The sun is shining, the temperature is a perfect 25 degrees and there’s a warm breeze coming off the Pacific Ocean. I’m in Santa Monica, California, LA’s waterfront cousin, 40 minutes west of the city and halfway up the coast between Santa Barbara and San Clemente.
The official city motto is “happy people in a happy city,” and I’m one of those happy people darting in and out of the water. The iconic Santa Monica Pier with its carnival amusements is nearby. The ferris wheel, admittedly no London Eye but big enough to offer an impressive view of the sea and sand below, grinds away silently while youthful screams of delight come from the nearby roller coaster. In front of me, a gaggle of wannabe surfers are taking lessons. (US$130/2 hours, if you’re interested). Life is good.
No longer dismissed as a jumping off point to Los Angeles, Santa Monica is a destination spot in its own right. Sure, the beach vibe is still strong, but the high-tech workers have moved in – the area is now called Silicon Beach – and that means boutiques, high culture and fine dining. Grunge meets glamour.Walking past the original Muscle Beach on my way to lunch illustrates its split personality. Bodybuilders gathered here in the 1950s but, 20 years later, the city chased them away to nearby Venice – too unsightly they said. Very déclassé. The sweaty bodies have returned, albeit on a smaller scale, a moment’s throw from Shutters on the Beach, one of the most exclusive hotels on the waterfront. I can see them grunting and groaning from my beachside table as I savour my grilled Mediterranean branzino with green pea pesto and crushed potatoes. Delicious. Ah, the yin and yang of Santa Monica.
My home base is the midtown Japanese-inspired Ambrose Hotel. Mellow is the byword here. The secluded patio and restful beige and blue interiors convey a Zen like tranquility.
“We keep it kind of old school,” says General Manager Matt Bernard. “We still have a little piece of paper guests sign and fill out. We do have great tech here, but we don’t push it in everybody’s face.” The hotel emphasizes the personal touch.
The next morning, the complimentary shuttle takes me to nearby Montana Avenue, a 10-block stretch of 150 high-end boutiques and interesting eateries. Sandwich boards tout expensive perfumes and jewellery. I stop in for a cup of honey almond crunch at Rori’s Artisanal Creamery. It’s the best ice cream on the planet.
If Montana Avenue is high end, Main Street is the older, funkier part of town, the original home of surfer dudes and skateboarders. I grab a Turkey Bomb Burrito – turkey, caramelized onions, cheese, and arugula at Dogwood Coffee. The note on the wall says the surfboard above my head can be mine for a cool $700.
jAdis, a nearby curiosity shop attracts my eye. It’s steam punk light. Long-time resident Susan Lieberman manages a wonderful collection of gadgets and constructions made of valves, tubes and sheet metal.
“[My husband] was inspired by the Young Frankenstein movie and he began to construct things,” she says. He passed away in 2010 but Susan presses on, renting out props to the movie industry and entertaining shoppers with innovative paraphernalia.
I walk over to the Third Street Promenade, Santa Monica’s downtown spine, a four-block pedestrian mall anchored at one end by Bloomingdales and Banana Republic at the other. The street is alive with shoppers and buskers. I stop for dinner at Tar and Roses and order a succulent duck breast with collard greens, kumquat chutney and a corn cake. I’ve had varied success with duck; it’s either been too dry or too gamey. This serving is melt-in-your-mouth superb. And for a nightcap? Where else but at Chez Jay, a notorious dive bar.
“I prefer the word joint not dive bar,” laughs Mike Anderson, the current owner. The place looks like it did when it opened in 1959: simple, shabby and cozy. Mike tells me Chez Jay was a hangout for the Hollywood elite back in the day because it was so far removed from the LA paparazzi. Burt Reynolds, Angie Dickenson and their ilk could disappear and let their hair down. He takes me to table 10 at the back of the room, an unassuming alcove with torn red vinyl seats.
“Julie Andrews and Blake Edwards had their first date here,” says Mike. “It makes me proud to be part of that history.”
Santa Monica agrees. Once slated for demolition, the city declared Chez Jay an historic landmark in 2012. Table 10 isn’t going anywhere soon.
The next day, I take an Uber to Bergamot, a collection of 25 commercial art galleries housed in a former railway depot. Paintings from contemporary artist Ed Moses, prints from Hockney, Miro and Warhol, and photos from Dorothea Lange are on display. It’s a grab bag of styles and media, and I find it invigorating.
As for live theatre, I visit the Eli and Edythe Broad Stage downtown, the largest of the city’s seven venues. The Broad (pronounced Brode) serves up theatre, dance, opera, symphony and chamber music in its modern 500-seat performance hall. The Westside Comedy Theatre just off the Third Street Promenade specializes in improv and prides itself on spring boarding the careers of superstars Kevin Pollack, Aziz Ansari and Zach Galifianakis.
Did I say Santa Monica is peppered with innovative restaurants? I choose Tallula’s, located on the western edge of the city, for its unique take on Tex-Mex. The turquoise walls, tile floor and wooden tables scream “cantina,” but this bright and cheery eatery is no hole-in-the-wall and the prices aren’t cheap. I try the fish taco, two blue corn tortillas topped with grilled chunks of rock cod and a creamy, malt aioli. The aioli smacks of a small amount of malt vinegar, the kind you put on traditional fish and chips. Britain meets Mexico. What a concept. In fact, at one point there were so many Brits in town that Santa Monica used to be called Little Britain.
Their numbers have dwindled but downtown’s Ye Olde King’s Head remains ground zero for the city’s ex-pat population. I forgo Afternoon Tea, complete with finger sandwiches and scones with clotted cream, in favour of fish and chips and imported English beer before heading next door to check out the pub’s gift shop. Cornish pasties, Peak Frean biscuits, Cadbury’s chocolates – it’s all here. Little Britain lives on.
I end my visit with a trip to the Museum of Flying on the outskirts of town. I’m a history buff and I was told the Douglas Aircraft Company was founded here in 1921. Sure enough, there are plenty of Douglas references among the displays. A nearby flight simulator catches my eye. It pitches and yaws and completes several 360-degree spins. Two young boys get out apparently none the worse for wear. I’m dizzy just looking at them. Mind you, it would be a great ride if I had kids or grandchildren in tow.
I find solace at Onyx, the rooftop bar atop the Shangri La Hotel on Ocean Avenue. I reflect on my visit to Happy Town. Funky yet sophisticated? Check. Physical pursuits yet cerebral ones, too? Check. Fine dining or casual? Check. I have an unobstructed view of the ocean and the boulevard below. The sun is setting, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Am I happy? You bet. How can one not fall in love with “the happy city for happy people”?
1,419 views