When is a wilderness not a wilderness?

When it contains a drinking fountain, picnic tables and slabs of cement, I suppose.

On driving by Wilderness Park, seeing that name on a sign, and some overgrown shrubs escaping a chainlink fence, my hopes were raised. It did look small, but also fairly wild. I took TLOML and P there promising adventure, and a good pine cone harvest.

Perhaps the map in the parking lot should have been my first clue. That's a lot of pathway and campsite for a handkerchief sized wilderness. But maybe, I thought, that's a wide, dirt path surrounded by swathes of beautiful, rampant nature.

Then again, maybe not. There was more concrete than dirt at Wilderness Park. There were almost as many breeze block toilet structures as large trees.

'Look, P, it's just like being in Yorkshire. There's a tree!'

'...and a water fountain'.

A babbling brook, this is not:

Lesson learned. Next time I'm in search of untamed, green, natural beauty (and we're not in Yorkshire) we'll just head to Terranea.

The good news: the pine cone harvest was very good.

Leaving the bubble

We spent Thanksgiving in Georgia, with a wing of TLOML's family. It was a long overdue trip and we had a really good time reconnecting, eating well and yes, feeling thankful.

I was prepared for some culture shocks. I had let P know that it would be a bit colder than LA. I also knew we'd be in the land of subdivisions. For my Brits, a subdivision is a housing development. They're strung out along highways between areas of undeveloped land (actual nature - trees and hills and so on) and are the polar opposite to the urban density we and P are used to. I knew we were leaving the liberal left leaning 'resist' mindset of California for #MAGA land. But a little difference of opinion never hurt anyone, so that didn't worry me any. I also knew - and welcomed - the fact that we'd be trading kale salads and Jamba Juice for Dairy Queen and Waffle Houses. That's good stuff.

But I really never thought I'd see a see saw. Nor one of those dangerous roundabouts the sight of which still makes me wince - the kind you can fly off, or be dragged around half-on-half-off, or be screaming 'stop I want to get off!" while some bigger kid sees how fast they can spin it.

I thought they were banned across America, the land of the brave, free and litigious. You certainly never see such perilous equipment in California. Here, the seesaws and roundabouts have curved seats - kind of like arm chairs -  which hug children of all abilities safely, as their friends indulge in some co-operative play and propel them smoothly and conscientiously.

P would have been on this thing all day if we'd let her

Scream if you want to get off/ go faster!

But no, it's only us softy coastal elites who've banned those deathtraps. This excellent playground in Cumming, GA had both a proper seesaw and a proper roundabout - and was all the better for it. Georgia - making playgrounds great again. Is #MPGA a thing?

Beating the traffic but losing the game

'Join us at the opera', we said, quite smugly, to a friend visiting from out of town. 'We've got great seats and we know the perfect place for a late dinner after the performance'.

We've enjoyed probably seven or eight productions at the LA Opera in the past couple of years, and we think we've got it down to a fine art. After a couple of stressful trips, battling rush hour and rushing through labyrinthine parking structures to make our seats in time, we have figured out the best exit off the 110, the best way to cut through Downtown LA during rush hour and the optimum parking spot. Not just the best lot, but the best corner of that lot so that we minimize walking (and rushing). Now we know, too, which seats are nearest the best exits for the loo. So we think we've pretty much nailed the whole opera experience.

After the show we always go to Kendall's. It's right underneath the opera house, and popular with the LA Opera company. We like the pile of instruments that stack up by the door, and the musicians in varying degrees of black tie. But we have at times had to take a table in the section far away from the bar, which doesn't have the same vibe. So now we leave the opera rather promptly, in order to secure the best seats at the bar.

Yes, I'm afraid we've become those annoying people who leave before the applause ends. We do stay for the first round of bows, of course. But we are out of our seats and down the stairs while the performers are still on the stage. I used to think it was bad form, but it's worth it for those great bar seats. For example, last week we sat next to Morris Robinson, having just seen him belting it out as Zaccaria in Nabucco.

