Photo Essay: Ostrichland USA

Everyone kept telling me I needed to go to California's Central Coast wine country in the summer.

But I had a three day weekend this weekend, and after a few weeks of commuting daily in traffic, parallel parking, and fighting with other bargain shoppers, I was ready for some rolling hills and wide open spaces.

Because it's winter in Southern California, it was pretty rainy, so although I was itching for a hike in the mountains, my wine country experience in Santa Barbara County was limited to pretty much just one thing: wine.

Except when I got to feed the ostriches in Solvang, the Danish capital of the U.S.



At first, when they spot you, they seem really cute.



But...



You're supposed to hold the bowl of food by its handle with two hands, because the ostriches will grab it away from you.



I giggled as they approached, cooing at the cuties.


They craned their necks above the fence to get to me...



Until they finally figured out that they could reach through the lower slats of the wooden fence. But there was only room for two or three ostriches to feed out of the bowl, which they pecked at feverishly.



The bowl of food didn't last long, and I suspected that the ostriches in the front - the most aggressive ones - generally get overfed and the ones in the back get neglected, so I went back for another bowl. But that one went quickly too, and because standing there with no food is considered a tease to the ostriches, I had to leave.

I blew them a kiss, pulled the hood back over my head, and trudged through the rain back to my car...

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Loneliness Ensues

It's been three weeks since I moved to LA. I haven't really felt lonely, or even missed New York, until now, when I've left Los Angeles.

I'm in Santa Barbara County on a road trip, and it's the first time I've really noticed that I'm alone in California.

There's nothing like a trip to wine country alone to force some self-reflection.

I didn't want to tell my coworkers I was going here alone. But once I was here alone, I had no recourse but to admit it, at least to myself. And those who persistently ask.

A tasting for one please. Just one? Yes.

Two tacos please. On the same plate? Yes.

Is there a long wait for a table? Yes, just for me. OK I'll try the bar.

Somehow I felt less out of place alone in New York than I do in California, maybe because of the friends who were never that far away. In Los Angeles, the anomaly of sitting alone at the bar has worked to my advantage: I meet lots of people and get VIP treatment from the staff. But somehow, on this road trip outside of Los Angeles, being alone has made me feel so lonely. For the first time since moving here.

The parking lot at the restaurant tonight was muddy and full of puddles. What if I got stuck? What would I do? Alone?

I can drink glasses of wine by myself. I can eat a personal pizza by myself. I can drive a couple hours north, find my way around, take pictures and absorb the local flavor, all by myself. I can sleep alone, wake alone, shower alone, and breakfast alone.

And I usually have no trouble traveling alone. But here in Santa Barbara, surrounded by winetasting groups and dinner dates, I wonder: how long can I stand living alone? I don't mean in my (fantastic) apartment, which I'm happy to share with no one. I mean...in life.

I've only been here three weeks, so I've got to give myself some time to make new friends, and deepen the friendships I already have out here. And maybe soon enough I'll be asking for a table for two.

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Photo Essay: Cheeseboro Canyon

It was about time. I'd been in LA for two weeks and I was dying for some greenery and wide open spaces.

So on our way to the Bottle Village, we stopped at Cheeseboro Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains near Agoura Hills for a quick six-mile hike.

I asked the ranger what he recommended, and he pointed to an even quicker out-and-back trail that didn't look very interesting. When we inquired about a larger loop trail, he warned us, "That cross trail is pretty tough. I'll only take it by horse. It's not that it's that bad, it's just neverending."

But once we set off and felt confident in ourselves, I said, "I'm not scared of that cross trail," and my hiking partner said, "Me neither." So we agreed to try it, promising to turn back if it proved to be too challenging.

It wasn't.



The trail starts off mostly flat, for quite a ways.



We were surrounded by plenty of trees and shade.



And then we rose above the canyon to look down into it.



And then the trail went up and along a ridge, and up and up and up...



But we made it, despite some labored breathing, some uncomfortable (or, in my case, brand new) footwear, and the sun that rendered our cheeks rosy.



They're all multi-use trails, so the flat parts were full of other hikers and mountain bikers, but once we started climbing some real elevation, we had the trail mostly to ourselves, save for the occasional ranch vestiges, equestrians and the droppings left behind.



