The sound of the surf

This is a topographical map of Hermosa Beach.

See that crumple of hills, a few blocks inland? Well, we live just east of that crumple.

Which is to say there is a hill between us and the beach. It's not much of a hill, according to my Strava the summit is about 90ft above sea level. The walk (or run) is just a couple of minutes up a shaded, woodchip path. And at the top there's a reward in the shape of this view:

From that point the walk to the beach is all downhill, and takes maybe another three minutes.

As a result we do feel that we live close to the beach. It's less than half a mile away. Which is, however, not as close as when we lived 20 miles up the coast in Malibu.

Much as I love the Sugar Cube House, I do miss that deck over the waves, and the fact you could hear the crashing waves of the Pacific throughout the apartment. I guess it spoilt us for life, since anything else just doesn't feel as beachy. We were as 'coastal living' as it's possible to be, without being an actual dolphin.

So when TLOML tells me, with an entirely straight face, that when we have the windows open he can hear the sound of the surf at night, am I to believe him? I don't mean, believe that it is the case - but rather, believe that he really believes it?

Extensive research and personal experience allows me to state with confidence that what he hears from our bedroom in the Sugar Cube is not the sea. I'm guessing the soft sshhusshhing he hears is a combination of the wind in the trees, wildlife in the aloe and ice-plant covered slopes behind the house, and the less poetic hum of distant cars and air conditioning units.

On balance I think it's nicer to live with someone who hears the sound of the ocean, than someone who has been told it can't be so. There's a rhetorical question I've heard posed about marital disputes: 'would you rather be right, or happy?' In this case, I'm going to go with being happy that TLOML is happy - whether or not he is right.

Saltburn - Yorkshire's answer to Malibu

TLOML and I have missed Malibu since we left two years ago. So we're very happy to be enjoying coastal living again.

In many ways Saltburn is a lot like Malibu.

Like Malibu, it has a pier.

Only Malibu's pier, so far as I know, had never won any awards.

Both towns have their fine seafood dining options. Malibu offered us the irritatingly pronounced Geoffrey's (they call it 'Joffreys', go figure), Nobu for upmarket sushi, and Malibu Seafood for fast food. Saltburn has several chippies.

I doubt you could buy a slap up meal in any of those Malibu options for less than a tenner (say, fifteen bucks). You can in Saltburn.

Both towns have a surf school, and draw keen surfers from many miles around.

But I bet those SoCal softies couldn't handle surfing when the weather is literally freezing. My brother-in-law has walked across snow on the beach in order to surf. That's how tough they are up here.

Both have a diner at the pier. In Saltburn the lady in 'Surf's Up' gives my little nephews a free biscuit every time they visit. I don't imagine that happens at Ruby's, though to be fair I never walked in there with two adorable toddlers to test the hypothesis.

I think Saltburn might just have the edge on Malibu. So long as we don't mention the weather. Year round warmth and sunshine is overrated: that's my position and I'm sticking to it.

On ruts and routines

The same ex who accused me of 'living in an NW5 comfort bubble' also repeatedly told me I was 'in a rut'. He was right on both counts - and I was proud to concede so.

Why be ashamed of my lovely comfortable rut? A walk on the Heath every Sunday afternoon, followed by tea and Antiques Roadshow, or a pint. Saturday afternoons rifling through stock in 'The Shop' (so named because the Wonder Twin and I went there so frequently it needed no name). A regular grocery shopping run through the gourmet delights of Kentish Town (B&M Seafood, Phoenicia for baba ganoush and humous, and Earth for all the essentials). A twice weekly walk up to the Ladies Pond in the summer. A monthly pedicure at Tips and Toes. Poker nights, petanque on the Heath, and the occasional cricket match. And so on. This very pleasant, well established rhythm wove its way through a wonderful group of friends and some favourite pubs, parks and cafes, and yes, it was all very cosy.

When TLOML uprooted me to LA it did not take long to establish a new comfortable rut. Our regular run out to Nobu, followed by an ice cream from Malibu Yoghurt. Monday lunches at Coogies, to get out of the maids' hair. A sunset stroll on the beach, and my almost daily forays out on my bike, Doris (for so the Euro has christened her). Gin rummy and whisky on the deck. Pizza nights. Bouillabaisse nights. Our couples workout at the Pepperdine track.

