Undesigned: the sign in the window has not changed since the chic indie clothing designer's studio and shop at Paul Terrace and Echo Park Avenue closed its doors and moved to Silver Lake about a month ago. The "Undesigned" sign remains in the window behind the curvy wrought-iron bars in the shapes of twigs and leaves.

I have been driving past this space since 1999, when I moved to my present house in Echo Park. I don't recall exactly, but I believe it was a small grocery shop. I first took note when the shop closed and the space was gutted. It was for rent, empty. Then a renovator came along, probably in 2001, when the gallery scene farther down the street was in full swing. It was redesigned and became an art gallery. Later it was renovated some more, and the two-room space became Undesigned. The designer, who lives in the neighborhood still, worked inside while her beagle Dora watched the front door. Then a for-sale sign appeared. And Undesigned moved.

About a week ago, I met the new owners, a couple. The woman was white and her partner was Latino. They told me that one side of the space would be a travel agency. (If you have walked down Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park recently you may have noticed that there are numerous travel agencies still in business. Apparently, not everyone books their flights online.) The new folks weren't sure about the other room -- maybe a vintage furniture slash gallery space, they said. In the last few days a sandwich board sign has appeared in front of the storefront during business hours. It advertises a variety of services, "Autorizaciones," "Tax" "Immigracion." The sign, in bright yellow and black, declares that the English-speaking boho community is not the only viable market in Echo Park.

I have been traveling a lot recently. I went to Nashville, as I wrote in recent posts. And then yesterday I went to Westwood. I was meeting a friend from my Iowa days, Bridget, who is doing an internship at UCLA. She doesn't have a car, and so I drove to the Westside. Nothing like an out of town visitor to reshape the landscape of the city we live in. Bridget and I had a fine lunch, and afterward, I went to the mystery bookstore that I had visited one time before,maybe four years ago, this time to purchase Michael Connelly's Echo Park, my third attempt to buy the book. About a month ago, I went to Vroman's too early, the book wasn't out yet. Last week, I traveled to Dutton's Brentwood (for a reading by Lee Montogmery) too late; Echo Park was sold out. But I showed up in Westwood at just the right moment. The mystery bookshop had a stack of signed Echo Parks waiting. I was the only customer in the shop. I grabbed it and went straight to the register. I was met there by a classic independent book seller: a bit bookish, avid.

"Have you been here before?" he asked.

"Not recently."

He wanted to know if I was connected to UCLA. Did I live nearby. I suspected that despite the central location, they didn't get a lot of foot traffic. He wanted an explanation for why I had burst through the sleepy doors, gone straight to the diplay table, grabbed a book and headed straight to pay.

"I live in Echo Park," I said, nodding at the book.

"Oh," he said, his smile sudenly turning into something disciplined, if now bored. Something he owned. "Do you want a bag?"

I said I did. And I drove my book and myself back home.