Taking the Plunge During a Pandemic

Everything just feels so difficult right now. The most minor normalities have become a hassle. It's like the Universe's way of telling all of us to stay home.



And yet I insist on emerging from my cage and trying to do more than just exist—even if that means I fall upon the thorns of life and bleed.



After having felt relatively safe swimming at the Culver City Municipal Plunge a few weeks ago, I'd been trying to get to another public pool—but with the West Hollywood Pool demolished and all Los Angeles City Aquatics facilities closed, I had to focused my efforts a little farther afield.



After several tries over the course of a couple of weeks, I finally nabbed Lane #1 at Santa Monica College's Swim Center for a 4 p.m. time slot today. As I hurriedly took the plunge after arriving a few minutes late, I was startled to find that the lane went no deeper than 3 feet—not deep enough for me to swim without my knees dragging on the bottom.



"Oh well," I thought to myself, "This is what I get in a pandemic."

But thankfully, that turned out not to be true. The front desk attendant found me and told me I was in the wrong pool—the shallow "Splash" pool instead of the "Fitness" pool.

Without her, I would've just stayed and suffered! But instead I got a good 30 or 35 minutes in a 7-foot-deep lane, too deep for me to jump in feet first and too deep for me to launch my body onto the pool deck while getting out.

And by that I mean it was just perfect—with the beach city of Santa Monica literally 20 degrees cooler than the farther inland West Hollywood in this record heatwave we're having.

My back was already burned from spending yesterday at another pool (more on that later), but somehow the cold and the chlorine numbed me to the pain that, the night before, kept waking me up every time my nightgown or a sheet scraped against me.

Once I actually got into the water today, life seemed simple again—or, at least, simpler than it was out of the water. Simpler than it's going to be on dry land for quite some time.

And for that one narrow window of time, I got to keep that pool lane all to myself. I could swim or not swim. I could float, twirl, or backstroke. I didn't have to cover my mouth or nose. And I could inhale the ocean breeze with little concern for my health.

This is how I can stay safe and sane. And ensuring both safety and sanity is the only way I'm going to survive this public health crisis that isn't going away anytime soon.

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How L.A.'s 'Old' City Hall Got Reborn As a Medieval Castle for Artisans, Brick by Brick

[Last updated 2/25/23 9:12 PM PT—video embed added at bottom]

I've written before about Los Angeles City Hall—but the current landmark, circa 1927, wasn't LA's first. Not by a longshot.

circa 1889 (Photo: Security Pacific National Bank Collection, LAPL)

It's actually the fourth. And its immediate predecessor—the third one, circa 1888—was dismantled in a massive spectacle after just 40 years of standing at Broadway (formerly Fort Street) and 2nd Street in Downtown LA.

Photo Essay: The Survivor Cabins of Burbank's Besieged Country Club Drive

It wasn't until the 1940s and 50s that most of Burbank, California was developed as a city. But in the 1920s, there was a development up in the Burbank Hills—the foothills of the Verdugo Mountains—called Sunset Canyon that left a mark on the area that still remains to this day, nearly 100 years later.

I didn't know about it, though, until I happened upon a stone gate on Sunset Canyon Drive as I was getting ready to turn down Olive and head back home after having brunched in the hills at Castaway.



I'd surely passed here at least twice before—when I'd hiked Wildwood Canyon and Stough Canyon—but I hadn't noticed the historic-looking gateway.



A closer look revealed details of an old country club—a rustic getaway from Hollywood—that had opened on Thanksgiving Day 1922. And spoiler alert: Much of it burned down in a 1927 fire. But more on that in a little bit.



I wondered if there'd be anything left to see beyond those gates—and with nothing but time on my hands, I proceeded up Country Club Drive to see what I could find within those 2500 acres that were annexed into Burbank in 1926.



I immediately recognized the signs of a gated—or at least planned—community, with stone retaining walls and terraces giving the neighborhood a unique charm not found on the other side of the stone pillars.



It turns out that membership to the Sunset Canyon Country Club, as it was called, included access to a 9-hole golf course that ran along Sunset Canyon from Orange Grove to Verdugo Avenue, a clubhouse with swimming pool, and a choice of over 100 cabins.



I just wasn't sure if I would be able to find any of them.



