When the Bahooka tiki restaurant in Rosemead closed in March 2013, there was one burning question on longtime patrons' minds: what would happen to Rufus, the enormous, elderly, carrot-eating Pacu fish who welcomed guests from his tank beside the cash register?
Rufus' fate has been subject of a Column One Los Angeles Times article, an online "let's move Rufus" campaign and much chatter in the Tiki community. Earlier this year, the property's current owner, Alan Zhu, declared his intention to keep Rufus in the new Chinese restaurant and to move him to a larger tank.
But a visit on May 5, 2014 revealed an empty, gutted Bahooka with no sign of Rufus or any fish tanks.
Contentious recent discussions on the Tiki Central message board include the claim, supposedly made by a former Bahooka kitchen staff member, that Rufus has been released into a koi pond in Long Beach.
We do not know if this is true. We sincerely hope it is not, as such a transition would certainly prove fatal to Rufus, a warm-water fish.
Our question to Alan Zhu, owner of the Bahooka property and Rufus: Where's Rufus? Unless you provide Proof of Life -- a photograph of Rufus with today's newspaper -- we can only assume the worst.
Stay informed about the search for Rufus on the Tiki Central message board.
Please use these hashtags in social media to help raise awareness that Rufus is MIA: #saverufus #wheresrufus #rufusProofOfLife
On the occasion of the 75th Anniversary of the opening of L.A.'s grand Union Station, we bring you a psychedelic flashback from the building's 31st year, when the editors of The Los Angeles Times' "Home" section sent a trio of Boho-fabulous models (and a puppy) to the Station for a holiday pictorial entitled
And by all accounts, these pretty youngsters do. Languid in double-knit, tweed and suede, they lounge against the cool, sound-baffling wall panels (made, they say, of corn) and in the broad brown armchairs, and caper trackside on a luggage cart.
Dresses by Alvin Duskin from Bullock's Wilshire. Menswear from Joseph Magnin. Photos: Jean Pagliuso. Copy by Alan Cartnal, whose California Crazy didn't "play" in New York, but what does New York know of the West? Listen:
"Give an elegant lady a train station and she knows what to do with it. Anna Karenina knew. Carole Lombard knew. Eva Marie Saint knew. And in more recent times, Barbra Streisand knew. Train stations have class. And thanks to the return to popularity of all aspects of the American panorama, the young have rediscovered the style of Union Station. It's not just a "Brief Encounter"--but the current craze for old movies with ultra-romantic themes leads us back to where the romance started--in a train station. We may be living in a city on four wheels, and in an era when a trip to the airport can end up an international incident, but at the Union Station you encounter a world away from protest. Architectural students aside, the eclectic mixture of styles in the station, the laziness of the Mission architecture, the luxury of the lavishly upholstered chairs, the musical comedy "big number" proportions of the monumental hallways, the graphics of a streamlined "pardon me boys" type of world, recall a time that has been replaced by Autopia. And the people of Union Station. The red caps. The ticket agents. The women who still remember it all and who sit elegantly, their elbows propped "just so" on the warm wood of the arms of their chairs, heads tilted back, cigarettes lighted, the smoke drifting to the art deco ceilings. It all seems like something out of the stylized illustrations in Harper's Bazaar and Vogue of the '30s--it is. And with every designer heralding a return to that style, Union Station seems more fashionably romantic and ready for a renaissance than ever. You'll love it because it seems to have been done out of love. Out of times when presidential candidates toured the country and paused at every "whistle stop." When peroxided blonde movie stars crossed the country, inviting reporters to a special news conference about the 20th Century Limited. Of the boys returning from World War II meeting families and sweethearts at the Union Station. Strangely enough, in a city which is supposed not to have history, Union Station has history. And it makes it as warm as its almost-Rembrandt lighting, with the sun sifting through its rococo windows playing games that just don't happen with utilitarian design. It's a pre-buttoned-down Los Angeles. And to those who want a taste of history--the young--a meeting place with times gone by. A mood that is just right for fashion tastes that remember what Richard Avedon did for Audrey Hepburn with just a little steam from an El Capitan. People on the screen who have had anything to do with trains have enjoyed themselves. They didn't need a message, because they had a medium. The Union Station is the ultimate ambience for a fashion age of "anything goes"--the heralding of a neo-romantic feeling for a return to the style of the '30s."