My whole body was sore by the end, but I was glad I hadn't been deterred by the warnings of the park ranger. I marvel at how ambitious I've become in the outdoors. But despite hangover and heartbreak on Sunday morning, climbing around that canyon made me glad to be alive.

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Alone on Valentine's Day

Once again, I don't know what I expected.

We'd met by chance in LA in March, when I'd taken my first scouting trip to try to find a California job. He introduced himself after spotting me in the crowd, took my number, and used it.

When I returned to California two months later, we serendipitously ran into each other in Palm Springs and reunited, in a big way.

We saw each other again in June.

July.

August.

October.

My visits to LA became more frequent, both because of the urgent need for a salary, and for the urgent need to see him. He didn't visit me in New York. But he moved heaven and earth to see me once a month or so in LA.

And then it stopped, without explanation.

It stopped just as my trips to LA became more serious, just as it started to look like I would be getting a job and moving here.

Just as I found someone in New York worth staying in New York for.

I dismissed his sudden unavailability as a product of work, stress, schedule, etc., and despite his obvious disinterest, he still became my backup plan. Because of my own romantic developments in New York, I began rehearsing what I'd say to explain why we couldn't hook up again. I continued to try to see him, as I returned to LA to officially interview for my job, look for an apartment, and prepare to move, but he, like so many before him, had gone missing.

And then my guy in New York went missing, too, and became the one that got away.

And suddenly I had no one.

I suspected my LA guy had found himself a girlfriend, so I did the only thing I could do: I asked him straight out. And thankfully, he was honest, and confirmed that he had, but couched with doubts as to how it would turn out.

My backup plan had put me on the backburner.

And I was left with nothing but confusion.

I'm here now. Why couldn't he wait for me to get here?

I guess it wasn't me he wanted.

So just over two weeks into living in Los Angeles, still very much new-in-town, tenderhearted, vulnerable, and alone, I've had two dates and have kissed three guys. None of them seem to be interested in pursuing anything more with me. My New York exes have gotten used to the idea of me being gone, and have stopped sending me drunken messages late at night (though not so late on the West Coast). My LA guy - who'd become a regular suitor when I wasn't even living in LA - has found himself another.

And once again, I am alone. On Valentine's Day.

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Photo Essay: Bottle Village (Updated for 2016)

Folk art is pretty common in California, but it's more common out in the desert (see: Salvation Mountain).


Circa 2016

But up in Simi Valley, there's a place made nearly entirely of bottles...


Circa 2016

...an entire campus constructed of soda bottles: Chlorox bottles, blue bottles, green bottles, brown bottles, and various ephemera...


Circa 2016

...all held together with mortar.


Circa 2016

I've now had a couple of rare opportunities to visit...


Circa 2016

...though its public tours and open houses are few and far between.


Circa 2016

There's the sense that it may not be long for this world—and you've got to experience it now, before it disappears completely.


Circa 2011

During my first visit in 2011, you could actually go inside of the buildings.


Circa 2011

But they sustained a lot of damage in the 1994 Northridge earthquake...


Circa 2011

...before which everything was intact.


Circa 2011

Now, however, entering most of the buildings—the schoolhouse, the shell house, the pencil house—is verboten.


Circa 2016

There are really only two structures that have close to their original four walls. The rest have been reduced down to facades...


Circa 2016

...or never had any walls at all.


Circa 2016

And you've not only got to step around the broken shards of glass underfoot...


Circa 2011

...but you've also got to wear soft-soled shoes to make sure you don't break any of the bottles further.


Circa 2011

At the time, bottles were cheap building materials...


Circa 2011

...mostly because they could be collected from the local dump for free.


Circa 2011

That means that what Grandma Prisbrey—the creator of Bottle Village—found was generally bottles of beer, wine, and other liquor.


Circa 2011

But once people knew that she collected something specific—say, baby doll heads...


Circa 2016

...they'd start bringing those with them to gift to her.


Circa 2016

After all, from the beginning, Bottle Village was always a tourist attraction.


Circa 2011

And as creepy as it was (and is)...


Circa 2011

...kids love(d) it.


Circa 2016

A lot of people—even in the neighborhood—know Bottle Village is almost never open, so they clamor to get in if they see the gate open.


Circa 2016

But, of course, the more we visit it, the more our footsteps take a little something away from it.