In some ways we never really settled in New York, with our hearts stretched as they were between Malibu and London. But we did manage to get into a lovely comfortable rut there too, fairly quickly. Our regular walk down to Chelsea Market, sprees in the Lobster Place, cocktails at the Tipsy Parson, and coffee at Joe. Detours past Stella or Artichoke on the way home. My new running routine along the river. Nights in with Battlestar Galactica. And, of course, the ritual of bouillabaisse.

Living as I am in limbo, I am without routine. And yet, my ability to create a routine will not be constrained. 10 days in Rio is plenty of time to form a nice comfy rut. I quickly established the same breakfast every day - fruit, cereal and yoghurt, and I don't even look at the 'sausage pie' or the pastry baskets - and a gentle 3 mile jog along the sea front. I've managed to catch E! news every night, and BBC World News 'Hard Talk' every morning, which is a very edifying TV routine. And a highlight of my routine is my expresso duplo in the office, which always comes with a tiny little biscuit on it. The treat for me is guessing what the little biscuit will be.

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Friday

Thursday

Above all, it's just nice to feel at home. Guessing what today's little biscuit will be is a small way of feeling at home.

Still, I am not at home. And I'm dying to get there and get back in my rut. Since I last lived in London some of the parameters have moved: pubs have changed hands, people have had babies and even, gasp!,moved to the country. Still, the foundations of dear friends and excellent pubs remain.

I remain convinced our visa, and therefore TLOML's arrival in London, is imminent. Even though we'll be a little bit nomadic at first, I know it won't take long to establish a new routine. Hopefully one that involves as much as possible of my old routine - expanded and enhanced by TLOML's presence.

Are they colour blocking in LA?

I was asked this salient question just today, by my Wondertwin (so named by TLOML because of the remarkable similarity in our opinions).

Clothes are such a big part of our relationship that when we feature in each other's dreams, we always remember to tell each other what we were wearing. As in 'I had a dream last night and you were wearing this amazing red and white stripey top with a peppermint green collar'. The typical response is 'Oh I would love a top like that!', because the clothes we imagine for each other are always just jaunty and perfect. True friends dream each other in great clothes.

Anyway, back to the question she posed. The short answer is, no. Not intentionally anyway. To the extent that sunwashed yellows are part of the SoCal beachy chic wardrobe, yes. But those bright clashes that are so hot right now in NY and London? No. Nor will they be colour blocking in LA until summer 2012, I predict.

Trends that are huge in London seem to hit LA a year or two later, and are immediately dialled down. It's like they took all the hard edgy stuff from NY and put it in the washing machine with some pebbles. I absolutely love LA style, the proliferation of soft jersey and cut offs, the washed out, beaten up, Venice Beach look. And I have met many chic and stylish women out here who'd hold their own in any fashion capital. Still, it's a lot more laid back, and that's the crucial difference. Sure, you see some cute grown up dresses and some high high heels but not usually together.

Ah, it's been nice living in chinos, shorts, and plaid shirts. Like so many things about the Left Coast, I have been surprised by how easily I assimilated. Always thought I was the urban type, but my blissful year in Malibu says different. Let's hope I cope with the bright lights of the big city.

Truth be told I'm a little nervous about returning to a city where the new cool is outmoded in minutes. My Malibu uniform of  jeans, a slouchy tee and heels just won't cut it. The last time TLOML and I were out at Pulino, I dressed for a neighbourhood Italian, in a very Californian way, and was surrounded by girls in actual dresses. The shame!

As my Wondertwin said, 'what a great opportunity to raise your game.' I will grasp the opportunity.

Malibu is killing me

Is it just because I'm leaving tomorrow? The sky is so blue today, and the sea so sparkly. It hurts!

Besides the obvious allround gorgeousness of the place, here are some other Malibu moments I will miss:

Saying, ‘there goes Cher, off to do her shopping’ every time a helicopter goes past. Several times a week, and my quip still hasn’t got old.

Pepperdine: quite a nice place to jog

The amazing fitness regime TLOML and I have developed: a workout at Pepperdine and a sushi dinner. Mind you, judging by last night’s (unrequested, I promise!) dessert, maybe we had been spending too much time in our local sushi joint. They’ll miss saying ‘Oh, we’ve got something special for you tonight’ when we walk in, and pulling out some exorbitantly priced, still living, sea creature. The way to TLOML’s heart.

...you and and the large checks you frequently present us with...

