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In praise of one-street towns: Point Arena

Posted on April 15, 2018
Franny's Cup and Saucer

Franny’s Cup and Saucer, Main Street, Point Arena

About four years ago, my husband and I discovered Los Alamos, California, a one-street town in Santa Barbara County, just off the 101. It’s of course more than just a one-street town, but not by much. At the time it had already been discovered, at least by some of Hollywood. Emilio Estevez had started a craft-beer bar there, and Kurt Russell owned a saloon/tasting room.

Still, it was not quite given over to tourists the way other parts of the Santa Ynez Valley were post-Sideways. The local motel was still crappy (although in the midst of being converted by the same people who had converted another formerly crappy hotel in Ojai into an outpost of the now ubiquitous Coachella-meets-ranch style), and the hours at the businesses along the main street were erratic—many still only open Thursday through Sunday. While the town’s main drag, Bell Street, has continued to morph in recent years, Los Alamos has remained a favorite of ours for a one-night weekend away.

Part of it’s appeal is the one-street package. Los Alamos is not demanding of its visitor.  You can eat, drink, nap and browse your way along Bell Street for an entire day, starting with breakfast at Bob’s Well Bread at the 101 end, eventually finishing with dinner at Full of Life Flatbread at the other. This geography of idling is part of the reason we were so excited when on a recent trip along Highway 1 in northern California, we discovered one of Los Alamos’s one-street brethren in Point Arena, a tiny town some 130 miles north of San Francisco in southern Mendocino County.

On our first of two visits, a barking Pomeranian drew us into the open-fronted Zen House Motorcycles, a shop that specializes in restoring high-end bikes. Inside I admired their branded tee-shirts and hats, bearing a logo that riffs on Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, while my husband admired the bikes, and the friendly female mechanic gave him details of each one. She even listened politely as he described the joy he’s found in riding his recently-acquired, used knock-off Vespa. The shop adjoins a full-service gas station, and later when we filled up there it was such a pleasant, human experience that it made me hope for a full-service resurgence.

Next door we poked around the outside of the Wildflower Boutique Motel, which was under construction. It still wasn’t done when we returned a few weeks later for an overnight visit, so we booked a room at the Wharf Master’s Inn. It’s a mile or so off the main street, with views of a Pacific cove and easy access to the Pier Chowder House and Tap Room. But we had a date with main street, so we rode our bikes up the gentle hill into town and headed to 215 Main, where we met the librarian and basketball coach at the local high school who was having his first day on the job as a bartender, too. His moonlighting was a reminder that while one-street towns may still exist in America, the middle-class security that they evoke is long gone.

The bar specializes in regional wines, which means it has an excellent selection from the nearby Anderson Valley. There’s food, too, but we were there before dinner time and the only thing we saw plated up was when an elderly cowboy sitting at one end of the bar pointed at a salami hanging from the wine glass rack and asked for a few slices and some tomato to go with it. This was not on the menu, but the bartender made it for him anyway. When we later went across the street to Sign of the Whale, a classic small-town boozer, the cowboy was at the end of the bar again.

Point Arena Lighthouse

Point Arena Lighthouse

In between, we stopped in at an art show on the premises of a stylish homeware store that was closing down, admired the baked goods at Franny’s Cup and Saucer—which included an exquisite dish of “eggs and bacon” made from mango curd-topped meringue and pink-striped shortbread—and fantasized about buying Fogeaters, a now-empty Victorian property with a restaurant on the ground floor and an apartment upstairs. There’s also a small grocery store, a couple of coffee shops (one at the front of the grocery store), a pharmacy, and a library, all on a few blocks of the main drag.

Back at Sign of the Whale, the proprietor wandered in, fresh from his shift at the fire department. A few minutes into our conversation he mentioned he’d worked on the Thomas Fire in December, which had threatened our home in Ventura, and showed us a set of jaw-dropping pictures on his phone. Flush with gratitude, we thanked him profusely and bought him a beer before heading through the swinging doors that connect the bar with Bird Cafe & Supper Club. Our dinner of borscht followed by sweet potato gnocchi was superb.

In the morning, we drove a few miles out to the lighthouse and took a walk in the whipping wind. There’s a Victorian bandstand that sits on a lone spit of land to the east of the lighthouse, a perfect place to sit and enjoy the view (or re-enact an eighties music video). When we visited, sea lions had miraculously hoisted themselves onto the jagged-rock islands around the point and were lolling in the morning sun. To join them in this splendid isolation you can rent one of the lighthouse cottages, but then you’d miss out on the many pleasures of this one-street town.

Books California Christmas Letters

2017: My Year in Books

Posted on December 22, 2017

I’m not sure if I’ll muster the will to write a Christmas letter this year, mostly because my will has been sapped by much of 2017 on both the personal and political fronts. As the saying goes, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say it at all.

There is, however, one thing about which I have only nice things to say, and that’s all the lovely books I’ve read this year. Sure, I’ve read far less in 2017 than 2016, a fact I attribute directly to the draining of my attention and energy by the personage currently occupying our White House. But I’m grateful to my bones for the knowledge and enjoyment provided by every single one of those I did manage to get through, so I’ll turn my festive cheer their way.

