In Pacific Palisades, a hollow car seared with smoke is hanging off a cliff, surrounded by the blackened shell of a garage.
Mark Suster, managing partner at Los Angeles-based Upfront Ventures, texted me the picture as we talked Friday. That car and home are in his Palisades neighborhood, Castellammare, which he and his family fled last week.
"We saw the fire coming over the hill from where we normally hike, and we could just see huge plumes of black smoke," Suster told me. "We felt just how windy it was, like nothing we’d experienced in ten years. And the wind was coming at us, so we knew where the fire was going. We packed up everything we could think to take. We went around to our neighbors, particularly the elderly, to make sure they had ways to get out, and gave a car to a neighbor who didn’t have one so that they could get out. We imagined we’d be out of our house for three to five days, and that there was a chance we’d be impacted. I don’t think anyone imagined the scale."
Los Angeles is on fire. But you knew that. Over the last week, I’ve gotten dozens of texts and emails from people in other places saying: "I can’t fathom what’s happening." And there are lots of stories right now—about wind, fire, smoke, and celebrity homes. I wanted to start my fire coverage for all of you with Suster’s experience, because I’m finding that firsthand accounts are proving to be the best starting point for me as I’ve been wrapping my head around the scale of this tragedy. One of the only things I know to be true right now: The fallout from these fires, as far ahead as anyone can see, is fathomless. And the more you see or hear, the clearer that becomes.
On Wednesday, Suster’s neighborhood was inaccessible, with the National Guard still in place and turning people away. But by Thursday, he had gotten a bicycle and was able to ride through, hoping for a glimpse of his neighborhood and home.
Suster’s account of what he saw is forensic. As he rode in, an entire Waldorf school at the bottom of his street was on fire, the blaze extinguished by the time he left a couple hours later. Suster described a trailer park along the beach, an area protected for lower-income families that had lived there since the 1950s. It looked like "nuclear war, not a single structure standing, everything black," he said. I told Suster about a 5K I’d run through the Palisades over the summer, a beautiful route strewn with homes.
"The July Fourth one, right?...Every single house on that path is gone," he said.
What Suster most helped me begin to comprehend was the destruction’s absolute randomness. He saw a sizable condo building, with perhaps 50 to 75 units, incinerated—while the house next to it was still standing. He sent me another video, of a massive tree blocking a road.
"Now, on that tree, on either side of it, the house is missing," Suster said, walking me through what I was seeing. "Across the street, five houses in a row are missing. And when I say missing, there's nothing, there's rubble. That sixth house is standing. Then, there’s five houses in a row standing—and right past that, there’s another three missing. Then two are standing, and then eight are missing. And I can’t explain it."
Beyond explanation or logic, Suster’s home is somehow among those standing.
"I feel blessed, I feel grateful," he told me. "I feel such an outpouring of emotion for 25 friends who now have nothing. I’m reading these stories and, yes, some of my friends are wealthy. But they’ve lost the equivalent of what I would have lost—we went in and got my father-in-law’s bust, my mother-in-law’s paintings, my kids’ keepsakes, jewelry we’ve had for generations. Things we wanted for sentimental reasons."
It’s a confusing time in Los Angeles, arbitrary and surreal. Why would one home survive over another? How long does this go on? What are we actually supposed to do with ourselves? Suster counts himself lucky, and I am too.
It occurs to me: This is the first time I’ve extensively talked to Suster about something that wasn’t expressly work. And that I’ve had a lot of conversations like that since the fires began. There’s no such thing as a purely professional conversation in Los Angeles right now—whoever you talk to, you’re also checking on them, their families, and the state of their lives.
There will be tech angles here in the coming days, weeks, and months. Off the bat, I can tell you FEMA glitches have induced anxiety, while inaccurate emergency evacuation notices have caused panic. But for today, Arteen Arabshahi, general partner at L.A.-based Fika Ventures, said it better than I can.
"I don’t know if L.A. tech is distinguishable in this circumstance from L.A.," said Arabshahi, who’s lived in L.A. for north of a decade and is safe. "I think after this, like any grieving community, there will be a pent-up desire to be together. I think over the next year, you’re going to see this community on-the-ground, incredibly close-knit, and taking care of each other in a way that we haven’t seen, maybe ever."
To that end, Suster assured me: The Upfront Summit, the annual L.A. event famed as a sun-soaked spot for VCs and LPs, is very much on. And necessarily so.
"We hope for our community that our event on Feb. 26th and 27th can be the first place where you’re hugging all your friends that you haven’t seen since they lost their homes, or who were impacted in whatever way," said Suster.
He’s right: People will need to come together. Over the last few days, I’ve talked to so many Angelenos, and I’ll bring you some of their stories soon. I’ve spoken to people who are scared but lucky, who will have something to return to. I’ve spoken to people who’ve lost everything, at a loss for words. I’ve never cried doing an interview before, but I did yesterday.
And I keep listening to Bruce Springsteen’s "My City of Ruins," a song he originally wrote about Asbury Park, but that took on new meaning after 9/11 and then with Hurricane Katrina. I never thought I would hear it and think of my home.
"The boarded up windows, the empty streets
While my brother's down on his knees
My city of ruins"
It has the impossible magic of gospel: It’s unbearably sad as Springsteen sings the refrain alone, but when the chorus joins him, it feels different. It becomes a collective call-to-action: "Come on, rise up." And we will, because we must.
Stay safe and see you tomorrow,
Allie Garfinkle
Twitter: @agarfinks
Email: alexandra.garfinkle@fortune.com
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