After months of debate and deliberation, my husband and I decided to trade in the ocean breeze and proximity to the brand-new Starbucks on Lincoln Boulevard for the clogged air and congested streets of Pico-Robertson. I had toyed with the idea earlier, and had even lookie-looed my way into a few open houses, but this time, we were lookie-loos no more. My kids were eager to be near their school friends and within sniffing distance of the kosher pizza shops. I wanted to walk to the bakery, where the proprietor still calls little boys boychikel and where I could feel slightly more justified in buying the shop's obscenely rich chocolate custard cakes for Shabbos since I would be walking home with it. (That is, whatever still remained by the time I got home.) I could even brush up on my Farsi waiting in line behind all the Iranian women in the cramped little markets along Pico Boulevard.