Let’s keep up the positive vibe with a shout out for Nina Stibbe’s Paradise Lodge. I first read Stibbe’s charming collection of letters, Love, Nina, about her time as nanny to the editor of the London Review of Books, and it turns out she’s a terrific novelist too. Paradise Lodge is the second novel in a series about the Vogel family, but you needn’t have read the first—I didn’t—to enjoy this one. The protagonist, teenager Lizzie Vogel, who works at a decaying but somehow still charming nursing home while trying to finish school, is so deftly drawn that I loved every minute I spent with her. Also, I don’t think it spoils things to say it has a happy ending. I suspect people might need one of those just about now. (I’m not sure why the cheery yellow cover of Paradise Lodge doesn’t appear in the photo above, but I hope it’s because I gave my copy to someone else to enjoy.)

Now that I’ve sweetened you up, I’m going to go ahead and hit you with Claire Vaye Watkins’s Gold Fame Citrus, a post-apocalyptic—by which I mean a totally believable, especially after this year’s fire season, twenty-first century version of the dust bowl—novel about a couple fleeing California with a neglected baby they’ve kidnapped, who ends up an unlikely messiah figure. The writing is stunning and cinematic, and someone better make a film out of it so I can bluster about how the book was better.

Two other novels I enjoyed this year were Rachel Cusk’s Transit, mostly because I’m deeply drawn to her detached protagonist Faye, and Robin Sloan’s Sourdough, which has a much more conventional (read: likable) protagonist in the form of Lois. If you work in tech and like food, I think you’ll like Sloan’s story, which includes gentle send-ups of both those cultures. I also got to see him read at Mrs. Dalloway’s  (more on this special store below) after I read the book, and it was fun to hear him talk about writing it. I like that he’s a developer and a writer.

My favorite novel of the year was Carson McCullers’s The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I bought this a few years back at a literature festival in England (not sure why it was there since McCullers is long dead), and randomly picked it up to read earlier this year. I subsequently gathered she’s famous in some corners of the literary world, but why McCullers is not as well-known as Harper Lee is beyond me. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is the nihilist version of To Kill a Mockingbird, and it’s brilliant. The novel is populated by an ensemble cast, but the young female character of Mick Kelly slayed me. I once worked with a guy who had named his daughter Scout after Atticus Finch’s daughter in To Kill a Mockingbird. I don’t have kids, which means the highest honor I can bestow a character in a book is to name a pet after him or her. Let’s just say there’s a cat called Mick Kelly in my future and leave it at that.

Now for the non-fiction portion of my reading list, starting with three books of author’s diaries: Alan Bennett’s Keeping On Keeping On, David Sedaris’s Theft By Finding, and Joan Didion’s South and West. I wrote an essay about them here, so I won’t say more except that if you like these authors I also think you’ll like these books. Robert Moor’s On Trails: An Exploration is a terrific book that reminded me I like science and is a great example of how to riff on a theme in non-fiction. This book is so much more than a story about someone who hiked the Appalachian Trail. Finally, Will Schwalbe’s Books for Living is a lovely book for anyone who adores books, with the bonus that each essay is the perfect length for a bath. If you’re still looking for a gift for someone, you could do worse than this book packaged up with a nice bottle of bubble bath.

A few of the books I read this year don’t show up in the pictures in this post because I checked them out from the library. I’ve spent much of 2017 in Berkeley, and one of the benefits has been access to two remarkable libraries—the downtown Deco and Craftsman extravaganza just a block from my office and the mock-Tudor Claremont branch, complete with a gas fireplace and comfortable chairs. Three cheers for libraries and all their card-carrying members.

The other delight of Berkeley is its terrific independent bookstores, including Moe’s Books on Telegraph; Revolution Books, where I made a point of shopping after alt-right bullies decided to intimidate the staff; Pegasus Books, from whom I buy the Weekend FT (mostly for its terrific Books section) each Saturday, plus whatever else they tempt me with, whether a cute greeting card or a little tin of “impeachmints”; Issues on Piedmont Avenue in Oakland, quite possibly the most wonderful newsstand left in America; and best of all, the gem of my neighborhood, Mrs. Dalloway’s. This is a beautiful bookstore with a helpful staff and a sparkling roster of author events, and I thank them for making the neighborhood feel, well, like a neighborhood.

For all my trepidation and uncertainty about 2018, one consolation remains: it will come with more great books. Happy reading!

Bought but not read in 2017. Something to look forward to in the year ahead!

California Random

Lessons from the 51B: How riding the bus helps me be less of an asshole

Posted on June 18, 2017

Berkeley bus stop

I skipped kindergarten, which may explain why at age forty-five I still haven’t learned everything I need to know. I require periodic reminders of the most basic tenets of human decency, which is where the bus comes in.

I hadn’t intended to start riding the bus when I moved to Berkeley for work back in January. I rented an apartment less than two miles from the office so I could walk or bike my commute. Then California had one of the wettest winters on record, and the advantages of a bus stop two blocks from my front door became clear.