What's so marvelous about this pictorial is that it could have been shot last week. Timeless then, as now, as on the day it was dedicated, it is the last of the great American train stations, and the best part of Los Angeles. Happy anniversary, baby. Please don't ever change.
Scroll down for bonus holiday gift ads from this Christmas 1970 edition.
Over the Labor Day weekend, the Esotouric gang set off to explore some gems off California's beaten paths, bound for neon signage, petrographs (so much more delicate than their cousins, the -glyphs), peculiar Victorian mansions, thrift shops, mid-century time capsules and a lesser-known residence from the office of the great Mayan Revival architect Robert Stacy-Judd.
Departing the vast Carizzo Plain and the ruined, yet still lovely, Painted Rock, we cut towards the vast agricultural lands of the Central Coast, and the agricultural city of Santa Maria.
Since its founding in 1917, the Inn has served as home base for many Hollywood film crews, stretching back to the silent era, when the nearby Guadalupe dunes stood in for Egypt, Arabia and other exotic lands.
While the Inn has been expanded in recent years, with a modern facade and tower, a long beamed parlor remains just off the main desk, decorated with historic photographs, Anglophile murals and notable pages from the Inn's guest register.
Why yes, that is William Randolph Hearst's John Hancock. Even a fella with a castle spends the occasional night on the road.
We liked our cozy second story room above the quiet courtyard in the historic section and the sincere graciousness of the staff. If you should find yourself in the middle of the state, we certainly recommend the Santa Maria Inn as a pleasant place to linger.
We got an early start the next morning, bound for the handsome Spanish Colonial Revival City Hall complex.
The offices were shut, but there was much to admire in the exterior ornamentation.
Then we rambled around in one of our favorite thrift shops.
And admired the magnificent old Haslam block, which at the time of our visit was seeking new tenants.
For lunch, we stopped in Guadalupe, a charming little early 20th century downtown that's suffering mightily due to civic dysfunction and the state's earthquake retrofitting requirements.
We've blogged about Guadalupe before. A hike along the boardwalk through the dunes, a visit to the little museum and leisurely chats with local shopkeepers are among our favorite ways to spend a few hours off the grid.
On previous visits, we'd have gravitated towards the Far Western Tavern at meal time, but after 54 years, the family pulled up stakes and built a new restaurant in upscale (comparatively) Orcutt.
Happily, El Tapatio was open for business, grilling up perfect fluffy chiles rellenos with a side of fresh corn tortillas. When we raved to our waitress about the fare, she blushed and agreed her grandparents are geniuses.
We've photographed the dune walk on past visits, so left our gear stowed on this one. The sands don't change much from year to year, and if the zipping swallows above our heads were the grandchildren of birds we met previously, it didn't show.
This is how we remember it, anyway.
Over the Labor Day weekend, the Esotouric gang set off to explore some gems off California's beaten paths, bound for neon signage, petrographs (so much more delicate than their cousins, the -glyphs), peculiar Victorian mansions, thrift shops, mid-century time capsules and a lesser-known residence from the office of the great Mayan Revival architect Robert Stacy-Judd.
Due to the heat wave, we set the alarm and left Los Angeles before dawn. Our first destination was Painted Rock, a little-known Native American site in the midst of the dusty, alkaline Carizzo Plain, and we hoped to arrive before the area became completely inhospitable.
The morning light was beautiful as we pulled into the handsome downtown of the booming Kern County oil town of Taft. We had a quick breakfast of eggs, home fries, biscuits and honey at Jo's Family Restaurant, where the petroleum-themed decor was enhanced by the lively conversations from tough old oil men and women clustered around nearby tables. Jo's, by the way, is a bullying-free zone.
We'd been admiring the back side of the old Fox Theater through the diner window, so after breakfast we stretched our legs with a stroll along Center Street.
The Fox is a beauty, with fine neon scrollwork and a generous exterior lobby. There has been a theater on this site for about a century.
Naturally, we were concerned to see the marquee sporting a message urging that we HELP SAVE THE FOX.
There was nobody on the street to ask why the Fox needed saving, but fliers in nearby shop windows expanded on the message: if they keep taking their movie-going business to Bakersfield, Tafties risk losing their hometown screen.
The Fox has had some challenges in recent years, semi-dodging a foreclosure bullet in 2010.
