Photo Essay: How A Metaphysical Religious Sect Brought a Glimpse of DC to LA

Los Angeles has played itself in countless film and TV productions—but it's also stood in for the Outback, Africa, Korea, the Sherwood Forest, the Minnesota prairie, and the fictional town of Pawnee, Indiana.



But there's one building in Los Angeles that's most frequently scouted for its ability to portray our nation's capital: The Art of Living Foundation's headquarters in the West Adams district.

The Art of Living has been hosting yoga sessions, meditations, and other classes here since 2010—but this neoclassical monument was built to house the Second Church of Christ Scientist.



The First Church, a.k.a. the "Mother Church," of this metaphysical religious movement had already been built in Boston in 1906. This Second Church's construction began the following year and completed in 1910.



It's not unusual to see Classical Revival or Italian Renaissance edifices in the United States, especially those built around the turn of the 20th century.



You just don't usually see anything in Southern California that remotely resembles the Parthenon from Ancient Greece (or the Pantheon from Ancient Rome, for that matter).



The portico (or porch) of this rare 20th century example in LA is Corinthian, the highest of the orders of classical architecture—featuring glazed terracotta, brick cladding, tapered columns, and highly ornamented capitals. With a touch of Beaux Arts in the details, it brings forth the spirit of those ancient temples by way of France.



Beyond it, look down to see original flooring made out of hexagonal tiles and a geometric rendering of the "running dog" motif so commonly found in classical architecture.



Look straight ahead or up, and you'll find columns in the Ionic Order, a step down from Corinthian but still not the lowest order.

Gaze even higher and you'll catch a peek at the first of many stained glass windows that are surprisingly bereft of ecclesiastical imagery.



In fact, you won't find any iconography of Christ or scientists throughout the church interior—not even in the sanctuary, under the 1400-ton copper dome that stretches 70 feet across.



It's the highest point of the church—and the first (and really only) thing you see as you ascend one of the two staircases and emerge into what's now used as more of an auditorium.



Though it was built to seat around 1100 worshipers, many of the pews have been removed to make room for those attendees who might lie on the (poured concrete, though carpeted) floor to meditate under the rotunda.



The architecture was designed by Alfred F. Rosenheim, known more for his commercial buildings as well as the mansion in American Horror Story.



He also designed the opalescent stained glass windows, which have been restored after vandals knocked a couple of them out.



They cast a purplish hue under the dome—again, more regal than religious. And they depict architectural elements (again, the Corinthian columns) rather than biblical scenes.



You almost feel like you're in a federal or municipal building—a courthouse or a city hall—rather than a place of worship (or even spirituality). But there are organ pipes hiding behind a grille, if you know where to look.



And perhaps here, God is in the details.



The gold leaf, pastel color scheme, and original chandeliers sure are pretty.



And the recurring architectural patterns continue throughout the building, not just in its crown jewel (under the dome).



Incredible attention to detail was given to railings, woodwork, and lighting fixtures.



And a shocking amount of that has been either preserved or recreated.



The first time I spotted The Art of Living temple, it was the middle of the night, and I was in West Adams to witness the relocation of a Victorian cottage to its new lot, eight blocks away. I stood there in awe.

I thought I'd been transported to the New York Supreme Court building in Lower Manhattan. Or Federal Hall. Or the New York Stock Exchange.

But it turned out to be yet another facet of Los Angeles history, architecture, and culture that had chosen to reveal itself to me.

And this time, it only took me three years to figure out a way inside so I could go explore.

Who needs DC... or NY... or Boston... when you've got LA?

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Sagamore Spirit Distillery, Keeping Maryland 'Wet' A Century After Prohibition

I always thought that historical whiskey tourism would only take me to Kentucky, as it did in 2006 when I attended the Kentucky Bourbon Festival.

Since that time, Prohibition-era laws have changed and tax breaks have been enacted, so now there are a ton of new distilleries—whiskey and otherwise—throughout the country.

But if you were to trace the origins of American whiskey, you'd have to go beyond Kentucky or even Tennessee, where Jack Daniels was founded in 1875.

No, you'd also have to go to Maryland, too.



The Mid-Atlantic state has a rich history in not bourbon but rye whiskey. Its whiskey-making dates back to the colonial era, when distillers in Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and Maryland blazed a brown liquor trail that hit a fire break: Prohibition.



Nearly every state ratified the Volstead Act (a.k.a. the 18th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution)—some even "going dry" before it was officially enacted on a federal level in 1920, and some continuing to stay dry even after Prohibition was repealed via the 21st Amendment.



The one exception was Rhode Island, the only state to refuse to ratify the amendment. But at the time, Maryland government officials and their constituents were so staunchly against the temperance movement that they simply refused to enforce it—one of the reasons why we still call Maryland "The Free State."



But even when and where it's been legal, local distilling has experienced its ups and downs—and it's only recently that there's been enough renewed interest in the non-corporate, craft, locovore summoning of spirits to really make a go of it.



