My love, perhaps you can tell me: what is the universe’s plan with us? For a while, I could still follow its logic somehow, but by now I am seriously confused. First of all, about a month ago, we received the devastating news about your father. He doesn’t have much longer to live, though no one can say how long that is, and this already cast a different light onto our Los Angeles adventure, being so far away from him. I considered staying in Holland, returning to Ibiza, but our life had been set up in California and we were looking forward to living it. It would be too disruptive, I figured, especially for Leone and her school routine. Little did I know that disruption was waiting in the wings, sharpening its claws, to strike with an intensity I could not have imagined in my worst nightmares.

As we were wrapping up our holiday sojourn in Europe, disaster struck again in an even more mind-blowing and destructive way, basically blocking us from returning to LA. Leone was the first to learn of the inferno that would consume the entire village that we had already grown to love during the past couple of months. Our Café Luxxe, Ralphs, CVS, and our lovely little library where Robin and I sometimes sat down to read and write. The somewhat Disney-esque Palisades Village Mall, a bit artificial and elitist for our stuck-up European tastes, but so welcoming and comfortable, with its coffee and ice cream shops and little wrought-iron tables and chairs terrace. As evidence of her strengthening connections in the Palisades, the evening of Tuesday the 7^th of January (noon LA time), one of Leone’s friends called to inform her about a wildfire very nearby our house. Not unfamiliar with this situation, we had wildfires in Malibu before that we could smell but that never seemed like a real threat, I didn’t think too much of it. Being nine hours ahead of Los Angeles we nonetheless went to bed with a sense of unease, and when I woke up the next morning, text messages from friends and neighbors revealed the true import of what was happening. “Call NOW, it’s an emergency!”

Tense as too tightly tuned violin strings, we passed Wednesday the 8^th of January, desperately glued to our phones, thirsting for information, any information, watching the news, scouring the internet for images of our apartment building, ‘our’ village, our city, hardly able to eat anything as snapchat and instagram steadily fed us the news of friends who lost their home. With each ‘goodbye house’ captioned picture the magnitude of this disaster became clearer.

It took less than twenty-four hours for our entire village to burn down. What started as a brush fire in the highlands of Pacific Palisades coupled with the insane Santa Ana winds to explode into an inferno that rendered any attempt at stopping it hopeless and dangerous for those trying. It’s at times like this that firefighters, police officers and other first responders truly shine, and I’m extremely grateful for their grit and bravery. It’s not hard to imagine how frustrating and perilous it must have been to be confronted with a hellfire of this magnitude, in particular the moments when the water hoses ran dry, due to pressure loss. As for our own house, the information remained conflicting for a long time. Everyone in our building had been evacuated, and for at least a week, we did not know if it was still standing or not.

A now almost prophetic memory sticks in my mind, of a Dutch friend visiting us in our new Palisades home and voicing her observation regarding the way Angelenos build their houses, after having passed a several construction sites. “All the houses here are built with wood!”, she remarked with some astonishment. I had noticed it too, but not as consciously, and I wondered out loud if it maybe had to do with earthquake-proofness. Now, her observation bears much more weight, making this way of constructing a major factor in the insane speed with which almost the entire village disappeared. And the question becomes so much more poignant: why are so many houses in LA constructed from wood?

Instead of things becoming more defined and clear, something I was expecting and hoping for, they have become more untethered and uncertain than ever before. Questions rise, in people around us, but also in us, of the feasibility of going back to Los Angeles. Although our apartment building still stands, miraculously, our condo is uninhabitable, at least for the time being and probably several months to come. Most of our neighbors’ houses are gone, our supermarkets too. Leone’s school, Palihigh, has postponed the start of the second semester until the end of January, but what happens then, no one knows. The building isn’t entirely destroyed, but it will take time for it to once again become a place where kids can attend school safely.

Still, there are many signs of hope. First of all, an enormous surge of support for the people who are affected by the fire has arisen. The way Angelenos have stepped up to help family, friends, neighbors and strangers is impressive and heartwarming. Free housing, free cars, free food and clothing, free underwear, makeup and skincare, free transport for horses, safe houses for abandoned pets. Our cat Jazz, who stayed behind in our apartment during our trip and had been cared for by our neighbor, was rescued by this same neighbor. A woman with a shelter for abandoned pets and animals found him a temporary home. The lady who is taking care of Jazz now is incredible. This person, who I have never met, loves and cares for our cat like he was her own. Unconditionally and without asking anything in return, including money.

I’ve always disagreed with people who say Angelenos are shallow, superficial and not really interested. My experience wasn’t like that when I lived there twenty years ago, it wasn’t like that before the fires and it certainly isn’t now. The explosion of current initiatives mimics the intensity of the fires, and among the rubble and destruction they shine like gems of hope. Palihigh is maimed, but its spirit is still very much alive, and their communication has been honest, caring and hopeful.

We are fortunate to not have been there when the fire fully raged, of course, but it was also strange. Perhaps the very best indicator of it having become our home, I felt the need to go there as soon as possible, not only to assess the damage, but to help rebuild the community. By now, almost three weeks after they started, the fires have almost been extinguished. And we are finally back here, so that we can see for ourselves what remains of the city I always loved, and by now, our kids do too. My heart bleeds for the crazy town that made me who I am and that plays such a significant role in my first book. But, ‘can we stay here?’ is a question that I’m unable to answer right now.