Author Michael Connelly, who has great affection for Los Angeles, speaks for me when he writes in his novel The Black Ice:
He loved the city most at night. The night hid many of the sorrows. It silenced the city yet brought deep undercurrents to the surface. It was in this dark slipstream that he believed he moved most freely. Behind the cover of shadows. Like a rider in a limousine, he looked out but no one looked in.
One of my favorite drives, which Tommy and I took many times, took us south on Lincoln Boulevard to Jefferson, then west to Playa del Rey and the ocean. Often we drove south on Pershing Drive, along the boundary where the runways from LA International Airport end near the ocean. Sometimes we would park on one of those sandy wind-swept hills and watch the jets lift off over the Pacific, against a backdrop of distant lights on Santa Monica Bay.