Happily, just this week the theater completed a successful Kickstarter campaign to finance an upgrade to a digital projector, which will allow them to book new releases. One hopes this will cut down on the need to travel to Bakersfield on date night. Why not drop in for a show some night and help keep the Fox alive?
Next, we took advantage of a uniquely Taft photo op…
And admired the local color in a shop window…
Then we rolled out of town, making a couple of stops to admire the scenery before the land opened up all around us, with nothing as far as we could see.
The Carizzo Plain is a sprawling expanse of Nationally protected land, east of Taft, nestled between the Temblor and Caliente mountain ranges. To visit Painted Rock, you need to obtain a BLM pass code, which opens the mechanical gate on the far side of Soda Lake.
In case we didn't realize how wild things are inside the gate, a lone pronghorn antelope saw us coming, paused for a moment, then bounded across the road and into the sands beyond, all proud horns and powerful legs. His silhouette was familiar from many petroglyphs we've seen. The visitation was quick, so all we have to show for it is some blurry cell phone video, from which this screen grab comes.
We drove on, towards the massive rock formation rising up from the plain. The landmark called Painted Rock is a remnant from the floor of an ancient sea, and once teemed with fish and animal life.
The walk out to Painted Rock isn't a long one, but the sun was already beating down, and we were glad for our hats and water bottles.
The broad path was dotted with animal scat of various sizes.
We didn't see any burrowing owls, but found fluffy evidence of their presence.
Finally, we arrived at the u-shaped opening into the ritual space, then stepped into the sheltering shade. It seemed the perfect place to rest, light a fire or pray to ancient gods.
Unfortunately, Painted Rock is not a pristine example of the art work of pre-conquest Californians. Around the turn of the last century, Anglo visitors carved their names--some quite artfully-- into the soft stone…
…and at least one heartless pilgrim emptied his shotgun into the wall.
Still, some striking figures remain visible. The form below reminded us of the powerful spirit on the cave at Tomo-Khani, though without a guide, its significance remained elusive.
Deep in the shelter of the rock, a delicate spirit object hung from a bit of hand-wrapped twine. Made of feathers, shells and hand-carved wooden beads, it swung as a mute reminder that this place is still alive in the heart of native people, and used for rituals that retain their power in this strange new world.
But it was getting hotter, and the road beckoned. A pair of crows wheeled off the top of the rock and shrieked at us. It was time to go.
So we headed back down the path, with the broad Carizzo Plain before us, and a millennium of traveler's memories at our back.
Next stop: Santa Maria, and one of the oldest hostelries remaining in the Central Valley.
Photos by Chinta Cooper and Kim Cooper.
At the end of May, the Esotouric crew had a rare opportunity to tour a Southern California landmark which has long obsessed us: Sister Aimee Semple McPherson's 1929 Moorish-style castle, perched high above Lake Elsinore.
The property has been in private hands for decades, including several years when it was inhabited by squatters. It has only recently returned to the possession of a Foursquare Gospel congregation, which has begun the process of restoring the property and intends to open it up for occasional tours. (Sign up for the Esotouric newsletter if you'd like to stay informed about tours of the house.)
Sister Aimee's Castle is a truly fascinating place, and our visit did nothing to dispell our obsession. Although located in remote Riverside County, it is a house born of Hollywood. In the late 1920s, the famed radio evangelist was in desperate need of a private retreat away from her Echo Park church and neighboring parsonage, where she could relax with her family and avoid the prying eyes of reporters. When, as a marketing ploy, the Clevelin Realty Corporation offered her several plum plots at the tippy top of the newly formed Country Club Heights District, Aimee gratefully accepted.
The developers knew that Aimee would build something spectacular, but her collaboration with the little-known architect Edwin Bickman took spectacle to a new level.
Recently returned from a trip to the Holy Land, Aimee chose to build a sprawling residence inspired by the Moorish architecture that had thrilled her soul--but carefully calibrated to serve as a machine for living for her very unusual Southern California family. To tour the Castle today is to feel as though you were being guided through the property by Aimee herself.
Aimee's Castle is intended to be "read" from bottom to top. The narrative begins on the road into Lake Elsinore, where flashes of white walls, blue tiled domes and golden spires draw the eye, and the heart, towards the peak.
Once she reached the hill, the whole valley was spread out beneath her, allowing an easy scan of the bare hillsides for any reporter who might be lurking.