That was the same night that we got our comeuppance. It turns out it is not always smart to leave before the final curtain. Sometimes we are too clever for our own good. And that annoying LA desire to beat the traffic should sometimes be resisted.

It transpires that at the end of the performance, the entire house join in to sing the fabulous, rousing 'Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves'. It is my absolutely favorite piece from any opera (I know, not that surprising, it's a crowd pleaser). I love to sing, especially with other people - blame it on my choir girl days. An entire opera house full of people singing my favorite piece - the thought of it almost brings to me tears. And while all that was going on, we and our poor trusting house guest were congratulating ourselves for having placed our cocktail and supper order in good time. Ugh! We've become the worst kind of Los Angeleno.

I'd like to say I've learned my lesson. But I suspect we'll still try to head out before the final curtain. After all, most performances don't involve such a bonus. Which of course makes it all the more once-in-a-lifetime, and all the more galling. As Thoreau has it 'to regret deeply is to live afresh'. So we'll probably enjoy that perfect spot at the bar even more, at least.

Football fever

I’m a huge NFL fan now. I even call football ‘soccer’. The NFL is back in Los Angeles with the return of the St Louis Rams and the San Diego Chargers. Confused, Brits? Remember when Wimbledon moved to Milton Keynes and became the MK Dons? It’s kinda like that. NFL teams are corporate entities, which choose their location based on the economic benefits. For about twenty years it worked out for the Rams to be in St Louis. Then it became more appealing to be back in LA – just at the same time as the Chargers decided to relocate.

Thus, in 2016 LA went from a city with zero teams to one with two. It had struck me as odd that LA, the 2^nd biggest city in the US, didn’t have its own football team. But LA is not a good city for football: everyone leaves at half time because of the traffic. The Rams may have been better off in St Louis when (respectfully) they were the biggest show in town, and they could fill a stadium with truly dedicated fans as opposed to a bunch of flakey shysters.

Anyway the LA Rams are here. And until their gleaming new stadium is built and season tickets become exorbitantly expensive, they're playing at the Coliseum, for which we have season tickets. TLOML bought them so he could watch his beloved Redskins play as much as for the Rams, which is a classic LA NFL fan move.

The Coliseum is apparently regarded as a decrepit stadium, long past its shelf life. I shudder to think what the people who say that would make of Lord’s. To me, those Olympic torches and those Greek (Roman? Post Modernist?) columns are quite splendid. And it’s big! It holds 93k, which would make for an amazing spectating experience if only the place wasn’t half empty because all the fans are stuck on the 10.

Note the proportion of Washington Redskins fans (red shirts). Because LA.

Speaking of big, so are some of the fans. You don’t see this much in health conscious Hermosa but these two fans – who sit in front of TLOML’s seats – are a good example. 

They buy an extra seat to accommodate their girth and their snacks. Lucky for whoever sits behind and can use it as a footrest.

Despite my opening claim, I actually still can’t follow the action in an American football game. I’ll probably stick with proper football, where there actually IS always some action, and you can always see where the ball is. But I’ve enjoyed my taste of the NFL, and I won’t begrudge TLOML his chance to see some big games in that lovely old crock of a stadium. Apparently when they move to the new stadium season tickets will be extortionate – so we might be back to watching the Redskins lose on our TV at home.

The weather in LA is terrible. Especially when it's not that bad.

Well, that was rainy season I guess. It came and left in the space of about three weeks, with several days of rain across that time and some colder days too. We had enough rain to skip watering the plants on our deck, and for P to gleefully dig out her umbrella. There was enough rain in the rest of the state for the drought to be almost over (for now), although not enough in Los Angeles, apparently. And enough rain here for locals to joke about how poorly prepared for it we are. It got cold enough to switch the heating on, and even light a fire. Okay, at 15c maybe that was stretching it a bit, but we indulged ourselves.