Hence Sagamore Spirits Distillery, located in the Port Covington harbor area of South Baltimore (more on its location in a second). It's not exactly not corporate—its owner is the billionaire CEO of the company Under Armour, whose global headquarters is right next door.



But having only opened a year and a half ago (though starting to barrel-age some rye a couple years before that), it's still a new entry into the so-called "whiskey wars"—though it's become a juggernaut, already brewing up huge batches in gigantic tanks housed on a sprawling campus.



While other upstart distillers use after-market equipment to save some cash, Sagamore commissioned nearly everything to be custom-made and branded with its logo—most notably, the ginormous, 40-foot column still by Vendome.



Through various stages of quality control, condensers and doublers and whatnot, Sagamore triple distills two different mash bills—one of mostly rye with some corn and a little malted barley, and the other of nearly all rye and a little malted barley—which end up in two different charred American virgin oak barrels to be aged separately.



They then put the barrels in storage for about four years (double what most distillers will bother with), where they don't control the climate. In fact, they need the fluctuations in temperature, humidity, and barometric pressure to expand and contract the barrels. That will force the clear spirit up against and into the charred wood and back out again, drawing that amber color out with it.



Once the rye whiskey is bottled on the assembly line, it's still hand-labelled and initialed.



Besides the historical videos and other displays in the gift shop (which of course sells Sagamore-branded wares by Under Armour), there's also the neighboring Rye Street Tavern for elevated pub fare and whiskey cocktails (operated by a NYC-based hospitality group).



But to taste the product—including the limestone-filtered spring water sourced from an aquifer 20 miles north—you've got to do the distillery tour and tasting.



You start with the white rye, an unaged whiskey that's akin to moonshine (a.k.a. "white lightning" or "White Dog," or the higher wine that comes out of the triple distilling process). This one is so mellow that you can mix it or drink it straight out of the bottle. Next are the 83 proof and the boozier Cask Strength (at around 110+ proof, it varies).



And, as at all the great whiskey distilleries, you get to finish it off with a bourbon-infused truffle. (At the Kentucky Bourbon Festival, two meals a day consisted entirely of bourbon balls.)

Right now, Sagamore Spirit feels like it's hiding in plain sight—situated on the industrial waterfront of the middle branch of the Patapsco River at an abandoned railyard.

But given its proximity to Interstate 95 and the post-industrial chic of the Inner Harbor area that's thriving just across the way, its founder would like to see the area developed.

Think self-driving water taxis and mixed-used developments, high-rises, and utopian amenities.

And the trains would come back to this former railroad hub, too—by extending the existing lightrail lines that already run nearby.

Some Baltimoreans, of course, are in an uproar. People don't like change.

But are changes like this inevitable? I've already witnessed it at the Red Hook, Navy Yard, Williamsburg, Long Island City, and Astoria industrial waterfronts of New York City. It's happening right now at Gowanus in Brooklyn and Ports O'Call in the LA Harbor.

I'm sure Terminal Island is next.

I refuse to worry about it. Whenever I go to "the wettest state in the union" (about once a year), I'm just going to take some time to stop and sip the whiskey.

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A Table With A View

I'm no stranger to watching the world outside through the window. I spent my entire childhood looking for birds in the trees, watching the neighbors splash in their pool, and counting cars on Sunnycrest Drive.



The only difference now is that I can choose to be inside or outside the window—and while generally I would prefer to be watched than to watch, I went to The Marine Room in La Jolla this weekend to take in a little show from behind the glass.



Since it opened in 1941, The Marine Room has been known for its spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean. The restaurant is set so low onto the beach and so far out from shore that at high tide, the waves will pound against the windows in a spectacular show of nature's might.



I've watched plenty of sunrises and sunsets already—moonrises and eclipses, torrential rain and lightning—so I thought it was time to spectate the sea, see what Poseidon had to offer, and spoon up some lobster bisque.



And since I arrived early enough to catch the day fade into night and the tide just begin to advance upon us, I had plenty of time for dessert, too.



I knew what I was in for, if I'd be lucky enough to get a window seat by myself (I was)—but I still wasn't prepared for the symphony of surf that would unfold before me, the waves breaking in white foam as a seagull or two would fly by in defiance of the night.



I kept getting out of my seat behind my table and getting right up close to the pane, as though I might be able to feel the spray on my face or reach out and grab the tide as it pulsed toward me.



Unbelievably, a group of young boys—they must've been teens—entered the spotlight, boards in tow, adding to the show. I've always been scared of the ocean, especially rising waves, so I marveled at their bravery, or stupidity, whatever it was that propelled them into the black night, to be swallowed by a crest of sea sparkle while we all watched.



As peak tide approached, the bulletproof glass protected us spectators from picking shards of glass out of our chardonnay—but it didn't back in 1982, when El Niño-sized waves breached the fourth wall and soaked the inside with seawater. (The windows held up, but the rest of the building took a beating.)