But should a stranger be seen, there was nothing to fear. The enclosed garage would simply swallow up Aimee and her big car. Once inside, she was safe within the cocoon of her own making, and the story of the house began to unfold.
Remember: bottom to top. From the garage, she mounted steep steps to enter an astonishing fantasia: a rough-hewn concrete ascending tunnel, inspired by the Via Dolorosa, the path of Christ's journey through ancient Jerusalem.
But instead of climbing to Golgotha to be crucified, Aimee rose up to the top of the mountain, where she was perfectly safe. The next private space is a tiled and vaulted exercise room, where the wee evangelist could strengthen her body for the spiritual trials which lay ahead of her.
Then upward again, into the house itself. Through cool hallways, into ornate doorways...
...until finally the heart of the house is revealed. A great room, open onto the sky and the lake below, its vault painted with intricate, gem-like Islamic figures, the walls fresco'd with illusionary folds of patterned cloth.
A later owner painted over these fantastic wall treatments, but we suspect they're still hidding under the whitewash, until the glorious day when careful hands and gentle solvents can bring them back into the light again.
At one end of the great room is a neat little atrium, with a deep central fountain, tiled all around. (The murals are new, restorations suggestive of what was there before.)
On opposite sides, shuttered windows lead into two bedrooms: Sister Aimee's room on the lake side, and her childrens' room on the hill side. This ingenious structure allowed mother and child to call to each other across the open air, while each retaining their privacy.
Central to the atrium is one extraordinary large tile panel of a friendly little griffin with irridescent wings.
Tile is everywhere in Aimee's Castle, much of it in the geometric Moorish style. The tile was so remarkable that we returned a few weeks later with our friend Brian Kaiser, Southern California's tile expert, to ask his opinion on what we had seen and how the current owners can best maintain and preserve what they have.
Brian knew from the moment he arrived that the trip was worth his time. For at the very front of the house, nestled above a boat-shaped pond, is an astonishingly rare Rufus Keeler dolphin waterspout for Calco, one of only four known to survive. This masterpiece of the terra cotta arts was cast in a single piece (the cracked fins were caused by the wall settling), hand-glazed, and repeatedly fired at low temperature over many days. There is no one alive who has the skill to replicate this delightful object--even if there were, the cost of production would be so great as to be beyond the means of any but the richest patrons. Brian is an expert on Keeler's work for Calco and Malibu, and lives in the potter's home in South Gate.
Back inside, here is Aimee's glorious green sink.
And her deep bathtub...
...with its delightful little sea creature spout.
The little fishy gazes across the tub and up to a witty crescent moon window.
At the other end of the great room, down a few steps, is the square jewel box dining room, with its soaring, mirrored ceiling and mock-fabric wall treatments.
But the story of bottom to top doesn't end with the beautiful, but really rather modest living quarters. For Sister Aimee had a private space, at the very top of the Castle, where she could be alone with her faith. And upon reaching it, we realized that the entire Castle had been built to create this spiritual space at its highest point.
Up on the roof, between the domes and the minarets, is a little tower room, painted with flames. Inside, only a kneeling chair and the sky. Here, Sister Aimee prayed and planned for her holy work in Los Angeles late into the night. She never needed much sleep. And there was so much work to do.
Lake Elsinore didn't become the exclusive retreat the developers had hoped for. The stock market crashed, and the depression came, and then the lake itself dried up for a time.
After a few years, Sister Aimee sold her Castle and used the proceeds to feed the people of Los Angeles. A reclusive lady lived there for many years, and when she died, the squatters moved in. But somehow, they seemed to sense that the Castle needed to be cared for, and they were gentle with the house and with the furnishings and art within. Perhaps they sensed the genius of the house, who died in Oakland not long after she left this place behind. We certainly sensed her all around us as we moved through the palace of her dreams.
Let us leave her there, with late night thoughts of the great work to be done.
We were hoping not just to view the largest accumulation of Native American rock art on the planet but also to find some evidence to support a theory that has grown out of our Pasadena Confidential tour research into rocket scientist Jack Parsons and his metaphysical activities of the mid-1940s.
The core story is well known: in early 1946, Parsons was living communally on Pasadena's Millionaire's Row, and with L. Ron Hubbard as his frequent partner, engaging in magical experiments derived from the work of Aleister Crowley.