Related post:
Photo Essay: Bottle Tree Ranch
Photo Essay: Low Tide at Dead Horse Bay

A Vast Improvement

For a while now, I'd been suspecting that - despite NYC's glitz and glam and attractive faces to kiss - I could really improve my quality of life by moving elsewhere.

Now that I've moved to LA, I think I've proven my point.

I left behind me a string of apartments riddled with smells of cigarette smoke, Mexican food, bug spray and garbage; of winter coats, boots, umbrellas, and ruined shoes; of people who have broken my heart; of underground subway rides next to perverts, drug addicts, thieves, and vagrants; of shattered dreams, sleepless nights, and devastating mornings.

It's so different now.

Every morning I wake up in an apartment with brand new hardwood floors, in a glamourous and charming Art Deco building from 1929. The sun shines through my window. Birds chirp in the trees outside. A neighbor brews coffee, the smell of which wakes me up better than my cell phone alarm.

I make breakfast in a giant kitchen with so much cabinet space, I use the extra ones to store my books.

I brush my teeth at a pedestal sink and shower al fresco next to an open window, worrying not about what neighbors are watching me (though I'm sure somebody is). The water comes down hot and hard.

I walk downstairs and outside through our front garden and hedges onto a palm tree-lined street, and move the sunglasses from atop my head to across my eyes.

I climb into a brand new Honda Fit, roll down the window, and drive. For 40 minutes on my way to Venice, I flip through LA's various radio formats along the dial - classic rock, old school, smooth jazz, pop, you name it - and sing to my heart's content, pounding my left foot and tapping my left hand on the driver's side door.

I go to an office where music is playing all day. I like my coworkers. There are delicious snacks and drinks in the kitchen. I sit at a desk in the corner, surrounded by Barbie dolls and various other toys that have been released from their storage containers.

I take lunch. I go shopping. I walk down Main Street and meet the neighborhood folks. I order a decaf low-fat cappuccino that comes with a beautiful leaf pattern designed into its foam. I chat up the barista, who is interested in every mundane detail of my acclimation to Los Angeles. I greet the dogs that pass with their owners, and then scratch the scruff of my boss's dog.

I leave on time, feeling confident and accomplished.

I meet up with friends or take myself out on a date. I meet new people. Everyone says "Welcome home."

I return to the apartment which is starting to feel like home, hanging the pink iridescent parking permit off the rear view mirror of my Honda Fit for the night. I listen for sounds of traffic or television or neighbors or bottles, but there are none. I turn out the light, and it is dark.

I sleep.

I sleep well.

And I wake up looking forward to the day ahead.

Sure, LA and I are in the honeymoon phase. Reality may come crashing down at any minute. But for now, while I can, I shall believe that it's all palm trees and sunshine from here on out.

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Photo Essay: Amir's Garden in Griffith Park

I've already been in LA for over a week now and I've been so busy furniture shopping and starting my new job that I've had no time to go hiking.

I was going to fix that today.

I was dying to return to Griffith Park, whose plethora of trails always provides endless entertainment and exploration for me.

Today I set out to find Amir's Garden, a hiker's rest stop of sorts hidden in the northeastern area of the park, somewhere near the Old Zoo Picnic Grounds which I'd looked for once and couldn't find.

Today, I found both.

First, you have to climb up a short but steep fire road from the Mineral Springs parking area...





...past Water Tower #73...





...until you see the sign...



...and the plants and flowers.















There are pipes everywhere: underfoot, along railings, and trailside. Much of them provide irrigation for the garden. Watch out for the sprinklers.



It was a quick but serene hike today, me being so out of shape and so not acclimated to the warmth and sunshine that today brought. But it was one step towards a routine, towards getting back into shape, and towards covering every inch of Griffith Park that I can.

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Diving Right In

I had four and a half days in LA before I started my new job.

That’s not much time.

I had a lot to do.

Day One

• Escape NYC snowstorm
• Arrive Burbank airport, haul winter coat, Trader Joe’s shopping bag with the broken handle, and two heavy rolling suitcases (one ripped) while wearing winter boots to pick up rental car
• Drive to Target, spent $300 on bikinis, sundries, and housewares
• Meet with leasing agent, get keys to furnished room to sleep in until mattress arrives
• Unload car
• Drive to El Carmen, find parking
• Eat tacos. Drink margaritas.
• Sleep. Very little.