I think most people here enjoyed the novelty and are glad to see we are going to enjoy some warmer, sunnier weather now. But I have not had enough. I have this burning nostalgia for cold air, pink cheeks, clouds of breath, slapping your arms together and stamping your feet for warmth, taking off several layers of clothing when you get indoors - but keeping thick socks and a nice warm jumper on.

Looks like they're having that sort of weather - and then some - in the UK right now. Listen, I'm not crazy. I wouldn't wish a 'thunderstorm' on anyone, nor would I want to experience one in person. But for sure I could handle some blustery days. The weather here is never ever bracing. Sigh.

It makes me sad to think that P has never really had that experience. When she was a baby and we lived in Saltburn we had to bundle her up, but that's long forgotten. And a few days up a Californian mountain every year or so won't really cut it either.

Remember woolly hats?

It's not that I want her to be cold. That's just mean. I think I just want her to be nostalgic about the same things I am nostalgic about. By that logic, I suppose I'd like her to know how it feels to sing folk songs round a campfire with the Girl Guides, or have calamine lotion rubbed onto sunburn, or eat cold rice pudding from a little glass dish, or other childhood memories that bring a lump to my throat. I may have read too much Brambly Hedge lately. But it's no good, I can't manufacture her memories, and she's going to grow up in a place with mild winters, the poor little mite.

TLOML told me today that being afraid for the future of the Affordable Care Act is not a good enough reason to move to the UK. I rather think he'd say the same about wanting to experience poor weather, only with even greater conviction.

I might just have to settle for a trip to the UK next winter. That's about as much as TLOML can handle to be honest, and he'll spend the whole time nostalgic for 25c and sunshine I know.

Fall Fashion

Labor Day weekend has been and gone, the kids are back at school, and summer is officially over. This was one of my favourite times of year in the UK: misty mornings on the Heath, the opportunity to light a fire and make hearty soups - okay, maybe not in September, but October is just around the corner. And the delight of flicking through magazines imagining what woollens I would be
'shopping my closet' for, what new boots I had to have, and deciding whether last year's coat would do for this year or not.

Pictures like this would make my heart skip. Look at them all belted up with their nice scarves on!

Not any more. Now I just feel pangs. That Burberry ad ran in the September edition of Vogue, which I bought to keep Lady P's archive up-to-date, along with lots of other Autumnal images. They are like postcards from another life. I flicked through images of long coats, clunky boots, and heavy tweed skirts, with my short shorts on and my flip flop tan line visible.

This is what autumnal dressing looks like in LA:

 

Sigh. I know, this is another post like that one where I moaned about it being too sunny in our new house. I'm sure your heart just bleeds for me.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. There's a lot to be said about warm weather, after all. And while autumn and winter are wonderful seasons, they can drag on a bit in Britain. So I'll enjoy the shorts season while it lasts (another month or two, I'd say). And I'll keep my fingers crossed for at least a month of rain, and a handful of evenings where I need to put socks on.

Black napkins

Last weekend TLOML and I went out to our new favourite Hermosa restaurant, Steak and Whisky, with our two favourite South  Bay friends. The cocktails were perfect (mine, a perfect Manhattan, was literally so). The service was pleasant, and efficient. The conversation was convivial. All was good.

And then, on the horizon, appeared a danger I had never even known existed. The perils of a white napkin. Dining out, at least in dark clothing, will never be the same again.

Our dining companions requested a black napkin. I looked puzzled. I thought I was hearing things. or it was a code for a secret off menu food item. Then they asked if I needed one too.

'I don't think so', I said. 'What..., um, ... why would I?'

'For the lint!', they said, barely concealing a 'duh' eyeroll.

I looked down at my lap. Sure enough, the white napkin I had thoughtlessly accepted had left tiny little white fluffs of lint all over my indigo jeans.