Somewhere out in the Mojave Desert, Parsons and Hubbard enacted the Bablon Working, a sex magic ritual which, Parsons was convinced, resulted in the manifestation of the woman who would become his widow, Marjorie Cameron.
Nobody knows where in the 25,000 square miles of the Mojave this ritual took place. But as we dug deeper into the history of aerospace in Southern California, we became aware of a site which seemed to throb with unusual possibility.
Although not himself an academic, Jack Parsons did much of his rocketry research at CalTech and with the CalTech-associated firms of JPL and Aerojet. As the race to develop bigger and faster rockets was run, the scientists abandoned the suburban arroyos of Pasadena and decamped for the secure and forgiving expanses of China Lake.
It seemed highly probable that Parsons, with his deep interest in psychic phenomenon, magic and spirituality, would be drawn to the remarkable rock carvings left behind by the Coso People. These images are located just a short flight from the headquarters of the Naval Station.
And this was enough to compel us to book one of the occasional guided tours provided by volunteer historians, to pack up our proof of US citizenship (passport or voter registration card will do) and stay the night in a quiet Ridgecrest hotel. Just past dawn, we gathered at the Maturango Museum for orientation, then presented ourselves at the Naval base gate for a search of our car and a humorless lecture on what would happen should we break a limb or a rule. Then our convoy was waved on towards the ancient world beyond.
As we were forbidden to take photographs on the ride out to the heritage site, we cannot show you the wide expanse of dry lake bed, the dense Suessian forest of thousands of Joshua Trees or the skinny wild horses who greeted us with flared nostrils as we climbed. Nor can we share the seemingly abandoned military equipment, or the distant bunkers which shimmered, ghostlike, in the sun.
But we can show you the petroglyphs. And signs of Jack Parsons or not, the Little Petroglyph Canyon is one of the most extraordinary places we have ever laid eyes on. This ancient river bed, dry and sandy now and dotted with massive smooth stones that tell of centuries' wild flow, is surrounded by high rock walls, deep brown and ochre and slashed with fissures in which small plants and lichens grow. The shadows move fast inside the canyon, changing the walls as they pass.
And on those walls, some bright as if they were carved this morning, others only visible through the yellow cast of our polarized sunglasses, are thousands of carvings left behind by the people of the place over untold generations.
There are fields of numberless dots, counting something significant but long forgotten. Broad swaths like patterned blankets. Capering sheep with long curving horns. Men shooting at the sheep with primitive rock throwing sticks, and then with bows and arrows. Wriggling snakes. Tight nesting coils. Fish traps. Rows of walking men, disappearing around a bend in the rock. Tall shamanic figures, their heads alive with light.
The walk isn't easy.
Soft sand over smooth basalt tires the ankles, and demands close attention even as the stories in the stone do the same.
We shimmy down a double height, narrow gully in the rock, taking care not to land in stagnant puddles in which bits of dead things float. Someone has propped a skull on a boulder.
And at the end: the void. The river used to terminate in a massive waterfall that poured life-giving fluids onto the fossil-rich lakebed below. We stopped a few feet back, awed by the view and conscious of all the forward rushing energy of aeons past, before turning back and returning to the trailhead as the sun crested the center of the canyon and the way back seemed suddenly long and rough indeed.
There aren't many spots in Southern California where you can have an experience this close to time travel. We won't soon forget the power and beauty of the place.
Okay, but what about Jack Parsons? Did we abandon our search for 20th Century remnants as we boggled at carvings believed to be as much as 10,000 years old?
We did not. For smack in the middle of the path, high on a huge boulder, we found unmistakeable evidence of Parsons' scientific peers.
The nuclear equation E=MC2 has been beaten into the rock--not with the smooth lines of the ancient petroglyphs, but in jagged pointillism, a sharp metal tool point driven into the surface again and again and again.
Later research confirmed that it's believed that someone aware of the Manhattan Project entered the canyon some time before the Nagasaki blast and left this message for future generations.
We found a few other recent markings on the stones. Not many--the isolation and secure nature of the site has protected it from desecration. But at one spot we found the dates 1934 above 1946.
We also found two initials, low on a rock in a side passage at the mouth of the canyon. They were almost the first thing we saw upon beginning our trek.
JP. The letters beaten into the stone with the same bold technique as the famed equation further along the wash.