The bus route to my office runs alongside the Cal campus, and my fellow-bus riders were often college students. The first time I heard one of them say “thank you” to the bus driver as she got off the bus, I assumed it was an oddity. This student was surely from Kansas or someplace where people still said “aw shucks” and “gee willikers.” Then I noticed everyone—except me—said “thank you” when they got off the bus, and the bus driver usually said “you’re welcome” back. I briefly felt like an asshole, then I, too, started saying “thank you” when I got off the bus. This felt good in a way that was disproportionate to the act. It was shocking how nice it felt to be nice.

(In fairness, I don’t think my failure to vocalize gratitude after every bus ride was a breach of global public transit etiquette. A decade earlier I had lived in London and been a regular bus commuter. There I witnessed many interesting behaviors aboard a double-decker, occasionally involving the expulsion of bodily fluids—but nobody said “thank you.” The closest I got to a life lesson from that experience was to wash my hands a lot. I’ve never had more colds in my life than my first six months in London riding the 23.)

The next thing I started to notice while riding the bus in Berkeley was how many wheelchair users rely on it. Roughly every third time I boarded a bus, someone in a wheelchair did the same. There’s a procedure for this, starting with the driver lowering the bus, extending the ramp, then leaving her seat to fix the wheelchair in place using a set of straps with hooks. Nobody else can board the bus until the driver is back in her seat and the ramp is up.

The whole thing usually takes a few minutes and yet it’s long enough to notice. And what I noticed is how rarely in daily life I, a non-parent, defer to the needs of someone else. I operate my life in a series of maneuvers designed to maximize, well, me, and the on-demand economy is complicit in my selfishness. The few minutes of stillness, of waiting, while someone else goes first reminded me that most the time I’m in a hurry for absolutely no reason other than to be in a hurry. I’m addicted to self-inflicted stress. Waiting my turn was good for the soul.

***

In late spring the rain finally stopped and I mostly traded the bus for my bike. Occasionally I make exceptions, like when I need to be in the office for 6:00AM calls with my European colleagues. This happened twice in the last week, and the timing couldn’t have been better. My experience on the 5:34AM showed me I had relapsed and was due for a refresher course in decency.

That early in the morning most stops on the route are empty, and the bus makes it to my destination in half the normal time. But on Tuesday we stopped somewhere near Cal for a gentleman with a cane. I was nose-deep in my phone reading work email and yet somehow felt annoyed when he chose to bypass the priority seats in the front. The bus waited while he instead made his way to a seat up the half-set of stairs, just behind the rear door. There I was again, in a hurry when I wasn’t even late and being an asshole in the process.

On Thursday, we stopped at the same stop for the same gentleman. As he got on, the bus driver bantered with him about the Oakland victory parade for the Golden State Warriors later that day. Then I watched as again he made his way to the same spot behind the rear door. He was dressed impeccably: a white fedora with a black-ribbon band decorated with a small feather, a single-breasted overcoat atop a suit, and a crocodile-embossed bag hanging diagonally across his shoulders. I was reminded of an episode of the nineties sitcom Just Shoot Me! in which the character of Nina Van Horn, a fashion-magazine editor, blames the downfall of civilization on the rise of casual separates. It seemed to me this gentleman was making a similar case.

I was lost in thought about it when we arrived at my stop and mechanically got off through the rear doors. As I walked by the outside of the bus I snapped to, just in time to say “thank you” to the driver through the still-open front door.

California Walking

This Is What Democracy Looks Like

Posted on January 22, 2017

The most visually striking picture I took at yesterday’s Justice for All March, my California hometown’s offshoot of the Women’s March in Washington, was of a sign featuring Donald Trump’s face in the style of the iconic Obama “Hope” posters, only this one said “Nope.” In the photo, the great orange one’s face is illuminated against a bright blue sky, a regal palm tree behind his head suggesting, rather conveniently, a coronation rather than an election. It was, I thought, a no-brainer for what to feature at the top of this blog post. Then I started scrolling through my pictures again and I was struck by this one, both for the pink pussy hats that have become the emblem of these marches and the pose of the woman on the left in sunglasses: hand over heart, her face an expression of gratitude and appreciation. This—not Trump—is what yesterday was all about.

Like many locations across the country, the crowd at our local march exceeded expectations at an estimated 2,500 marchers. In a town of just over 100,000 people this was a terrific turnout, but the most striking thing was the diversity of the crowd and its causes. Kids, clergy, local elected officials, and regular citizens came with signs demanding equal rights for women and LGBTQI, water rights, racial justice, reproductive rights, access to healthcare, action on climate change, defense of science, and, notably, kindness. It seems the uniting factor of America’s latest government is that it’s managed to do something to piss off everyone.