As spectacular as the show was last night—peaks rising just about seven feet, the tallest of this and next month's evening high tides—it wasn't nearly as threatening as it could've been, had the wind kicked up or the barometric pressure dipped significantly.



The Marine Room's High Tide Dinner provides a dining experience of an era before TV dinners and flatscreens at every bar—when people appreciated that nature, in all its glory, can be more fascinating than a restaurant's decor, menu, patrons, or "scene."



Reportedly, during The Marine Room's High Tide Breakfasts, you get the waves plus some marine life—sea lions, leopard sharks, even whales, and more birds. And thats enough reason for me to go back.

For a 2016 article on The Marine Room's history with great historical photos—published upon the restaurant's 75th anniversary—check out the Classic San Diego blog here.

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Experiencing Pan Am, More Than A Quarter-Century After The Dead Airline Went South

I didn't take my first flight until I was 19 years old, and it was a doozy: a jaunt from JFK to London-Heathrow on Virgin Atlantic to start my semester abroad, the fall semester of my junior year in college.

While I found it scary, it was also a huge novelty after a lifetime spent on the ground. It still baffles me every time I end up traveling through the air.

Virgin Atlantic continues to be one of my favorite airlines—though, 23 years later, I've also memorably flown Lufthansa, KLM, Air France, and Aer Lingus, among others.

That first flight came relatively late in life for me, when you consider how many screaming babies and back-of-seat-kicking toddlers there are flying the not-so-friendly skies these days. It was 1995, and although I remember my father flying to East Coast destinations like DC and Atlanta for work every now and then, my parents never broached the subject of flying anywhere for a family vacation.

In fact, my mother had never boarded an airplane—and I don't think she has yet to even now.

In 1995, the year of my first armrest-clutching, breath-holding, wide-eyed and seat-belted "wheels up" experience, one of the most famous airlines ever had already been out of business for four years.

Pan American Airways dissolved in 1991—but even then, it had survived way past its heyday. It was really grooving around 1975—the year I was born—and through the early- to mid-80s.

But now, there's something that's resuscitated this so-called "dead" airline: The Pan Am Experience.



Thanks to some Hollywood magic and one obsessive aviation collector, the world's most fashionable airline ever has gotten back into the groove for the exclusive few who manage to get a boarding pass.



The Pan Am Experience has been on my bucket list since it first debuted at a movie production studio in the North Valley of LA in 2014. I got to take a tour of it years ago on a scouting mission as an Atlas Obscura field agent, but nothing came of it.



And then my frequent-flyer fantasies came true: I not only got to go, but I got to write about the Experience for Atlas Obscura.



As I wrote in my recently published article, the monthly event has become a full-fledged time capsule of the airline as passengers would have encountered it back then—when I was just a tot, and my two feet were firmly planted on the ground.



Some of its attendees are certainly nostalgic for a bygone era they once experienced firsthand—but, like me, there are generations of jetsetters who never experienced the now-defunct airline except while watching films like Catch Me If You Can and TV shows like Pan Am (which used some of the equipment and props that belong to the Experience).
 

As inflight smoking was banned on nearly all flights by 1988, I've never been on a plane where cigarettes were not only allowed but encouraged.



It was just a different time back then—but at the Pan Am Experience, the period-dressed stewardesses (let's call them what they were back then) will "light" a prop cigarette for you while someone takes a picture.



Boarding the Pan Am Experience's mock flight to one of the airline’s historical hubs (in my case, it was coincidentally London) is about as close as I will ever get to witnessing the airline’s former golden age.



If it weren’t for the fact that I didn't actually have to buckle my seatbelt, I might've thought that I'd been truly transported back in time.



The only thing that seemed to be lacking—at least back in the Clipper Class (the airline's business class at the time)—was the turbulence.

Our menus had been reproduced to exacting detail, right down to the colors and the paper texture and weight.



The throwback drink selections were a reminder of the drinking days of yore—and, as in the '70s and '80s, they just kept flowing.



I went classic and timeless with a gin martini.



I gladly accepted the hot towel, tonged over to me from an occultish bowl, overflowing with steam.



I selected the chateaubriand for my main course, because that seemed like the thing to do to be appropriately fancy for the period.



All of the courses came served on a set of authentic, original airline china dishes and antique utensils.



The food was good—all five courses of it—but in some ways, at least for me, it didn't need to be. I could've spent all night basking in the glee of all those around me.



Everybody just seemed to be having so much fun—from my Clipper Class rowmates and the First Classers on the upper deck right on down to the crew.



The person who has the most fun at the Pan Am Experience, however, has got to be its creator, Anthony Toth—who's also the focus of my article for Atlas Obscura. He started flying to Europe at an incredibly early age to visit his grandparents, which led a lifelong (so far) mission of collecting as much as he can.

Read all about it (and him) in my article, "How One Pan Am Fan Recreated the Golden Age of Air Travel," on AtlasObscura.com:

Screenshot from Atlas Obscura

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