Jack Parsons? We'll never know for certain. But of all the moderns who came to this place, only one took the time to inscribe their personal mark for future dwellers to see. That person shared the initials of the man whose shadow we sought.
We knelt in the sand and ran our fingers over the markings, then rose and continued on into the canyon where time telescopes.
See all of Chinta Cooper's (and a few of Richard Schave's) photos from our trip here.
And if you'd like to tour the Coso Petroglyphs, click here.
In early June, the Esotouric gang set off on a tour of Villa Aurora, the sprawling Spanish-Colonial Revival estate in Pacific Palisades that was for decades the home of the German emigrés Lion and Marta Feuchtwanger--he a journalist and novelist, she an athlete.
Lion's pointed criticism of Hitler's rise had landed the couple in concentration camps, and it was only through the efforts of powerful friends that they escaped with their lives. They entered the U.S. through Mexico, due to the vile immigration quota system which blocked the escape of thousands of less connected Jews.
Villa Aurora was built as an L.A. Times-sponsored showcase house in 1928, by a developer who soon went bankrupt. When the Feuchtwangers purchased it in 1941, it was a dilapidated, out-of-fashion pile half swallowed by underbrush.
Although the Feuchtwangers' architectural tastes ran to modernism, a mock-Spanish castle better suited Lion's need for wall space to house the tens of thousands of books that informed his historical novels. And the stunning views out over the Pacific were some solace. They made a home of it, and never left.
L.A.'s German and Jewish colony -- Bertolt Brecht, Thomas Mann, Stefan Zweig, Arnold Schonberg, Franz Werfel, Charlie Chaplin, Albert Einstein and others -- gathered frequently in the grand salon with its built-in pipe organ and broad terrace. Mann called it "truly a castle by the sea."
Lion and Marta lived together in the Villa Aurora until his death in 1958, and she stayed on. Marta had already donated Lion's books and papers to USC, and on her 1987 passing left the house as well, intending that the school maintain it as a tribute to her husband's work.
USC countered that it would just as soon sell the house and move the books downtown.
It looked as though the lights would soon flicker out at Villa Aurora.
But Marta had many friends, and had kept her husband's rebel spirit alive. A cultural preservation campaign was launched, a rare collaboration between book-loving Angelenos and the German government and intelligentsia. With Mayor Tom Bradley's support, City Councilman Marvin Braude successfully sought to have the house declared an Historic-Cultural Monument. This bought time against any demolition attempt. In Germany, millions were raised.
The result was the establishment of Villa Aurora e.V., a non-profit organization that maintains the property, hosts visiting German artists, and stages cultural events. USC owns Feuchtwanger's books, but many of the less delicate and valuable volumes from his working library still line the walls, between sculptural busts of Marta at all ages, and the bits of driftwood she collected on her shore walks.
Villa Aurora is home to one of the largest collections of intact tile from Harry C. Hicks' mid-range Hispano-Moresque line, and the primary reason for our visit was to view this installation in the company of our favorite Southern California tile expert, Brian Kaiser.
It truly is an extraordinary display, although the years, and perhaps mineral seepage from the hillside, have not been kind to massive murals in the front courtyard.
After climbing the winding hillside road, which the Los Angeles Times installed for the many thousands of visitors who toured their Demonstration House in the spring of 1928, we gathered in the secluded entry courtyard with our tour guide Mona, and a small group of German visitors, who fortunately did not object to the tour being given in English.
After introducing us to the history of the Demonstration House and the Feuchtwangers' life in exile, our guide opened the door to Marta's sitting room, and ushered us inside. We remarked upon the handsome red tile floor, the busts of Marta, the stunning wood- and ironwork and the moist, chilly air.
And then the odd thing happened.
Richard and I are cat people. Brian is, too. The tour was suddenly even more interesting. We were eager to meet the Villa Aurora's resident pussycat.
"Where's the cat?" interrupted Richard.
"There is no cat," said Mona.
"But we heard the cat," I insisted.
"There's a small dog here, but no cat." said Mona, a little confused and perhaps unnerved. We let the matter drop. But later, we heard the cat mew again, in the kitchen. We never saw or heard the little dog, who was far away upstairs in the visiting artists' living quarters. And as it turned out, nobody else had heard the cat, not even Brian.
The cat's call came from around this spot.
Later, we found a photograph of Lion Feuchtwanger holding a handsome black pussycat. Perhaps this was the spectral spirit who called out to us as we entered the Villa Aurora.