I wasn't even sure exactly what I was looking for. I hadn't planned this adventure—but I was set on pursuing it.

built 1928

After all, I have a pretty good "eagle eye" for spotting the signs of the somethings that aren't nothing—and from the first houses I encountered, I could tell that there was a distinctive character to Country Club Drive. 

built 1925

Nearly all of those dwellings were either constructed with or surrounded by local rocks.

built 1928

And although their architectural styles do vary—from, say, Craftsman to Tudor Revival, Spanish Colonial Revival, and everything in between—they all look of a certain vintage. 

built 1927

And in the case of the surviving cottages from the country club era—just a couple dozen of them—that means completion dates that range from approximately 1922 to 1929.

built 1954

Even the newer residences—ones that were added to Country Club Drive long after the rest of the surrounding amenities were long gone—often appear just dropped on top of the old foundations and walkways.



It's like they're being cradled by the ghostly remnants of their fire-consumed predecessors.

built 1929

It's actually a miracle that so many of these historic structures do still stand, including the ones built after the devastating 1927 fire—especially given their proximity to the dry brush that still so frequently ignites.

built 1928

And when it's not fire besieging the area, it's flooding and mudslides. In 1965, local media reported residents being bulldozed out. 

built 1929

At the time that Sunset Canyon Country Club opened in 1922, it was the only private country club in the Valley—by 1923, signing up nearly 2,500 members.

built 1924

That was the same year that the first nearby brushfire broke out, with 75 cottages being evacuated as firefighters (not all professionals, it seems) doused the flames with water extracted from the swimming pool.

built 1923

Miraculously, the club was saved from that fire—but it would only survive another four years before another conflagration would help seal its fate.

built 1928, former home of aviator Laura Ingalls

As a Los Angeles Times article described the 1927 inferno, "The canyon is exceedingly narrow, and served as a chimney through which the flames poured." Firemen had to "flee for their lives."

As I proceeded up Country Club Drive on my exploration, the collection of cottages got sparser—and I imagine this is at least one spot where the wildfire raged through the path of the club's structures. In total, that 1927 fire took down nearly 100 cabins—with damages estimated at $500,000.



And then, the road just ended at an entirely different kind of gate—one that I could've driven through, were it not for the whole trespassing thing.

Photo: eBay

Somewhere up there is where the $75,000 clubhouse once stood.

Photo: wesclark.com

But the year before the fire, in 1926, the Sunset Canyon Country Club had built a new 19,000-square-foot structure on nearly 4 acres at the bottom of the hill at Sunset Canyon Drive—and relocated its main clubhouse there. 

Designed by LA architect Mott M. Marston in the Mediterranean style, and surrounded by the golf course on three sides, the clubhouse boasted "the largest dining and dancing facilities of any Country Club in Southern California"—and even reportedly functioned as a speakeasy during Prohibition.



But by the 1930s, the club had run its course—and could never financially recover, especially considering the blow dealt by the stock market crash of 1929.  From 1933 to 1939, the City of Burbank owned the entire country club, during which time it subdivided and sold much of the property.



Today, the second clubhouse still stands—behind another set of stone gates, still occupied by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as it has been since 1939 and still functioning as the main Mormon church building in Burbank.

The LDS church actually turned down the option of also purchasing other parts of the former country club—including the pool, which was instead sold to competitive swimmer and Tarzan star Johnny Weissmuller, who reportedly swam there everyday until he moved away in the 1950's.

The pool is now part of the LA County-operated Sunset Debris Basin—as is much of the rest of the property, in an attempt to manage runoff coming down from the mountains.

One of my most unique finds in the LA area!

For more info, clippings, and images, check out "A New Year’s Eve Party Broadside, Sunset Canyon Country Club, Burbank, 1929" on The Homestead Blog from the Workman-Temple Homestead Museum.

For more background on the 1927 Verdugo Hills fire, visit Mike Lawler's excellent column "Treasures of the Valley" for the Crescenta Valley Weekly. 

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All Aboard the Carney's Express Limited: Sunset Strip

I'll eat on any train at any time. In fact, I want to eat on ALL the trains. And fortunately, there are plenty of rail-themed dining establishments in Southern California, particularly in LA.



