“Should we take the scenic route?” my husband asked. “Why not?” I said.
This was our conversation on December 29th, 2024 on the way home after visiting a close friend in Santa Monica. It was a perfect Californian day, the kind where the light twinkles as dolphins spy hop just above the ocean’s surface and you feel almost guilty about how beautiful it is here in the dead of winter.
So instead of taking the 405 to the 101 - and at the risk of sounding like Stuart from an episode of The Californians - we decided to take the 10 to the 1 and drive north through Malibu on the Pacific Coast Highway.
Of course, we hit a snag right away. My daughter started crying in a way that could only signal one thing, so we immediately slowed down and pulled over in the large and empty parking lot of the defunct Topanga Motel next to Reel Inn. I hopped out and went around the other side to retrieve her, and then flung up the liftgate with one hand to change her diaper on the trunk bed like I’ve done a thousand times in the last 8 months. It felt windy and hot, and I thought to myself: “Wow. It’s so dry.” I rushed through the diaper change because of the wind, worried that she’d get sand in her diaper.
It had always seemed odd to me that the bungalow-style Topanga Motel sat there completely dilapidated. I had once read something online about issues with the nearby creek flooding, and how it was eventually going to be renovated and brought back as affordable national park lodging (it was originally a campground), but nothing ever seemed to happen.
As I buckled my daughter back into her carseat, I made a mental note that I’d like to stay there if they ever did reopen it. And then I made another mental note that we should really try Reel Inn. I’ve passed it countless times on the way to Malibu but always opted for Neptune’s Net when I had a fried fish craving.
All of these thoughts - about the dryness, the motel, the fish - flitted through my mind in a nanosecond. Before I knew it, we whipped back onto the PCH in a lull of northbound traffic and headed home. I remarked at how light the traffic was that day because we were in the sandwich period between Christmas and New Year’s when a lot of Angelenos are out of town. As we picked up speed again, I felt a twinge of nostalgia for this fragile edge of LA. I lived on the westside for 7 years and for a big chunk of that, I spent a lot of time in Malibu. My dog Einstein grew up on those beaches.
Of course you know what happened next. It’s hard to process that much of what we drove past that day - including the Topanga Motel and Reel Inn - is now gone, along with large swaths of densely populated and beloved LA neighborhoods. The level of destruction is unbelievable. There was no good reason why we decided to take the long way home that day, but I’m glad we did. I’m glad we saw it that way one last time. My heart goes out to all those who have been affected.
A few weeks ago I had planned to write about what it’s been like to move back to California (as this is something I’m actively trying to suss out for myself) but my writing was interrupted by the escalating news of the Palisades fire. As anyone who has lived here knows, monitoring the Santa Ana winds in wildfire season is part of the experience of living here. So that’s one bit of what it’s like to move back.
My mom and brother had to evacuate from Ojai during the Thomas Fire in 2018 that burned 281,893 acres. There was only one way out of town, and they caravanned in bumper to bumper traffic through a literal ring of fire, with flames encroaching on either side of the road. Their cars, filled with a few precious belongings (art, photos and important documents) got so hot they thought they would melt.
They stayed with me in Venice until they could go back and they were lucky to have homes to return to, but the effects lingered for months. The air quality was dangerous. My mom’s house was like the inside of a smoker’s lung and had to be remediated. Above all, it was such a traumatic experience that it inspired both of them to leave. My brother moved to Portland shortly after and my mom moved to Austin. And they weren’t the only ones. On my mom’s street alone, three other neighbors left. I don’t think any of them wanted to feel trapped in a donut of fire again.
Whenever something like this happens, there’s a big shift. It happened in Ojai, and I can feel it now where I live, in Santa Barbara. In the days after the fire started, our grocery store parking lots were full of LA cars packed with belongings (nothing was in suitcases - just thrown in) and covered in ash. I’m sure that there will be a massive influx of people relocating here permanently. This is no disaster-free zone though. Our local friends all have harrowing stories of mudslides, floods and fires. My house flooded multiple times during the winter storms last year, forcing us to move when I was 7 months pregnant.
Back in LA, several close friends still haven’t returned to their homes. A few are seeing this as an opportunity to cut ties and start over somewhere new. Other friends went back as soon as they could and returned to 2020-esque life with a mask. And in the midst of all the upheaval, there are always new arrivals, including one good friend who just moved from New York. As my East Texan Grandmother used to say, bless her heart.
Between the fires here, the winter storms in France and the inauguration, January has been a doozy. This was the general consensus in my neighborhood moms group this week, as we went around the table for a post-holiday check in. And yet, there have been many bright spots and I’m so grateful for them.
My daughter’s two bottom teeth made an appearance and she immediately capitalized on this new tongue to tooth relationship to learn how to cluck.
The quail family in our yard that went missing for a few months has returned in full force, with new chicks in tow.
I officially became French, and therefore, European.
My dad just turned 70 and we will celebrate together next week.
I’m writing this piece, and I love writing.
That’s what I’ve been refocusing my attention on, over and over again, every time I start to wander away from my life and get caught in a news cycle. Clucking and quail spotting and sitting down to write. It’s a meditation practice of its own.