The house is packed with charming, thoughtful details.
Cast-iron door knobs.
Bathrooms to die for.
Villa Aurora is open for private tours by appointment, and hosts regular screenings and events. To learn more, click here.
And to see all of the photos from our visit, click here.
In late May, the Esotouric gang set off on a desert road trip, with our compass set to points unusual and mysterious.
You won't find many stranger, or more awe-inspiring, attractions in Southern California than the Trona Pinnacles, the towering remnants of hydro-chemical activity on an ancient lakebed.
100,000 years ago, the interior of California was dotted with a network of interconnected inland seas. The ancient seas are gone, but the mineral excrescences that formed over tens of thousands of years still stand sentinel in a vast and windy landscape, far from human habitation.
In 1968, these tufa formations, the result of calcium-rich ground water meeting the alkaline sea, were designated by the Department of the Interior as a National Natural Landmark.
To visit the Trona Pinnacles, one leaves the sleepy military town of Ridgecrest and heads east, passing through a dramatic, wind-formed landscape that suggests cathedrals in the rock.
The BLM road to the Pinnacles is gravel, dust and ruts, and slow going with a conventional vehicle. Visitors must be conscious of heat, wind, rain and the precise moment that the sun will set, and should allow at least an hour round-trip once leaving the paved highway.
Still, there is something extraordinary in slowing to a crawl to approach these ancient monuments, which loom ever larger on the sandy plain, throwing off wild shadows as their details come into focus. For this is how the Pinnacles appeared to those approaching on horseback a century ago, or to walkers earlier still.
Worried our car might not be happy climbing up again, we parked on the ridge overlooking the plain to hike down to the dry lake bed. Richard noticed the dust of another car approaching, and stayed on the ridge until he could make eye contact with the newcomers. (Oddly, they never got out of their car, and soon turned and left.)
These would be the only other people we would see for our entire visit, save the solitary young man in the 4WD truck who arrived as we were hiking back, then disappeared onto the darkening dry lake bed bound for points unknown.
The Pinnacles are spread out over a rise in the flat landscape, with soft-packed sandy paths that lead up to the peaks and astonishing views out across the desert. The wind out here is like a living creature, whistling in our ears and shaping the ancient mineral towers. How many more centuries will they stand, before nature finishes breaking down what she has created?
We wandered around for some time, marveling at the strange forms that are designated as Towers (tall and slender, up to 40' high), Tombstones (fat and wide, up to 30' high), Ridges (like mountain ranges, up to 140' high) and Cones (little mounds, up to 10' high).
Then the sun moved, and the shadows shifted, and we knew it would soon be dark and cold on the ancient plain.
Trudging back through the dust, we spied a gangly lizard that took off running, so fast and frantic that it seemed to be flying on the ground.
And a little armored beetle, its shell a beautiful ridged black, like a Japanese warrior girded for battle.
Dusty and awed, we crawled back along the gravel road to rejoin the flow on the highway and the modern world.
The Trona Pinnacles are standing now, as they have for thousands of years, each day a little smaller, a little different. They were standing when the Caesars ruled, and will be standing when the Caesars have been forgotten. And you should see them if you can.
See all of Chinta Cooper's photos from our trip here.
And if you'd like to tour the Trona Pinnacles, visitor information is here.
Located at the end of a steep dirt road on a ridge of the Tehachapi Mountains, Tomo-Kahni was for centuries the winter settlement of the Kawaiisu people, a tribe of hunter-gatherers famed for their basketry skills and high protein trade goods, including chia seeds and pine nuts.
Despite the coming of the Spanish and later the Americans, the tribe maintained their ancient seasonal traditions through the early 1900s, living in simple juniper bough huts, some of which which still survive in the form of stone circle footprints.
But Los Angeles' insatiable thirst for water brought industry to the little town of Tehachapi, and the younger Kawaiisu began to migrate down to take high-paying jobs in the Monolith Portland Cement Company plant. The Owens Valley aqueduct was built from good Tehachapi limestone, and by the time it was finished, so was the old life up in the mountains.
Kawaiisu still live in the region, but have adopted modern ways. It was the tribal elders who worked with anthropologists and the State Parks Department to ensure that Tomo-Kahni was preserved as an interpretive site for future generations to explore.
