Griffith Park

The past two days have been a whirlwind.

It was my first official three-day weekend. For the past 8 months I have worked at the clinic I have spent the majority of my Saturdays treating clients and finishing up paperwork from the week. But no longer, my friends.

I am free. For now anyway.

To celebrate Justin I have decided to explore some uncharted territory in Los Angeles. We love Long Beach. We love the laid-back vibes, the funky historic homes, the eclectic mix of people. Los Angeles, or rather downtown Los Angeles, is a different animal.

Skyscrapers thrust their sparkling faces into the relentlessly blue sky while on the sidewalk below persons from all walks of life clamor and push past one another like schools of fish. The air is thick; scents of hotdogs, fresh fruit, exhaust, and urine pervade the atmosphere. A cacophony of car horns, voices shouting in all languages, and the gentle beep of the pedestrian walking signs echo against the concrete. In the midst of this concrete jungle, palm trees and flowering bushes push their way up through the cracks like blazing reminders of the tropics. I remember when I announced my upcoming move to LA at work a coworker said to me, "I hope you like weird people and traffic." She wasn't wrong. But it's so much more than that.

It's not New York. It's not Paris. It's Los Angeles. A creature of its own.

But in the midst of this hustle sits the lovely marble facade of Botegga Louie. And that was our destination.

Botegga Louie, despite the perfectly clear white walls, is not an oasis of calm, but rather carries through with the theme of busy. Waitstaff, dressed in crisp white aprons, bustle in every corner, packaging delicate desserts into pink boxes, mixing cocktails behind the gilded mahogany bar, and assembling salad ingredients with all the attention to detail of surgeons.

Whether you want brick-oven pizza, smoked salmon on a brioche bun, or a trio of French macarons, you can find your desires met here.

I have a minor obsession with French macarons. Delicate and sweet and arriving in all the colors of the rainbow, these tiny cookies are bites of heaven. I had my first truly excellent macaron in Paris two years ago. After hiking thirty minutes through the rain, Justin and I arrived wet and disheveled into the warm and well lit interior of Pierre Herme. Macarons were arranged in vignettes reminiscent of the purses on display at Louis Vuitton across the street. That evening, back at our hotel, we dined picnic style on our bed, imbibing wine, strawberries, baguette, and, of course, macarons. 

With such a memory it has been difficult for me to find a macaron that can match. Bottega Louie has done just that. 

The fashion district, with its streets lined in roll upon roll of fabric, fur, and lace were just a quick fifteen minute walk away. Justin indulged me as I wandered from store front to store front, pulling, touching, and flicking through my mental lookbook for just the right fabric. I bought the most fabulous white and black linen at Michael Levine. My latest love has been the gorgeous linen dresses from Reformation's spring line. I can't wait to make my own version. 

We wandered past theaters, pawn stores, mid-century modern apartment complexes, and opulent cafes as we made our way back to the car. The day wasn't over yet. Griffith Park awaited.

Griffith Park is a 4,310 acre oasis of green hillsides sitting abroad the eastern end of the Santa Monica Mountains. It is the largest public park in North America, home to hikers, dog walkers, and of course, Griffith Observatory. I visited Griffith Observatory back in January with a best friend, and, like a kid on Christmas, was giddy to share it with Justin.

At the observatory you feel like you sit on top of the world. Downtown LA is quiet as a picture on a postcard from such a height, its skyscrapers just visible through the haze. The Pacific Ocean and Hollywood are a whisper of color among the endless sea of streets and neighborhoods. You can hike to the Hollywood sign, listen to a brief lecture on telescopes, or peruse the interior of the observatory with its many displays. Families with small children littered the lawn, and tourists snapped pictures of the surrounding verdant hills.

It was fun to play tourist in my new city. I am definitely not a Los Angelino. I do shout quite a bit when I drive now, but that's not really new. I love the flowers, the mountains and ocean at my fingertips, and the wide expanse of diversity that colors conversations and experiences.