Predicting which neighbour’s house will fall into the sea first.

The sheer comedy value of watching TLOML secure our perimeter, wielding a large water pistol at the passing seagulls. The range is just a smidge short, but that doesn’t stop him making like a crazy old man and throwing elbows at them between rounds of water fire. Most entertaining.

Anti-seagull weaponry. Poised and ready.

And yes, the all round gorgeousness of the place. The constantly changing colour of the sea and sky, and the way Santa Monica and Catalina appear through mist then disappear. The moon beating a silver path across the water to our deck. It sure is purdy.

To take the edge of my parting woe, I will remind myself of two things I will not miss about Malibu.
1. The dirty looking checkout lady at Ralph's who shouts 'Rosie! I need a pee!' while processing our purchases.
2. Jackasses driving their jackwagons like jacktards, clogging up our li'l street.

Yeah, doesn't really take the edge off much at all. I'll take the jackasses, just give me my beach! NY has a lot to live up to...

Local news for local people

Local news is an acquired taste. To the newcomer or casual visitor, the local freesheet is good only for wrapping fish'n'chips. But within a week or two, the stories of local construction projects, fatal car accidents and library events become utterly, frighteningly fascinating. Pretty soon you start to have positions on local matters you had never previously considered.

Many months after I left London I still check the Camden New Journal for the latest on the controversial 393 bus route (out of interest, I was pro). And to see if my favourite letter writer, a certain Skip Murphy, is still sending his weekly missives. He weighs in on everything from teenage knife crime (I'm anti), the new swimming pool in Kentish Town (I'm pro) and vegetarianism (neutral). Seriously, every single week. I suspect if he didn't write in one week he CNJ would send out a search party.
 
I especially enjoy the panic stricken stories about local treasures which are under threat, like the scuzzy patch of grass by the railway bridge on Prince of Wales Road. Imagine my horror today on finding that one of my favourite local boozers needs to be saved, and by Ed Milliband no less. Yikes, this must be serious! On closer inspection it turns out to be a classic local newspaper scaremongering. The pub landlord wants to build flats above the pub. Phew! And there I was thinking it was about to be bulldozed. Ah, CNJ, you get me every time.

The Malibu Surfside News is a bit less shouty. The front page is usually about the weather. Weather news in Malibu is fairly limited, but they make the most of any unseasonably warm or rainy spell. My favourite is when they make front page news out the fact it's sunny. In the summer. 'Sun in Southern California summer shocker!'.

Once they've covered off the main weather news the Surfside journalistic team always find room to cover traffic on PCH (I'm against), the lagoon renovation project (ditto), and often Dick Van Dyke's latest antics: winning a Dolphin award for being an outstanding Malibu resident, in last week's edition.


 A side note - where were the Surfside reporters when our Dick was being rescued by porpoises? Probably the best Malibu news story of all time and they did not cover it. Shame! Dick claims to have fallen asleep while surfing and drifted out to sea, only to be rescued and pushed home by a school of porpoises. Silliness abounds.

Ah, I'll miss the Surfside news. Wonder what's in store in NYC's local rags... watch this space...

Some puzzles

Puzzle 1: what shall we do with all these eggs and butter which need eating up?

Puzzle 2: fitting all our gubbins into this little box.

 

 

 

 

Puzzle 3: how will they know which is ours?

Puzzle 4: getting 2 sofas, 2 tables, a chair, a yucca, and a snowboard to The Euro's new Venice pad

Answers on a postcard to Isadora Watts, somewhere between Malibu and NYC...

The wise man built his house upon the rock

The foolish man built his house on the sands of Malibu, at the bottom of the Santa Monica mountains. And the rain came tumbling down... and then the mud... and then the rocks.

The rain this weekend was crazy. And it sent people a little crazy too. The jackass, who jacknifed in his jackwagon next to us - a result of aggressively changing lanes at 70mph in 4" of water - on the 101 was a message: life is short, and precious.

The torrential rain and ensuing mud slides and rock falls did not damage our humble surf shack. But it was evidence that Malibu is a natural disaster waiting to happen. Poor Cosentino's flower store was hit by a river of mud from Las Flores canyon. Three days after the storm ended there are still firecrews and maintenance guys scraping the mud slick up from Duke's carpark. Madness.

