I pedal with coffee and croissant to the place where trees mangle pavement.
I'm wedged between roots with my feet dangling in the canal below.
People float by with bad techno playing from their clog-shaped boat.
This is the best place in the world to write.
Looking down on the city, white tips of letters below me.
A span of luxury and filth enveloped in smog and sunshine.
My Los Angeles; a bundle of contradictions, the hills full of reinvention.
This is the best place in the world to write.
Boys playing reggae and schoolgirls with rain-soaked Primark bags.
A blue-haired granny reading Heat, her trolley full of eggplants.
We meet upstairs on the 27 bus, oblivious to London below us.
This is the best place in the world to write.
I leave the forest and walk barefoot across the sand.
The mossy log meets me and we're joined by a man strumming his guitar.
Mountains watch while waves lap up onto the Vancouver shore.
This is the best place in the world to write.
I buy Camembert and forget to air the apartment.
The shutters are opened and the heady smell of jasmine takes over.
This city dotted with candy houses, four miles from the Cannes you've seen.
This is the best place in the world to write.