The horror on my lap - dark denim, pale linen

Because I'm British and like to be seen as low maintenance I declined (brushing off the lint and tutting to myself while no-one was looking). Still, now I know. Apparently black napkins are a thing you can request in nice restaurants, if you're wearing an outfit that wouldn't look good with too much white lint.

The lint-free smarts across the table: winning!

Every time I think I've got a handle on the amazing service culture in this country, the whole set of standards get ramped up another notch.

Do other cities offer black napkins, or is it just an LA thing? And what next, I wonder? And more to the point, in a restaurant with black napkins as standard, can I request a white napkin if I'm wearing white jeans? Watch this space. No indulgence will go unreported.

On glamorous parties (and the kind of people you rarely see in Hermosa Beach)

TLOML and I left the bubble last night. We went to a glamorous launch party in Beverly Hills. It was pretty high octane. January Jones and Camille Belle were (paid to be) there. There were canapes by Bouchon, bellinis by Cipriani, and a heck of a lot of plastic surgery. Many heavily made up girls (and some guys) squealing in delight at each other/ their reflections / selfies.

Also some beautiful and expensive clothes. I enjoy spotting fancy pants clothes, otherwise seen only in Vogue, in the flesh. Edgy designer wear is obviously a pretty common sight in London and New York but rarely seen on the streets of Hermosa. I was all a-flutter. 'Ooh, that's this season's Stella McCartney', I murmured to TLOML, who sadly wasn't remotely interested. And he had no answer to my 'Are people still wearing Tod's?' question, either.

So I thought I'd share some sartorial highlights with you, dear reader, instead.

In the interests of not looking like I was taking photos, I had to pretend I was texting, so mainly captured floor shots. But as this outstanding Tumblr account dedicated to the jeans-and-shoes phenomenon makes clear, those can be the best kind. (Thanks to Lady P's godfather, professional gambler and curator of web-bobbins for showing me the way to this internet treat).

Sharp shoes, no socks. This is a man who drives everywhere.

I'm guessing she's not walking far either. Ouch.

Slightly drunk lady swaying near a man who's half beach, half business

Beautiful model-turned-actress type walks past several admirin men in pointy leather shoes. Textbook Beverly Hills party scenario.

Excuse the strange colours. I think there was some kind of show going on. Of course I was too busy snapping shoes and scoffing at the Beverly Hills types to watch it.

On reflection, perhaps it's for the best we don't get out of the Hermosa bubble too often, I'm not sure I handle the excitement too well. And for the record, as I type this, I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt and no shoes at all. Beverly Hills is fun but I like the beach life best of all.

June gloom

June is here. And therefore, so is June gloom.

Los Angelenos like the rest of the world to think we enjoy year-round sunshine. (Don't mention the rainy season.) But June really is quite gloomy. It's something to do with the marine layer, a blanket of sea mist which weather conditions hold, hugged close to the shore, throughout the summer. In Yorkshire, they'd call it a sea fret. But in Yorkshire, it wouldn't lift for days.

Here, it lifts every day, at some point. Here's how it works:

8am. I comment 'What a grey day'

10am. 'Is it lifting? I think it might be lifting.'

11am. Decide to hang the throw out to dry to reduce tumble-drying guilt

2pm. The throw is dry and I am applying SPF30 for my commute back to the house

June gloom is wonderfully predictable. The only variance is whether the marine layer lifts before lunch or after. Sometimes it doesn't lift till late afternoon - but there's always sunshine for a late afternoon stroll along the beach. It's guaranteed by Los Angeles county law, I think.

In England, there is a lot less certainty. Yes, summer is full of glorious, sunny days with bright blue skies and little fluffy clouds. Beautiful days that rival anything LA has to offer. But it just might rain at any time. Only a fool ventures out for the day without packing a brolly as well as their sunscreen. Of course, that's part of the reason those sunny days are such gems.

I'm feeling sentimental at the moment, and looking forward to our trip home to the land of 'mixed' weather. Something tells me the novelty will wear off just in time for me to return to Hermosa and enjoy the rest of summer full of boringly predictable, 70s-and-sunny afternoons.

