My journalism college friend and now author and branding guru, Mark Tungate, who moved from London to Paris a few years ago told me just before I relocated to LA, ‘Enjoy the first year, nothing is quite the same after that.’ I didn’t really know what he meant at the time but I get it now.

That first year, when a trip to the supermarket, parking at the cinema or even working out shoe sizes was an adventure seems a long time ago. It’s funny how I’ve gotten used to what was once so different and also how my mind now translates from UK to US before I speak: boot is now trunk, serviette is now napkin, queue is now line and so on.

I admit, I’ve changed. I purposefully speak with a slight American accent when I’m ordering food, (even though I feel like I’m doing a reverse Dick Van Dyke and sound like a cross between Bette Midler and Tony Soprano) but it’s a necessary evil: a British friend of mine once ordered a glass of water in a restaurant and was served a full glass of vodka. The waiting staff told us afterwards that they’d discussed in the kitchen how they could get her to visit a nearby AA meeting.

My Mum, Babs, who has just left after a three week stay (her first in two years) noticed my newly acquired American twang. I had to explain to her that although I’m not one to blindly follow the masses, it helps to make yourself understood. It didn’t cut much ice though. ‘We spent a lot of money on elocution lessons for you Lisa, whatever you do, don’t lose your British accent.’ No Mum.

Her visit, Mark’s words of wisdom and this new blog combined have re-opened my eyes to where I live. Southend-on-Sea it aint. I noticed the luxurious cream-coloured Bentley with the disabled badge parked on Washington, and the super fit guy in gym clothes who leapt into it holding a fruit smoothie. I noticed the homeless man wearing brand new trainers with iPod earphones in his ears asking for money on Lincoln. The amazing array of macaroni in Vons. I wondered yet again what Hamburger Helper was and how it could actually help anyone do anything. The dudes on skateboards being pulled along by their dogs on the bike path in Venice. So many differences, so many details to absorb.

Five nights ago I sat on the deck outside my apartment with Babs and we watched as bright orange flames, emboldened by the black night and humidity, licked the sky less than 20 miles away from my home, as the devastating wildfires spread. The air was essence of campfire. The following morning my deck, car, garden, in fact everywhere, was covered in ash and the sky was a murky brown colour.

Two days ago I felt the slight tremor of an earthquake and last night at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, which is less than two miles from where I live, the skies were yet again alive but this time with police helicopters and news crews as Michael Jackson was laid to rest. Every conversation we had as we sipped our wine was punctuated by yet another aircraft fizzing above.

In the brief moments of silence that punctuated the King of Pop’s funereal circus, I heard a cicada delivering his insect Morse, the sound of someone braking sharply at the end of the road and the uber-poodle that belongs to my neighbour Ginger, yapping like he had an urgent message for the world.

My first year in LA was uniquely magical but the beauty of life is that it constantly offers up something new to absorb, be curious about or simply enjoy for what it is. I may not be the new girl anymore but I’m still wide-eyed. Mark was right, it’s all in the details.

Photograph: Danforth France