After being in downtown LA, Justin and I have been revisiting the ongoing conversation of places other than Long Beach in which we might enjoy living. Echo Park and Silver Lake offer easy access to the museums and parks on the west side of downtown. Santa Monica and Malibu are abundant in beauty and things to do. The beach cities in Orange County are just fantastic.

But visiting downtown LA made me happy I didn't live there. Take from that what you will.

San Diego

It feels as though an age has passed since I last made a post.

Life has been a blur. Busy work weeks sliding into one another, the rush of a schedule-packed day colliding with the quietly blissful weekends. 

Winter has come and gone along the west coast, with just a few weeks of 40 to 50 degree mornings. Now the days are brilliantly sunny and warm, the few deciduous trees are in bloom, and bare legs are back in style.

It may be February in California but the gods of summer have not relinquished their hold on this sunshine state. 

To celebrate a brief reprieve in a few very busy, sickness suffering, and lonely weeks Justin and I took a day trip to San Diego. We are about and hour and a half from this lovely city and I thought I would share the fabulous and brief taste we got to experience.

I feel like I have transported across continents. It used to be Justin and I took day trips from Louisville to Nashville or Cincinnati to get a taste of something different. Now our day trips take us from the endless hustle and traffic of Los Angeles to the gorgeously lush and characterful streets of San Diego.

We started our day in Little Italy, where we lunched at the chic and funky restaurant Ironside. 

We had fully anticipated dining on authentic Italian flavor, but the facade of Ironside was too appealing to pass it by. The exterior is distressed wood with succulents draped from rustic planters. Inside, scenes from the Great Gatsby flick through your mind as the mint and marble bar, mirrored tables, art deco lamps, and brass mermaids wave at you from across the room. It was fabulous. Craft cocktails, buttery lobster rolls, and the bright fresh flavors of seviche offered a schmorgesborg of flavor to the tastebuds. It was so delicious Justin and I briefly debated if we would return there for dinner as well. 

After lunch, already feeling as though the trip had delivered, we walked the steep hills of the city to Balboa Park. 

Balboa Park is an oasis of flora, architectural delights, culture, and history in southern California. It is more than 1400 acres of greenery housing 15 museums, gardens, and the world-famous San Diego Zoo. Just walking through the Spanish-Renaissance inspired archways made me feel as though I stepped into a different era. Justin and I ambled past hundreds of rose bushes, giant tree-like cacti, and into the cool interior of the botanical gardens. Jazz musicians and street artists alike entertained and serenaded pedestrians and tourists.

Justin and I arrived too late in the day to do justice a trip to the San Diego Zoo, but we did visit the San Diego Museum of Art. It has been entirely too long since I visited an art museum. Walking through the expertly lit and pristine hallways sent me back to memories of Musee D'Orsay and the Louvre. I studied studio art in undergrad and have a deep abiding love affair with a variety of French, Dutch, and Italian painters.

With our eyes and hearts full, Justin I wandered through the urban landscape down to waterfront park to watch the sun begin to set into the harbor. We watched little children chase kites through the green lawns and a couple pose in wedding attire by sparking fountains. 

We did have the flavor of Italy for dinner, sipping wine over pasta dishes and sipping foamy cappuccinos before gearing up for the drive back to LA. LA doesn't quite feel like home; it is too chaotic and wild a beast to be familiar so soon. But it was nice to roll onto our street and see the little blue house and all my flowers waving cheerily upon our return. 

Today I planted my very first vegetable garden. I have been eagerly anticipating this day since we first moved into our house. It is tiny but I hope to grow a variety of herbs, peppers, jalapeños, tomatoes, squash, onions, and zucchini. I will keep you posted on the progress!

In other news, I have been a sewing machine. I am thinking about doing a blog post that features like 8 dresses in quick succession. Stay tuned folks.

***

Solvang, CA

Rain, rain.

You cannot finish the rhyme and say "Go away" because at long last California is getting some much needed hydration. This past week has been unusually gloomy, cloudy, and brisk. 