Day Two

• Wake up with the birds
• Meet new employees. Drink too much coffee.
• Eat amazing lunch at Huckleberry. Get a blueberry ciabatta to go.
• Go furniture shopping in the Valley.
• Return to Target.
• Home Depot.
• Wander around Carmax to get a feel for used cars.
• Agonize over Friday night traffic from Burbank to Beverly Hills.
• Shower, change, makeup, get back in car.
• Date night. Dresden Room, Tiki Ti.
• Drink.
• Sober up.
• Kiss goodnight.
• Sleep. Much too little.

Day Three

• Wake up with the birds.
• Starbucks for wifi. Forget to order decaf. Only 30 minute parking. Onsite security alerts me to almost flat tire.
• Free air from mechanic at gas station.
• Starbucks for more wifi. Order second cup, decaf this time.
• Wait for friend to wake up for car shopping.
• Get really hungry.
• Brunch at Royal T Café. Squirt sausage juice all over t-shirt. Order cookie, but there are no cookies to be had.
• Miller Honda. Great.
• Miller Toyota. What?
• Carmax Inglewood. Not as good as Burbank.
• VW Santa Monica. Test drive pre-owned Jetta. Not for me.
• Marathon drive to Burbank. Past Burbank. Way past Burbank. Backtrack on the 5.
• Carmax Burbank. Test drive Nissan Sentra and Toyota Yaris. Both too wonky, but hard to tell circling the parking lot.
• Honda North Hollywood. Wait, those are motorcycles.
• Robertson Honda. Test drive Fit. Love it. Salesman tells me I’ve picked the wrong car because I can’t afford it.
• In-N-Out Burger across the street for dinner, protein-style. Nearly lose it waiting for the food to arrive in the cold.
• Worry my car, left in the Starbucks parking lot, has been towed.
• Reunite with my car in Culver City, drive home to Beverly Hills.
• Shower, wash hair, change.
• Sparkly sweater, walk uphill 1.2 miles to the Sunset Strip.
• Mache salad and divine cocktails at The Eveleigh.
• Get mistaken for Zoe Deschanel.
• Make eyes at the bartender.
• Meet the off-duty staff from BLT Steak next door, chat, charm.
• Get walked home partway by one, all the way by another.
• Kiss goodnight. Fireworks.
• Sleep.

Day Four

• Wake with the rain.
• Starbucks.
• Movers.
• Unpacking.
• Shower.
• Honda Hollywood. Leave after only a brief conversation, without test-driving anything.
• Drive aimlessly
• Return to Miller Honda.
• Negotiate lease for the Fit, the car I was told I couldn’t afford.
• Call friends for positive reinforcement.
• Sign papers.
• Freak out.
• Burger, mushrooms and Albariño at Father’s Office.
• Sleep. Kinda.

Day Five

• Wake with the birds, clean up crash pad and head to my own apartment for good.
• Unpack. Break down boxes. Wonder where the recycling goes.
• Pay rent, return key to furnished crash pad.
• Beverly Hills City Hall for parking permit. Marvel at how amazing my hometown is.
• Sneak into Beverly Hills Public Library to use free internet. Realize it’s only free if you carry a library card. Sign up for one. Feel giddy.
• Drive 100 miles into and throughout the Valley furniture shopping, from Westlake Village to Burbank to North Hollywood back to Woodland Hills, hitting three Macy’s along the way.
• Settle on the first couch I saw that day, at the third Macy’s I visited.
• Hair did in Studio City.
• Crap. Nail salon across the street closes at 7.
• Home. Change. No time for shower.
• Walk to the Sunset Strip for drinks and lobster salad at BLT Steak, where the bartender invited me to come visit him. Wonder if it’s a date if one of us is working. Hang around like a groupie til closing time.
• Head next door to The Eveleigh and wait for bartender to finish closing. Flirt with another bartender. Snack on truffle fries from the guys sitting next to me. Give them my card.
• Feel drunk and abandoned, decide to go home alone.
• Meet first bartender on the way and walk home together.
• Kiss goodnight against wall in empty apartment, over the stairwell railing.
• Panic I’ll start my new job sleep-deprived and hung over.
• Collapse into the Murphy bed for what little sleep I can get.

And so begins my new life…

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