But yesterday was not about being angry. Yesterday was about taking a huge collective sigh of relief at finding out your neighbors are as distraught as you are and they’re going to show up to do something about it. Yesterday was about allowing yourself a few hours of joy as we inched along the sidewalks of our old-school Main Street (no road closures were in place), answering call-and-response chats, my favorite of which was “show me what democracy looks like, this is what democracy looks like.”  Here, in one of my other favorite pictures from the day, is what democracy looks like:

 

California

The Cotswolds of California: Lost in Los Alamos

Posted on October 3, 2014

Assuming you’re in the right state—California, not Nevada—finding Los Alamos is easy. It’s about 50 miles north of Santa Barbara, just off the 101 freeway. You exit onto the main drag of this town of 1,890 people, which means it’s nearly impossible to get lost once you’re there, too. But step inside the establishments of Los Alamos and you might very well start to feel disoriented. From the old west vibe of the 1880 Union Hotel to the wouldn’t-be-out-of-place-in-Manhattan interior of Bob’s Well Bread bakery and coffee shop, Los Alamos is full of surprises.

A vintage car rally during Los Alamos’ annual birthday celebration, Old Days

The first of these was when, shortly after checking in to the 1880 Union Hotel, we stopped into Babi’s Beer Emporium and Emilio Estevez pulled us a pint. We had read that his partner, Sonja Magdevski, owned the establishment and the adjoining Casa Dumetz wine tasting room, but we didn’t expect to see Estevez at work behind the pumps. While we both tried to feign a polite level of indifference, D. couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell him how much he liked Repo Man. I was far too starstruck to chip in anything about The Breakfast Club or how, more recently, I had blubbered through a flight while watching his 2011 film, The Way. Of course the real stars of Babi’s are the beers; I sipped a Pilsner from Hangar 24 Craft Brewery out of Redlands, California while D. hit a 10+% triple IPA, which explains why he can’t remember the name of it.

The bar at Babi’s Beer Emporium

But more than beer, this town is about wine. In addition to Casa Dumetz, Bell Street hosts a tasting room for Bedford Winery and, in a tiny building at the front of the Alamo Motel, a recently opened outlet for Municipal Winemakers. The latter’s Rhone-style Bright Red and Bright White dry Riesling were standouts from our tasting. Hollywood makes another appearance—this time inside the glass—at the Wine Saloon, which features Kurt Russell’s Gogi Wines and a stellar rosé from Kate Hudson and Matt Bellamy’s (of Muse) label. Tres Hermanas, who have a tasting room 10 miles away in Los Olivos, have taken over the bar at the newly renovated The Station. Over a glass of their crisp white Grenache, one of the owners told us about their plans to open the restaurant by late November. In the meantime, they were offering burritos to their hungry bar patrons.

Cafe Quackenbush and Art Gallery

We passed on the burritos in favor of pizza at the vibrant Full of Life Flatbread. The pie was good, but it was upstaged by a dessert of a sheep’s milk cheesecake with plum sorbet. At lunchtime, dining options in Los Alamos expand to include Bell Street Farm, Café Quackenbush, and Bob’s Well Bread. And for a taste of Los Alamos before Hollywood showed up, try Charlie’s, which has the advantage of being open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Many of the restaurants and bars I’ve mentioned so far still only open on weekends to cater for tourist traffic.

To keep you occupied between eating and drinking, there are a handful of antique and vintage shops to dip in and out of on Bell Street. The Gentleman Farmer and The Depot Mall, on the site of the old Pacific Coast Railway depot, were two of my favorites.

My only advice is this: visit Los Alamos now. The mere existence of the shops, bars, and eateries I’ve mentioned proves that Los Alamos has already been discovered, but it still doesn’t feel overrun. Today Los Alamos is Solvang before Sideways. Given the Hollywood presence we encountered, it won’t be the case for long.

See more pictures of Los Alamos on Pinterest here.

The Details

Where to Stay:

1880 Union Hotel
362 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-2744

March 2015 Update: On subsequent visits we enjoyed staying at both the Victorian Mansion Bed & Breakfast and the Alamo Motel. The former has over-the-top themed rooms; we stayed in the 1950s suite complete with a Cadillac bed “parked” at your own personal drive-in showing your choice of Grease or American Graffiti. At the latter, ask for one of the refurbished rooms.

Sleeping arrangements in the 1950s suite at the Victorian Mansion

The Victorian Mansion Bed & Breakfast
326 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-1300

The Alamo Motel
425 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-2852

Where to Eat:

Cafe Quackenbush
458 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-5181

Full of Life Flatbread
225 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-4400

Bell Street Farm
406 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-4609

Bob’s Well Bread
550 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-3000

Where to Drink:

Casa Dumetz / Babi’s Beer Emporium
448 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-1911

Wine Saloon
362 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-2744

The Station
346 Bell St.
Los Alamos, CA 93440
(805) 344-1950

This post is part of a series on the search for the Cotswolds of California, i.e., an idyllic weekend escape within easy reach of Los Angeles. Earlier I profiled the Ojai Valley here and the Santa Ynez Valley here.

California

Sideways in Santa Ynez: Ten years after the film that put it on the map, the Santa Ynez Valley offers more than the pleasures of Pinot Noir

Posted on June 28, 2014

This post is part of a series on the search for the Cotswolds of California, i.e., an idyllic weekend escape within easy reach of Los Angeles. Earlier I profiled the Ojai Valley here.