Tomo-Kahni isn't like other State Parks. You don't pull up to a paved parking lot dotted with interpretive signs and rattlesnake warnings, and you won't meet other hikers, their dogs or loud children on the trail. The only access to this sheltered spot is on the occasional tours hosted by trained guides who can interpret the fascinating artifacts that dot the hillsides leading up to the grand spirit cave at the mountain top.
We left Los Angeles early to join our group at the Tehachapi Museum, located just off the charming main drag in Kern County's decommissioned Depression-era library. After a brief orientation and gear check, drivers were provided with directions to the semi-secret site, and our caravan took off down the highway. We passed the hulking Monolith plant, then swung up into Sand Canyon, with its hand-painted protest signs opposing wind farming. And soon, we were bouncing up a rough sandy road to the trailhead gate.
Our little group set out along the park's unusual powdery red sand path, which in the wet season expands to many times its volume and releases old artifacts hidden deep within.
The treeless, scrubby hills had once been heavily forested with pine and oak, but the massive 7.7 earthquake of 1952 altered the water table, and Tomo-Kahni lost its live-giving open stream. While plants still grow, including some stands of reeds clearly sapping up the subterranean remnants of the old flow, the landscape is today much changed from that which sheltered the Kawaiisu.
Soon we came to a colorful lichen-dotted flat rock ledge, which our guides informed us had been the communal grinding station. Hundreds of deep bowls worn into the sandstone rock face provided a surface against which to mash nuts and acorns for cooking and storage, as well as a social space for the tribal women. The past was powerful as we peered into the natural bowls scraped from long use by the original Californians.
The Kawaiisu believe that a powerful spirit called Grizzly Bear ushered all of the spirits of the animals out of the underworld through a narrow gap in the rocks high atop Tomo-Kahni. As each spirit emerged, it chose an animal to inhabit--although some became locked within stone forms, which explains the rabbit and turtle-shaped boulders near the Medicine Cave.
Approaching Medicine Cave is an intimidating experience. High in the rocks sits a massive raven's nest, its tender residents guarded by fierce black parents. As the path switches back, a visitor feels exposed upon the open hill, knowing that the holy place is just around the bend and out of sight. Gnarled, wind-hewn boulders suggest monstrous faces and hulking forms.
And then we arrive. Medicine Cave is a broad, shaded opening in the ancient stone, with deep overhangs giving way to the mystic fissure from which the Kawaiisu say all life emerged. It was cool in the shelter of the rock, and strange. On the walls are ageless pictographs: spirals, handprints, prey animals stalked by hunters and a strange splayed figure that might represent a pelt or sea mammal or the formless spirits waiting in the rock.
The sight of a thread-wrapped medicine bundle reminded us of the great power this sacred place still possesses for the people of the mountain. After a short break to rest, eat and chat with our fellow travelers, we quietly gathering our things, and started off back down the path.
There was one last site to see on the path back. Nettle Spring is a deep split between two rocks, lined with the spiky nettle bushes that were used for fiber and medicine. Tribal elders say this was a place where women retreated for ritual purposes. The rock here is heavily scored with vertical lines covered over with red pigment, but the meaning of these marks remains elusive.
We stopped in at Kohnen's German bakery for hearty sandwiches, beer and old world pastry, to ease ourselves back into the now as gently as possible. Then it was off on another adventure… but that story will have to wait for another day.
See all of Chinta Cooper's photos from our visit to Tomo-Khani and Tehachapi here.
And if you'd like to reserve a spot on one of these very special excursions into ancient California, more info is here.
A visit to John A. Roebling's Sons Co Wire Works, Los Angeles (1913) - Custom Batchelder Tiles and Bridge Cable Staircase
On May 9, 2013, while recording interviews with longtime Arts District residents for the You Can't Eat The Sunshine podcast, we had the rare opportunity to step into the non-public corner entrance of the John A. Roebling's Sons Co Wire Works building (now home to Angel City Brewery).
We were stunned by the selection of unique, custom Ernest Batchelder tiles that honor the Roebling family's history and contribution to the industrial age.
(Roebling senior designed the Brooklyn Bridge, and spun the wire with which it was strung).
The beautiful staircase is constructed from Roebling's spun wire.
See all our photos from our visit to the lobby here.
Stay tuned to our podcast channel for chapters in our ongoing cultural history of the Arts District,
View your shopping cart.