties.

I’d swim early in the mornings and do whatever else occupied my time the rest of the day. And then at some point the house would fill with friends and wine and someone would take over the blue stove to prepare abundant dishes of vegetables and pasta, always easy and casual, a summer dream no matter the time of year.

Obviously this isn’t real life. I don’t live in LA and actually can’t imagine living there. But my fantasy lives in one of those Hollywood homes. Sometimes I close my eyes and envision it. I have a tiny bit of faith in that process. When I was a teenager, I had a vision of owning a Volkswagen bug and before long one had become mine. So perhaps there’s a power to spending time in the fantasy. Who knows, maybe I’ll end up with in a house of white, hand-troweled stucco and Mission Clay tile roof, an entry tower, and …