Vineyards of the Santa Ynez Valley

This year marks the tenth anniversary of Sideways, Alexander Payne’s 2004 road trip film about the misadventures of Miles, a struggling writer and wine snob, and his friend Jack, a marginally successful actor and interminable philanderer. The action takes place in the towns and wineries of the Santa Ynez Valley in Santa Barbara County, where the two have headed for a last hurrah before Jack gets married. Aside from being an almost perfect comedy, Sideways brought the wine culture of this slice of central California into a mainstream consciousness previously dominated by Napa and Sonoma. To celebrate one of my favorite films turning ten, I ventured to the Santa Ynez Valley with my husband for a road trip of our own.

Hamlet Square, Solvang

Our base for the weekend was the Danish-settled town of Solvang, a place which I affectionately describe as twee. Its architectural style is twentieth-century timbered buildings and reproduction windmills, and the retail includes both Robert Kinkade—purveyor of sickly sweet, chocolate-box landscapes—and a year-round Christmas shop. (There must be a highly compensated MBA at Robert Kinkade who has figured out that the presence of a year-round Christmas shop is a strong indicator that a Kinkade shop will also do well in a location.) Fresh from a six-year stint living in Europe, I was primed to be snarky about mock-medieval architecture in a California town. Instead I found it charming—colorful, tidy and pedestrian-friendly. But we didn’t linger long at the King Frederik Inn following our early Friday evening arrival. A dinner reservation at the Hitching Post in nearby Buellton beckoned.

Just off the 101 Freeway, Buellton is the least village-y of the Santa Ynez Valley towns, studded with chain hotels, fast food outlets, and car dealerships. It is, however, home to two steak restaurants that play prominent roles in Sideways. The Hitching Post is where Miles first meets Maya, his romantic interest, while AJ Spurs is where Jack initiates a tryst that ends both badly and memorably, with the trystee’s rather fleshy, nude husband chasing him down the street after an attempt to retrieve the wallet he left behind in his first rush to escape. Perhaps because of these plot associations, ten years later reservations at the Hitching Post remain a must, while, according to one Solvang local, you can walk into the equally as good AJ Spurs and be assured a table most nights of the week.

The Hitching Post II in Buellton

We arrived at the Hitching Post in time for a pre-dinner drink at the bar—a glass of the Highline Pinot Noir, of course. The bar doesn’t look like it’s changed much since Miles downed a bottle of Highline Pinot on his own and stumbled alone down the highway back to his motel. Even the bartender looked suspiciously familiar when compared to several framed shots of the cast that line the bar walls. Dinner began with a 1970s-style basket of assorted crackers and a silver tray of crudités, both dated and charming given I’m old enough to remember when this kind of start to a meal was the norm. The time warp continued with shrimp cocktail and iceberg lettuce dressed with blue cheese, mostly, I suspect, because the owners of the restaurant don’t see any need to update the appetizers when this restaurant is all about the steak. Thick, juicy slabs of it, grilled to perfection on a barbeque that we happened to have a perfect view of from our table.

Satiated and back in Solvang, we decided to try and walk off dinner with a short stroll to the Wandering Dog Wine Bar. Here the young bartender, a graduate of viticulture from Humboldt University, helped us select a nightcap of Syrah, the specialty of the area, and an accompanying homemade chocolate truffle. He also provided a winery map and tips for a circular winery route the next day, which we planned to tackle on bikes.

On Saturday morning we strolled around Solvang in search of breakfast, settling on the Belgian Café for its sunny outdoor tables. We went savory instead of sweet, choosing eggs studded with a peppery Danish sausage over an extensive selection of waffles. By the time we finished the heat was already beginning to feel daunting for a day out on bikes. Despite being mid-morning, we made a start for our first winery.

Rusack Vineyards on Ballard Canyon Road

Our path took us out of Solvang to the north, past the Hans Christian Andersen Park to Chalk Hill Road. We ventured down one dead end before we finally found our way to Ballard Canyon Road, but what’s a road trip away without a fight over directions? The hills rose with the dusty heat, and we were ready to stop when we caught sight of Rusack Vineyards on our left, an inviting white house at the top of a sloped drive. After refilling our water bottles we settled down on the leather couch to share a flight of tastings. There was also a patio with tables, which would have been inviting if our first priority wasn’t to escape the sun for a few minutes. We left warned of more hills between us and Los Olivos and emboldened by the wine.

Despite being the most challenging leg of the journey, the road between Rusack and Los Olivos was the most scenic, with hardly any traffic. The parched hills and sharp blue skies reminded me more of Oklahoma than California until the final rise before our descent into Los Olivos, where a lush vineyard covered the hillside. Once in the center of Los Olivos, my feeling of geographic displacement resurfaced. The village is laid out around two intersections and, asphalt roads aside, looked like it could have been the set for an episode of Little House on the Prairie.