It is like fall has hit Southern California. 

The few deciduous trees have lost their orange and gold leaves to the wind and rain and now lie scattered along the wet pavement. When you gaze down the street from my house, the mountains to the north gleam white with snow. 

California, you are so damn pretty. 

During the past few weeks Justin has been flying quite a bit. I must admit I am tired of 5-day trips. In the mornings I wake up to the cold and quiet floors, the gentle burble of the coffee-maker the only sound permeating the quiet solitude. Fog drapes around the orange trees in the backyard, muffling the sounds from the street.

When Justin got home from his latest trip, he came home with a plan. When I got off work that evening, we would hop in the car and drive two hours north to the tiny Dutch settlement of Solvang. Just past Santa Barbara and the Los Padres Forest, Solvang sits among virgin blue skies and slopping hills hung with the orderly rows of vineyards.

The literal meaning of Solvang is "sunny fields." It is a wine-maker's paradise and the town offers a wide variety of local vineyards for sampling, an abundance of food, and charming architectural delights. We arrived well after dark to our hotel which hosted a roaring fire and got to experience the hushed town glittering in twinkle lights.

The following morning we breakfasted on hardboiled eggs, English muffins, sausage, and hot coffee before wandering around the town. What had appeared so tiny and quiet to us the night before hummed with energy as the locals hurried about tossing open the cottage doors of their shops. We couldn't help ourselves, we had to stop in for a second breakfast at Mortensen's Bakery: a danish inspired bakery run by two sisters that has sat in that spot for 40 years. 

You just cannot say no to raspberry cream danishes and foamy cappuccinos. 

Solvang is the sort of place that doesn't need an agenda or schedule. It is quiet hamlet, made for strolling along brick-laid streets, snapping pics of windmills, and gazing dreamily at the profusion of flowers and trailing ivy. We indulged ourselves, popping in and out of eclectic shops hosting items from Native American art and rugs, clogs, coo coo clocks, Turkish bowls, jewelry, and, of course, wine. 

Around noon Justin and I dropped by Sevtap, a local winery's shop, for a wine tasting. I have never been to such a wonderful wine tasting. The owner's amazing wife, Tamara, poured delicious portions of their various wines and chatted with us for well over an hour. I felt like I was meeting a character from a Nora Robert's novel. Beautiful and engaging, she regaled us with the tale of how her Turkish husband went from deep sea driving in the Gulf to working in New Orleans restaurants where he discovered a love of food and wine. From there he moved to California and drove Jeep tours of wineries so that he could meet and learn from all the local vintners and viticulturists. She laughed as she told us how his journey of careers led him to the making of wine and to her. Sigh.

Along the edge of town sits Old Mission Santa Ines. Renown for their rose gardens, it is a restful place to explore and partake of the local history. It makes an interesting dichotomy, this Spanish-influenced parish abutting the buildings from Danish folklore.

Justin was sweet enough to capture a few pics of me in my yellow rose maxi dress. While he was away I kept busy with projects, painting a nightstand for our bedroom and sewing away at this sucker. It is made of floaty polyester with a light sheen and dotted with a tiny floral print. It has pin tucking along the front and back bodice, three gathered layers on the shirt, buttons from chest to mid-thigh, and a stretchy elastic waist-band. I love it. When I walk it billows around my legs, the front slit teasing up to my knees. 

We completed our day by driving into Santa Barbara on the way back to Los Angeles. You really cannot get more epic than America's Riviera. Justin and I watched the sun set from Stearn's Harbor, turning the white-washed buildings and mountains a stunning pink before dying into the water. We listened to street musicians and dined on pasta while being snubbed by locals at Ca' Dario. 

We loved the pretty restful vibes of Santa Barbara and bemoaned the fact that you couldn't rent a house for less than $3,500 a month. We enjoy Los Angeles but it is bit of a mad house. Justin said last night the city is ridden hard and hung up wet. He's not wrong. 

Right now, though, it is where we call home.