During the storm the waves crashing against the stilts our building rests on made the whole building shake. Either that, or it was the earthquake that shuddered a way a mile or so offshore from Malibu. Yup, like I said, Malibu is a natural disaster waiting to happen. It's basically a string of multimillion dollar homes, battered by waves daily, clinging to the bottom of cliffs which turn into mud slides in winter and fire routes in summer... It's pretty, but I feel like it might not be here in 10 years time.

When we say goodbye to the 'Bu, it just might be forever. But if Malibu does not get swept away by earth, wind or fire, we're coming back on vacation every year.

A rather precarious house.

Sunset from our deck. Which I suspect could be in fragments on those rocks in 20 years time.

Death wish PCH

I went for my regular weekend pootle into Santa Monica today. This involves 20 minutes on PCH aka the road of death. And 20 minutes on the bike path along the sands of Santa Monica.

On a sunny Saturday, the bike path is almost more dangerous than PCH. Typical hazards include simple-minded, granite-thighed roller bladers swooshing from side to side across the entire bike path, usually with ipod plugged in and baseball cap pulled down, as if seeing and hearing aren't at all important senses to engage whilst hurtling down a narrow path at 15 miles per hour. There are also the giggling tourists, pedalling along all recumbent on those so-called fun cycles, looking googled eyed around them and nearly steering off the path as if they've never seen a beach or been on a bike before. Grrr. The worst of all - because you're not really allowed to shout at them - are the small toddlers who appear out of nowhere to stumble and lurch slowly across the path.

'Fun' for some cycle

Yup, give me the chumps on 'apehangers', the RVs and Hummers of PCH any day.

What made it worse today is that my bike bell has rusted up, which happens to anything vaguely metal in the salty damp air of Malibu (coathangers, necklace clasps, etc). So instead of doing my usual gentle 'ting ting' I had to resort to trilling a rather British 'excuse me' to the idiot peds/ funcyclists/skaters in my path. And for the alarming toddler who appears from nowhere, I reserved a panicked, strangled, high pitched (but still rather British) 'LOOK OUT!!!'. Sometimes with a 'sorrreeeeeeeee' thrown over my shoulder as the child bursts into tears of pure fear.

Bad luck for The Euro, who is taking care of my lovely purple bike with faux leather Western style stitched handle bars and seat, and a rusty basket on the front. It now comes with no means of alerting potential roadkill. She will be careering around Venice in it swearing in 3 languages to clear her path, I'll warrant.


For more on bike bell etiquette, read this quite amusing article from The Guardian's resident cyclist.

Driving Miss Crazy

People drive like lunatics in LA. Some of them probably are genuine lunatics. The rest have just been here so long they think it’s normal to drive like a lunatic.

Since we moved to the beach I have to navigate Pacific Coast Highway in order to go anywhere. PCH is a 45mph road through a residential area (in Malibu at least), which people drive along like it’s a freeway. I try to avoid driving on it, by being TLOML’s shadow and only going out with him. If I need to go and grab groceries or post a letter I take my pushbike. I think the adrenalin rush of feeling Hummers motor past me at 70mph makes the workout more effective.

But every once in a while I have to get behind the wheel of Ellen, our trusty Subaru (named for Ellen Degeneres, natch), and go it alone. Today was one of those days. Within half a mile of my home, I saw this guy walking slowly across the road. Only the crazy (or tourists) walk slowly across PCH. It is not a road to be strolling across. I failed to analyse this quickly enough, didn’t realise he was crazy, and assumed he would stop in the median and wait for me to pass. He did not. He just kept on walking, stepping out right in front of me as if I was not there. Fortunately I had slowed, but despite my beeping (Elle’s horn is a little gentle, a sort of Noddy ‘parp’ rather than a big honk) he continued to walk out. I swerved, slowed, and missed him by about a foot. If this guy stays in Malibu, he’ll be dead within a week.

I was still pretty riled when, another half a mile later a guy in an Escalade (because obviously a 4x4 is essential in the difficult terrain and treacherous weather of LA) cut me up. Was I invisible today? He literally pulled into my lane, with no signal, right into me, as if I wasn’t there. The old brake, swerve, beep manoeuvre is becoming too familiar.

Finally, at a light in Santa Monica, I saw another classic example of LA driving. A permatanned blonde woman in a Porsche Boxster, making an illegal left turn across traffic, with her cell phone in one hand, and a yappy little dog on her lap. Nice. It should probably have riled me, but it actually just made me chuckle.