Oh, the Places You'll Go!
By Alan Mittelstaedt & Alfred Lee & Andy Klein & Anthony Miller & Rebecca Schoenkopf & Ron Garmon
California Coming Home
Take your time along the California coast
There’s precious little in this world to wholeheartedly endorse – In-N-Out Burgers, rainbows, Luke and Owen Wilson, spending the weekend in bed, and Cool Hand Luke are really the only things I can think of about which there are no niggling doubts, no critical exceptions, no It’s-almost-perfect-but … .
But when it comes to our precious vacation days, we do have a wonder of the world right here, one we can vouch for with full faith and credit: The California coast is everything it should be and nothing it shouldn’t, unless you count the poo off Aliso Creek in Orange County or the mean old rich people in Carmel. Carmel, or as I like to call it, “Palm Springs by the Sea,” is a sight too precious and a lot too persnickety, and I will never forgive it for the one old mean rich lady who informed me, when asked if there were rooms to let, that my well-behaved, then-toddler son might not enjoy himself in her twee little hotel, and please to be careful of the door and our ass.
The California coast is one of the finest driving routes in the world, with Pacific Coast Highway bending in gentle curves just to add to your performance. There are fine little areas like Point Reyes, just north of San Simeon, to pull off the road by the gray sea and stop and smell the elephant seals.
But seeing the ocean out the window of the train is a fine way to do it too – and if you don’t get Hearst Castle, you at least get a bar car. And with Amtrak’s seven days of travel for $159, you can stop and take as much time as you like, as long as “as much time as you like” is equal to or less than 21 days. From San Luis Obispo northward, Amtrak cuts inland – you can’t take it through the peaceful glories of Big Sur, for instance, although it does light down again in Salinas – and so we shall ignore it.
SLO has its very pretty little downtown that somehow still feels rustic despite its boutiques, and you will stay at the Madonna despite the datedness, general shabbiness, and awful expense. South of San Luis, you’re cutting through places like Solvang (the Disneyfied and delightfully kitschy village where you will stop for a night or two and buy expensive cheeses to enjoy in your windmill-shaped room) before you get to Santa Barbara. Stand on your principles: Get the fucking merlot.
Santa Barbara is its own delight, of course, though State Street lately is as chichi as Rodeo Drive – there are no more homeless with signs inviting you to contribute to their party fund, just taut old blondes with boob jobs and a whole lot of duck lips. Santa Barbara has become a small bit disturbing. Actually, I no longer recommend Santa Barbara, but if you do go and you do have the scratch, the Villa Rosa downtown is exquisite, all snobby and tiny (just 18 rooms) and just like you like it. Plus? Free wine nightly. With snacks! As for the rest of Santa Barbara, just pick up an Independent. They’ll tell you what to do.
Let’s skip right over L.A. and O.C., yes?
If it’s after July 16, stop at Del Mar and join the douche parade at the race track. Get hammered, get groped, and then get back on the train to a quieter, groovier scene.
The beach cities of northern San Diego County remind me of Topanga in the ’70s – before the yuppies put up their gross mansions. There’s that giant transcendental meditation temple, a gourmet Peruvian slow-food restaurant (Q’ero), and lobster tacos for like seven bucks at El Callejon in Encinitas. (To get to Encinitas, you’ll get off the train in Solana Beach, where you will grab a cab.) The beach cities are filled with Brazilians (the people, not the grooming style) (but probably the grooming style too), and Surfing editors, and good-looking young folk who all probably have weed. If you can finagle an invitation to a party there, especially in the sweet bliss that’s Leucadia, for the love of Sweet Mary, go.
You have choices once you’re off the train in San Diego proper. If you’re a trust-funder and a moron, you’ll want to stay at the W, both for its boutique décor and the South Beach-style party that elbows you in the face when you’re trying to cross the lobby at night. If you’re not a trust-funder (but still a moron), you can stay at the second-worst Motel 6 I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet (the worst was in Waco, for sure). It’s yards from the train tracks and right under the flight path, and every 20 minutes all night long, you will wake up and cry.
Settle in, have a drink, and grab a cab to North Park (with a little jaunt to South Park) before you retire to the bikini models frugging in the lobby – or to the whistle of the train all night long.
There are a few boutiques with ugly, ’spensive shoes and odd housewares; a terrific, woman-owned sex shoppe; fancy delicious restaurants that are daring and transformative like you might see from an ambitious Top Chef contestant; and the delightful Pink Elephant, property of one of S.D.’s best-loved musicians, John Reis of Rocket From the Crypt.
In neighboring South Park is Hamilton’s Tavern: The ultimate neighborhood bar, where regulars bring their well-behaved dogs inside to loll at everyone’s feet, Hamilton’s is a beer bar with excellent draughts and a jukebox that moves from the Pogues/Rocket From the Crypt/Roky Erickson and New York Dolls to Howlin’ Wolf/Faces/Son House and John Hurt. And all of it, all of it, is rock. Play a game of pool, slurp down some of the world’s finest ales, and don’t step on anyone’s hound dog.
Fuckin’ tourist.
—Rebecca Schoenkopf
Published: 05/14/2008
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Other Stories by Alan Mittelstaedt
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Comments
Wow, you're so right - and to think that all along everyone's been thinking Hitler was this bad, inconsiderate dude!
The train! The train!
The BEST WAY TO TRAVEL!
Funny (as usual) and to the point (also, as usual.)
I am really, really, really, really glad you are the editor.