It wasn't until later, faced with a 3-foot stump of palm, that I began to feel the kind of grief that's unique to homeowners. If you've ever experienced the death of a pet you secretly hated, you know what I mean. Owning a home means feeling fiercely protective and proud, while hoping in your heart that a meteor will eviscerate the place and force you to live happily ever after in an all-utilities-included rental. Once the palm tree toppled over and disappeared into the shredder, I wiped away a tear — and at the same time took some perverse relief in the whole thing. When it comes time to leave, I reasoned, it will be easier to say goodbye to a stump than to a majestic Phoenix palm.

And endure it I did, at least until about 9 p.m., when it started raining ashes in my backyard because, as it happens, Griffith Park was on fire. I won't be overly dramatic because my house is several miles from there and was in no way threatened, but there's nothing like watching hundreds of acres of wild parkland burn to make a person quit whining about the DWP cutting down one tree as a fire-safety precaution.

There's also nothing like waking up to a chain saw and going to bed in a haze of smoke to remind a person that the Golden State mystique is less about palm trees — or nice weather or even cherished chaparral — than about the way these things can disappear in the course of a day. It's also about believing they'll come back eventually. As dreams go, the California one tends to be recurring.