Ballard Canyon, home of the region’s newest American Viticulture Area (AVA)

Scouting for our lunch spot, we found Los Olivos Wine Merchant & Café, location of a memorable dinner in Sideways in preparation for which Miles makes his famous declaration, “I’m not drinking any fucking merlot!” While tempting, we opted instead for two seats at the bar at Sides Hardware & Shoes. The name certainly doesn’t give it away, but this converted former storefront turned out to be the culinary high point of our weekend. On the pork-heavy menu I was intrigued by something called a hammered pig salad but couldn’t resist a special of duck and cherry grilled cheese. In a world where restaurants have run amok with gourmet grilled cheese nights, Sides delivered with this knockout combination of flavors. And after our previous evening of red wine, it was a relief to see a wine list full of Santa Barbara County whites, several of which were served on tap. Following our splendid air-conditioned hour or so at Sides, we reluctantly ventured back on our bikes, this time to Alamo Pintado Road, which promised to take us back to Solvang in a straight, almost-flat shot. But not, of course, without a couple of wine-tasting stops along the way.

The Enjoy Cupcakes Trailer, whose wares are on offer at the Saarloos & Sons Tasting House in Los Olivos.

Next up was the Ballard Inn, a dove-gray house with a gracious wraparound patio that’s almost halfway back to Solvang. (Blink and you’ll miss the turnoff, as we did.) Inside there’s a lauded restaurant, as well as a tasting room hosting winemakers who are too small to have their own. One such winemaker is the duo of Kenneth Gummere and Mark Crawford, whose cheekily named Kenneth-Crawford “Four Play” Syrah was so good we had to take a bottle home. The tasting was my favorite of the trip, largely because of the local gentleman who walked us through each wine with a winning combination of geniality and knowledge. When asked his advice on a final tasting stop between Ballard and Solvang, he directed us to Rideau to experience the laid-back vibe imbued by its New Orleans-born owner, Iris Rideau.

The tasting room at Rideau was packed with people and a makeshift collection of tablecloth-covered card tables where our young host offered generous pours, all of which added to the laissez les bons temps rouler feel. After choosing a bottle of the 2012 dry Riesling from Curtis Vineyard to take home, we wandered away from the throng into the main house. Here the feel was entirely different, Victorian-ramshackle with polished wood, velvet curtains,and decorative touches. It was a welcome antidote to the Craftsman and deliberately tasteful styles favored by other area tasting rooms.

Twentieth-century medieval in Solvang

Back in Solvang, showered, refreshed, and relieved of our iron steeds, we had time for another tasting at Cali Love. Run by fellow escapees from Los Angeles with a love for music, the tasting room is covered in music memorabilia, including a collection of concert tickets underneath the glass bar top. I was pretty sure I was going to like the wine made by someone who had seen Lucinda Williams live, and I was right. They turned out to be another purveyor of local whites, and I’m a fan of their unfiltered Sun Down Riesling.

Tasting wines you enjoy but having to spit them out to maintain a semblance of sobriety is a bit like an unconsummated marriage; by seven o’clock we were ready to sit down somewhere with an entire glass of the stuff. We settled on Santé Wine Bar & Lounge on the east edge of town. Its white leather and chrome interior is the antithesis of the Solvang design ethic, which makes it a perfect spot if you’re feeling a little suffocated by all the cuteness. The French proprietor adds to the charm, and when we heard him recommend a dinner spot to some other customers we took note.

After a glass of Flying Goat fizz at Santé, we headed for Succulent Café, where we were lucky to nab the last two seats at the bar (all the tables inside and out were booked). Like Sides, Succulent Café has a thing for pork, showcased with their selection of homemade charcuterie. In a futile attempt to inject the appearance of health into the proceedings of the last 24 hours, we opted instead for their excellent daily vegetarian pizza special. A nightcap back at the Wandering Dog Wine Bar brought our last evening in Solvang to a close.

Dessert for breakfast at the Solvang Restaurant

Before leaving the next day, we had to try breakfast at the Solvang Restaurant. It’s a kitschy spot where the scallop-edged wood booths once hosted Miles and Jack as they tried to sate their hangovers. The specialty of the house is the Danish ebleskiver,a powder-sugar dusted pancake sphere smothered with raspberry jam, and a suitably sweet send-off to our weekend. The last two days had been more of a Sideways homage than a recreation, missing out key spots from the film like the esteemed Foxen winery. But like Sideways, which has a sequel in novel-form called Vertical, we knew our weekend in the Santa Ynez Valley was only the first of more to come.