Fantasy house hunt

Now our real house hunt is over, and we are unpacked and settled in, I can get back to a much more enjoyable kind of house hunt: the fantasy one. I get plenty of fodder from my jogs along the beach, but I also like to scour the pages of DIGS, the South Bay's freebie real estate rag.

It is an intoxicating blend of the desirable, and the pretentious. The cover says it all.

'Retraite elegant' indeed. Pretentious, moi?

For what it's worth that home on the cover is not in France, but according to the ad, it easily could be. Or at least 'anywhere from Marseille to St Charles Avenue to the Hill section of Manhattan Beach'. Last week's cover was a Napa farmhouse. Only not in Napa, but in Manhattan Beach.

See what I mean about the weird absence of a sense of place around here? I mean, you live in a great, beachy SoCal town - why would you want to imagine you live anywhere else?

Another thing I'm baffled and intrigued by is the Honor Roll of architects. This ad describes the home as being representative of some of the best architects in town: 'starting with Pat Killen to Nota to Starr then back to Killen then Lee to Meyer then back again to the architect of this home, Pat Killen'. Confused much? Me too. But I suspect if I keep up my readership of DIGS in a few months that sentence will make perfect sense and those names will be as familiar as a list of BBC news anchormen.

Let's take a closer look at one of these flights of fancy. This home was apparently inspired by a 'personal journey through the hills of Tuscany'. Quite often when I get back from a nice holiday I decide to build a house to remind me of it. It's more cumbersome than a photo album but oh, so much more evocative.

Check out this Old World styled pool table:

And this Tuscan gym:

Here's another winner. How convenient, to be able to park your car right there in the living room! Oh, wait, or is that just a really luxurious garage?

Now you can see why I love DIGS so much. It's part salivatory surf through beautiful homes, and part just pure goofiness. I'll know we've made it when I'm actually looking through it for somewhere we might really live. Till then, I'll keep dreaming of a home in the Tuscan hills, with space in the living room for a fast car.

Leaving the bubble

As you may have noticed, I love Hermosa Beach. I also, as previously posted, like being in a comfortable rut. So two months into our new life here and I have established a fairly small radius within which I operate. It's about the size of Hermosa Beach. Well, we have everything we need right here, why would I ever leave?

It took our first house guest to drag me out of the bubble. Lady P's godfather, my old and very dear friend, The Gambler, has come to town. He loves being schooled in animal sounds by Lady P, and jogging along the Strand with me. But after a couple of days in the bubble I sensed he had itchy feet.

So it was that we hired bikes from the Hermosa Cyclery and took the bike path up to the Marina Del Rey.

As we passed the industrial sites of El Segundo I started to doubt the merits of leaving the bubble

...but before too long we were enjoying the cheesy delights of 70s tourist spot 'Fisherman's Village'

... and we got to gawp at plenty of beachfront real estate on our way too

Emboldened, I braved the freeway traffic to take him even further afield. The Getty Center was well worth the drive, and an afternoon's mooching around Santa Monica was fun.

But it all started to look a bit hairy again when we ventured into hipster paradise, Downtown LA, full of warehouses and pop up shops and moustachioed boys in jazz shoes. We had a lunch reservation at Factory Kitchen and parked a couple of blocks away (being the Brits we are). Wow, those downtown blocks are long and bleak.

DTLA. Not as pretty as Hermosa.

Lunch was great but the walk to and from was not. 'Hurried and tense' is not my ideal post-meal constitutional. Having learnt our lesson we drove the remaining 2 blocks to the heart of Little Tokyo. A brief sampling of Japanese American history and coffee rounded off our big city adventure perfectly.

Then it was back to the beach. Phew.

It was really great, being forced out of the 90254 bubble. There's a whole exciting world out there. But The Gambler's gone now. So TLOML are now enjoying not leaving the bubble again till someone else makes us.

