Once, ordering coffee in Highland Park meant a Styrofoam cup with a swirl of non-dairy creamer and a pink straw. No frills. No foam. No latte art. No nine-dollar price tag. Weekend adventures were spent in the candy aisle of the 99 Cents Only store, clutching quarters like precious metals and debating between Now and Laters and off-brand gummy worms. That was Highland Park two decades ago—before $60 vintage tees and minimalist succulents colonized the block.
Today, the streets are caffeinated with artisanal espresso and lined with reclaimed wood counters. Candy now comes from gourmet markets where twelve-dollar licorice is sugar-free, shelved between French mustard and organic wine, purchased mostly by people trying to parallel park a Tesla without making eye contact. The neighborhood, once gritty and unbothered, has been anointed by glossy magazines and NPR segments alike as one of L.A.’s “it” enclaves. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling lived-in and started feeling curated.
It’s disorienting. For years, I longed for a halfway decent cup of coffee. Now there are ten within walking distance—each named after a Scandinavian word for fog. And yet, I find myself wanting to run. I got what I wanted, but lost the place I called home.
My parents—my dad from West L.A., my mom from South Central—chose Highland Park as their middle ground. Affordable, functional, and just wild enough. They bought a home with three kids in tow and built a life within their means. Across the street from us was San Pascual Park—a scrappy haven with a basketball court that sometimes had a net, a playground, and enough gopher holes to sabotage any picnic. On Saturday mornings, mariachi bands warmed up as pickup baseball teams claimed the field, families unfolded chairs, coolers, and community in equal measure.
Now? Shirtless hipsters sunbathe where mariachis once played. Picnics still happen—but they’re curated, and rarely by the folks who once lived here. The cultural texture has faded. The new crowd is enthusiastic, but unfamiliar.
Gentrification isn’t a villain in a black cape. It brings safer streets, new businesses, better infrastructure. But it also extracts. It displaces. It edits the neighborhood’s story, erasing essential chapters.
As a kid, I didn’t grasp how rough Highland Park could be. My parents shielded me. I didn’t go to Franklin High; I went to Eagle Rock. But some grit, some edge, felt like part of the landscape. It made the neighborhood feel real. A diamond-in-the-rough quality drew me in, even when it unsettled me.
Figueroa used to have all the staples of an old-school Main Street, if you squinted: a movie theater, a pet shop, a slightly haunted shoe repair spot, a grocery store where the produce was a gamble. I lived for the pupuseria and the aggressively lit pizza joint whose fluorescents could interrogate a soul. Those places are gone. In their place: Triple Beam Pizza and boutique nail salons offering $180 Russian manicures.
Highland Park Bowl, before becoming a $60-an-hour boutique bowling alley, was Mr. T’s—a divey punk sanctuary with $2 drinks and zero pretense. A few doors down, the Gutter Café served eggs and whiskey under one roof. Even the Dragon, the Chinese restaurant-turned-gastropub, had pleather booths and reliably mediocre chow mein.
Now when I tell people where I live, they nod in recognition. “Oh, like, near Hancock Park?” they say, without a hint of sarcasm. The laughable comparison of the past now feels almost fair. The home I grew up in—my forever home—has skyrocketed in value to the point where buying it today would be out of reach.
Some days, when there’s no parking or I wake up to shirtless strangers tanning across the street, I scroll Redfin listings like a restless ex. Pasadena? Too sleepy. South Pasadena? Too quaint. El Sereno? Not ready to ride that roller coaster again.
Truth is, I don’t really want to live anywhere else—except maybe in the version of Highland Park that no longer exists.