The Details
Download a Sideways Map from Visit Santa Barbara here.
Where to Stay:
We stayed in the clean and functional King Frederik Inn:
617 Copenhagen Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-5515
www.kingfrederikinn.com

For a more luxurious option, try the Ballard Inn
2436 Baseline Avenue
Ballard, CA 93463
(800) 638-2466
www.ballardinn.com

Where to Eat:
The Hitching Post
406 E Hwy 246
Buellton, CA 93427
(805) 688-0676
www.hitchingpost2.com

Sides Hardware and Shoes, a Brothers Restaurant
2375 Alamo Pintado Avenue
Los Olivos, CA 93441
(805) 688-4820
brothersrestaurant.com

Succulent Café
1555 Mission Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 691-9444
www.succulentcafe.com

The Solvang Restaurant
1672 Copenhagen Drive
Solvang, CA
(805) 688-4645
www.solvangrestaurant.com

Where to Drink:
Wandering Dog Wine Bar
1539 Mission Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 686-9126
wanderingdogwinebar.com

Rusack Vineyards
1819 Ballard Canyon Road
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-1278
rusackvineyards.com

Rideau Vineyard
1562 Alamo Pintado Road
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-0717
www.rideauvineyard.com

Cali Love Wine
1651 Copenhagen Drive
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 688-1678
www.calilovewine.com

Santé Wine Bar & Lounge
433 Alisal Road
Solvang, CA 93463
(805) 691-9641
www.santewinebarandlounge.com
California Cotswolds

Vive le Village

Posted on March 25, 2014
Ocean Park Beach in Santa Monica crowded with bathers, ca.1910 (CHS-11211)
My local beach in Santa Monica, CA, crowded even back in 1910
By Not given [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The last place I lived in England before moving back to Los Angeles was a rural Cotswold village. Like many before me, I had retreated there from London to, well, retreat. I wanted to escape the crowds, a particularly noisy neighbor, and the general hassle of navigating big city life in an inclement climate. I moved to the Cotswolds to be left alone.

Of course as anyone who has ever lived in a village will tell you, a village is the worst place to move if you want to be left alone. I learned this early on when I made the mistake of assuming I could slip out undetected to the local shop early in the morning with unbrushed teeth and barely decent clothing. Our village shop was only about a block away from our cottage, just off the market square, so it seemed plausible I could make the trip incognito. I quickly learned I was wrong. You always see someone you know in the market square. But it didn’t take long for this experience to transform from a nuisance into one of my favorite rituals of the day. This, I realized,
was what being part of a community felt like.

I make my living in digital mapping where I hear stats every day about the urbanization of our world. As of 2010, more than half the world’s population live in urban areas. From Lagos to Los Angeles, mega cities are on the rise, with Shanghai leading the pack at a population of nearly 24 million. Much of our organizational brain space is committed to figuring out how to serve this demographic reality. What are the application mapping experiences these urbanites will need to navigate their uber-urban lives? But the longer I’ve been back in Los Angeles, the more convinced I am that we’re trying to solve the wrong problem. Having had the experience of village versus city in close succession, I’m fairly certain that cities just don’t work.

Despite the fact that my husband and I returned to Los Angeles with an inbuilt community of friends from the thirteen years we had previously lived there, our social life is a mere shadow of what we had in the Cotswolds. There evenings revolved around the local wine bar, located—you guessed it—right on the market square. On any given night of the week you could wander in, equally comfortably accompanied or alone, and be guaranteed a natter. We would see most of our circle of friends and a large circle of acquaintances, whether planned or not, once or twice a week. In Los Angeles, we see friends about once a quarter and usually only with considerable effort to arrange dates and times and sitters and reservations that suit all needs.

I suspect the feeling that everything is an awful lot more effort here stems from two things. First, people are more insular in L.A. Despite the relentless good weather, it can be hard and expensive to live here if, for instance, your commute and your school district are bad. Such factors conspire to make it particularly challenging for people to care much about what’s happening beyond their picket fence (in the unlikely event you can afford to live somewhere in LA with a picket fence). Second, the infrastructure just isn’t set up to make it easy for people to meet. In the 4,752 square mile expanse that comprises L.A. County, the old joke goes that you never go east or west of your side of the 405. It turns out there’s a good reason for this, as I learned on a recent Friday evening when I attempted to traverse 6.2 miles of L.A. road to see two of my oldest friends sing at a charity event in Hollywood. The journey took me an hour and 40 minutes. If it hadn’t been for a good cause, I would have been hard pressed to go.

The challenges don’t end with friends. Making good neighbors is harder in cities, too, thanks to the density of housing. The simple fact of proximity means you’re more likely to get on your neighbor’s nerves, and vice versa. And, of course, nobody talks to strangers. To interrupt the nose-in-phone reverie of a fellow diner at a café or restaurant for an impromptu chat is a sure way to be mistaken for a nut. Turns out the lack of a strong cellular signal in our Cotswold town had its advantages. People talked to each other.

Perhaps the grandest irony of all is the reason people often end up in cities: to find work. In a death spiral of chicken and egg logic, companies set up in cities to have access to talent, causing more people to move to cities, which in turn make those cities so unworkable that talent no longer wants to live there. My husband and I are not immune to this conundrum, and as we begin to plot our exit from the city for our middle-aged years, what we will do for income remains the question at the top of the list. Where we will move does not. Our Cotswold village beckons.

Books California

Books Signing at Bank of Books, Ventura, CA

Posted on November 30, 2013

It’ small business Saturday, and I’ll be doing my part by signing copies of Americashire at a lovely indie book store, Bank of Books between 1-3PM. As an added  bonus, it’s on an honest-to-goodness main street chock full of other kinds of lovely indie stores. Come join me if you’re in the area!