Welcome to Hermosa Beach

Well, we made it. We are here in lovely Hermosa Beach, a few days into our househunt and readjusting to life in Southern California.

Thanks to a half empty plane, and an enormous bag of snacks and toys, the flight was not too painful after all. Lady P's body clock has not caught up with the time zone change yet, and we're enduring some 4am breakfasts and long, shouty nap fails. But we're hoping it won't be much longer till she chills out and rolls with the SoCal vibe.

It'd be hard for her not to, because Hermosa Beach (and neighbouring Manhattan Beach) is all about with the chilled out SoCal vibe.

The holiday flat we're staying in is covered in surf and beach themed knick knacks. Judging by the number of houses we've passed with 'this way to the beach' or 'beach house' signs on their exterior, I think this is the way people round here decorate.

The local corner shop is adorned with surfboards, sells wax, and specialises in surf-friendly smoothies.

People are jogging, skate boarding and beach biking along every sidewalk. (Yes, I said sidewalk. When in Rome.) There are bowls of water for dogs outside all the shops and cafes. People smile and say hi when they pass you on an early morning coffee run. It's almost like being in Saltburn, for friendliness.

Apparently the kids at Hermosa and Manhattan Beach schools can opt for surf as one of their Phys Ed choices. The pier has a 'Surfer Walk of Fame' on it.

The beach is dense with volleyball pitches and Baywatch style lifeguard stations.

I could go on, but I think you get it. It's a nice place to live. In fact in many ways it reminds me of Saltburn: a small, friendly community by the sea.

Now we just need to find somewhere in it to actually live.

Living at the centre of the universe

I used to think London was the centre of the universe, and nothing of note happened in the rest of the country. I suspect that's one of the reasons Londoners put up with so many inconveniences - the high cost of living, the crush on West End pavements, the low level hassle involved in getting anywhere on public transport - because it does feel like the place where everything brilliant occurs. That's partly because it really is where most brilliant things in Britain do occur. But also because British media feature what appears to be a disproportionate amount of London. I notice that bias much more now I live outside of London. Magazines and newspapers, being written by a bunch of Londoners I suppose, are written as if everyone lives there. And London is a backdrop for a disproportionate number of TV dramas and films. Beefeaters, Big Ben and the classic London black cab are a visual shorthand for Britishness.

Yet the rest of the UK is nothing like London. People don't get on the Tube, or spend their Sunday afternoons in Primrose Hill, or shop in Space NK, outside of London. A little over 10% of the UK population live in London - the rest of us live in places like Saltburn, and Berkhamsted, Glasgow and Claygate. To the vast majority of Brits I think London is rather a foreign place. (In fact, I think London has more in common with other world cities than other British cities.) Still, if you live in London you have your faith in the great importance of where you live reinforced on a daily basis.

Saltburn - a little known backwater, frankly.

Los Angeles of course, has this ego problem even worse. Blame the lack of imagination of those people in the film industry, for they don't seem to be able to picture anything beyond the end of their street. So a disproportionate number of films and TV shows are set in LA. Plus thanks to all the celebs who live out there, most of the pap photos in trashy magazines have Santa Monica or Beverly Hills or boring old Brentwood as a backdrop. So despite that less than 5% of the population of the US live there one can easily get comfortable with the idea that LA is the centre of the American universe.

The centre of the universe! If you're in the movies, anyway.

I hate to admit that this is probably an underlying reason behind my preference for LA. It's not a real, worth-acting-on reason, but rather a feeling I'm a bit embarrassed to admit to. It's egotism, I suppose.

If we do end up back in LA we can reignite the illusion of living where all the cool stuff goes on. In which case frequent return trips to Yorkshire will be crucial to flag to Lady P that there's a real world out there. Of course, if we move to some beautiful but boring suburb in the Bay Area we won't need to worry about that. She'll grow up like I did, longing to move to the big smoke (that's London or LA), under the illusion that it is the centre of the universe.