[one-half-first]I used to live on Elysian Park Avenue, before they changed its name; the traffic on Dodgers game nights was stupid; you could never get anywhere near home except by foot so I used to get off the bus early and stroll down Sunset, but I like walking so that was usually not so bad. My flat was at the back of an apartment building that seemed on the verge of falling down but is somehow still standing; earthquakes were always interesting. Towards the end I would often find a mound of dead termite-y things on the kitchen floor, but there were never too [/one-half-first]
[one-half]many cockroaches, somehow. The person I was illegally subletting from had ruined one of the walls by covering it with little sticky tiles that she could never get off, so I hung a bed sheet up to make it look less rubbish — it sort of worked. It was a studio, but it had a separate full kitchen that overlooked the car park I never used behind the building; it had a walk-through wardrobe, too. It was a pretty good flat, for $900.[/one-half]