Bank of Books
748 E. Main St.
Ventura, CA 93001
California

In Search of the Cotswolds of California: Ojai

Posted on October 26, 2013
View of the Ojai Valley from the Ojai Retreat

Within two years of moving to London, my husband and I had started taking regular weekend trips to the Cotswolds in search of some respite from city life. True to form, now that we’ve been in Los Angeles for almost two years, the search for the Cotswolds of California has begun. The criteria are the same: our weekend escape must be within a two-hour drive of the city and offer scenic outdoor activities for the day and peace and quiet for the night, good food and drink, a dose of culture, and, preferably, an assortment of eclectic locals.

Last month we headed northeast to Ojai in our quest. The drive was mostly along the PCH before heading inland near Ventura, and the approach was not as promising as I had hoped. State Road 33 was occasionally marked by dingy-looking retail in a setting of hills baked to straw from months of summer sun. As we rose in the hills, so did the temperature, reaching a crackling 90 degrees before we arrived at the hotel.

We had declined to reserve at the area’s most well-known accommodation, the Ojai Valley Inn & Spa, due to the hefty price tag. (Later we visited the grounds in the vain search for a drink—despite an abundance of waiters setting up for dinner on a veranda, we failed to ever get the attention of one—and, while immaculate, it reminded me a little too much of a gated retirement community in Florida.) Instead we stayed three miles out of the center of town at the hilltop Ojai retreat, just on the edge of Meiners Oaks. The hotel is well-appointed but not luxurious. Most the rooms are individual cottages, including private patios with views of the surrounding Ojai Valley. From up here, things started to look more like the Edenistic version of California I was expecting: bluejays, bougainvillea and oleander hemmed in by groves of orange and pomegranate in the distance. It is flora and fauna as emblematic of California as rapeseed, mayblossom, and cow parsley are of the English countryside.

BookEnds Bookstore in Meiners Oaks, Ojai

After checking in, we drove into town and took refuge from the heat along the shaded pathway of the Spanish-style arcade that runs the length of the city’s central block. I stopped for a soda at the type of old-fashioned candy store that’s obligatory in quaint tourist towns. Since Ojai is a quaint California tourist town, there was also no shortage of masseurs and new-agey shops. Our requirement for a dose of culture was fulfilled just around the corner from candy store, where, at the Ojai Arts Center, preparations were underway for a performance of A Streetcar Name Desire.

For dinner, we walked the twenty minutes from our hotel into Meiners Oaks, where two couples have elevated the retail landscape with a well-appointed bookstore and an acclaimed café. The former is a retirement project for Marcia Doty and Celeste Matesev, housed in a converted chapel where the books are displayed in pews. Steve Sprinkel and Olivia Chase are, respectively, Farmer and the Cook at their eponymous vegetarian salad bar and market, adding the café at weekends. They do glorious things with food, including legitimizing jalapeno poppers for those of us who think of ourselves as foodies by stuffing their version with goats cheese. The crowd around us at dinner, full of gentle-looking pony-tailed men wearing rope sandals and late middle-aged women wearing pixie cuts, seemed to be enjoying their food as much as we did. We ended the evening sitting on the patio of our hotel room, soaking up the silence and the stars.

Outskirts of Meiners Oaks

By the time we had finished a long, dusty walk around the perimeter of Meiners Oaks on Saturday morning, the sun was already blazing. This time we escaped the heat back in the center of town at the Ojai Playhouse, a restored movie theater, conveniently located next door to the Jester, a pub owned by an Ojai resident originally from Birmingham, England. He is not the only Brit to have settled here. Sheffield native John Wilcock, co-founder of The Village Voice and long-time travel writer, also calls Ojai home. To make good on our cultural intentions, we spent the early part of the evening at a poetry reading at BookEnds. Dinner was at Deer Lodge, a cleaned-up honky tonk specializing in burgers and chili, followed by dessert at the Ranch House, a hidden garden at the bottom of our hotel’s road.

We spent Sunday morning eating a lazy breakfast on the hotel’s communal patio while scanning the real estate ads of a local magazine. This, to me, is the ultimate sign of a successful weekend away. It’s not the same as the house porn of watching HGTV, composed of alternating yet equal parts envy and marvelment that money can’t buy taste. Instead, we were trying on a new life like a new dress, much as we had six years ago in the Cotswolds. Only this time we were imagining what it would be like to live amongst the eucalyptus- and tortilla-scented air of this peaceful slice of California.

 

The Details + More pictures of Ojai on Pinterest

Ojai Retreat
http://www.ojairetreat.com
160 Besant Rd.
Ojai, CA 93023
(805) 646-2536

Farmer and the Cook
http://www.farmerandcook.com/
339 W. El Roblar
Meiners Oaks
Ojai, California 93023
(805) 640-9608

Bookends Bookstore and other Curiosities
http://bookendsbookstore.com/
110 S. Pueblo Ave.
Meiners Oaks
Ojai, California 93023
(805) 640-9441

Deer Lodge
http://deerlodgeojai.com/
2261 Maricopa Hwy
Ojai, CA 93023
(805) 646 4256