One of my favorites is what I've nicknamed "The Hot Dog Train"—a.k.a. Carney's Restaurant, a family-owned business with actually two locations, both housed in vintage rolling stock.



In addition to the one located in Studio City on Ventura Boulevard (established 1981), there's my "local"—the original one that opened on the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood in 1975. (A third location in Glendale is no more.)



Sometimes I can't believe something so whimsical and such a slice of Americana can still exist anywhere in LA—especially in an area that's been getting gobbled up by hotels and high-rise condo towers.



And part of me is convinced that a train that serves up hot dogs and hamburgers topped with chili couldn't possibly be around much longer.



Fortunately, the coronavirus pandemic has allowed food that's fast and casual to thrive in an era of social distancing.



And while you can still board the train to place your order and retrieve your food, now you just have to bring outside to eat.



The interior is worth a visit, if only for the historical photo display that tells the story of how the hot dog train got to the north side of Sunset Boulevard in the first place. I always liked to think that the tracks pre-dated the Strip—but it turns out that's not the case.



Originally built in 1926, the Union Pacific "Challenger" class passenger coach #535 that became Carney's was relocated overnight to the Sunset Strip from a private owner's property in the Mojave Desert.



Once it arrived to the lot, it took an hour—with three lanes closed to traffic—to get it exactly into place. . But even so, it was designed to be "portable" in case the Wolfe family ever lost their lease.



Fortunately, they haven't (yet), so you can still get the Carney's chili dog with mustard, onions, and tomatoes...



...or the chili cheeseburger with pickles and tomatoes and a side of "train wreck" fries, smothered and covered in cheese, grilled onions, and Thousand Island dressing.



Now, from the street it looks like Carney's West Hollywood location is just one train—but it's actually two. The kitchen car is a converted bar/lounge car, also from Union Pacific, that was fitted precisely over a basement area that had been excavated in advance.



During the day, the kitchen workers are slammed with delivery orders and walk-ups from local construction crews and looky-loo tourists. At night, the booze-soaked crowds gobble their chili and wash it down with bottles of beer before making it on foot to their next party stop.



As food critic extraordinaire Jonathan Gold wrote for LA Weekly, "After a few beers and a chili dog or two, the train can appear to be lurching down the track."

I'll take Carney's over Pink's any day.

And eating outside the train, right next to the tracks, is as much of a kick for railfans as grabbing a seat inside.

Either way, no boarding pass is required!

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Meet Me at The Formosa (Upstairs On the Patio, For Now)

I'm trying to radically accept the inevitability that some places will never reopen from the "temporary" pandemic closures.



But using the power of my own wallet, I've been fighting hard to keep The Formosa Cafe up and running—ordering more delivery from there than any other single establishment since mid-March.



After all, it spent so many years closed—competing for grant money to fund its restoration—finally reopening just over a year ago to much fanfare.



Fortunately, that renovation preserved a rooftop patio space—one I'd actually never visited under the "old guard" of the Formosa's operations, but I'd been aware of because of the crowd noise coming down from it on certain nights.



Since the only dine-in experience that's allowing right now while dining out is outdoor dining, it was time for me to support this historic institution by finally climbing up those stairs.



With a patio plan already in place, the Formosa had a leg up on other restaurants that have scrambled to expand into their parking lots and sidewalks, some laying down Astroturf and setting up ad hoc tents and other pop-up shelters in a relatively unglamorous fashion.



But at the Formosa, the Mai Tai's taste just as refreshing up there, under amber-glowing lanterns and surrounded by the cafe's custom chinoiserie wallpaper.



The sun dips tipsy into the west and flecks our faces, all aglow in intangible gold. Beneath that, we are rouged in rum.

The breeze up there, it feels like it could sweep almost all our cares away.

The food nourishes and satisfies, even as we put on our masks after finishing one dish and waiting for another to arrive.

We keep everyone at a double-arm's length—everyone, that is, except each other, and except our server.

We've decided it's a risk we're willing to take. But it's about as much risk as we're willing to take—two hours maybe on one night in what seems like forever.

We might not do it again for another four months, or longer.

Or maybe now that we remember the Mai Tais taste better at the Formosa than they do at home—despite being the same Mai Tais—we'll find our way back more quickly the next time around.

Oh, to be able to say, "Meet me at The Formosa," to anyone, anytime.

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