Metro Series - Civic Center, Day One
The night before my exploration of Civic Center, I had a fairly clear picture in my head of how it was going to go. While there are a handful of interesting sights in the area (some of which I had to postpone lest I venture into Pershing Square territory, thereby cannibalizing my next entry), as the civic and legal center to the city there are understandably not a bevy of tourist spots. Aside from seeing a show at the Music Center or attending mass at the Cathedral, I would wager that most voluntary visitors to the area only visit when they are serving on a jury. To that end I assumed that a large part of my visit would involve the architecture of the area, that the narrative would revolve around talking about the buildings and their history – so much so that I had practically started writing before I even stepped foot out of the house. I was already thinking about John Parkinson, previously mentioned for his work on Union Station, and his involvement in the design of City Hall. I would discuss the Walt Disney Concert Hall and how it is next to impossible to take a bad picture of a Frank Gehry design, especially in the golden hour, that long light at the end of the day. And to a certain extent, that is what I found. What I hadn’t planned on was how the area would make me feel, how much it would get into my head, and how long it would take me to figure out just what it was that I was feeling.
Starting off my day and emerging from underground I am initially a bit disoriented, coming up not at the intersection as I had assumed, but rather in the middle of the block. Fortunately City Hall serves as a very convenient navigation point, its 454-foot tower easy to spot from all over the area. Recalibrating my internal compass I head off in its general direction and am immediately struck by two things, that there is a lot of construction in the area and that aside from a few spectacular buildings most of the architecture is rather non-descript, the buildings more famous for what has happened within the walls than for the walls themselves. Case in point, the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center at Broadway and Temple. Built in 1972 it is a testament to the architecture of the era, which is to once again say, rather non-descript. Within the walls, however, it is a veritable who’s who of celebrity murder trials – OJ Simpson, Phil Spector, Dr. Conrad Murray. That’s not to say that the area is without charm, especially if, like me, you hold a soft spot for mid-century architecture like the 1961 Modernist Hall of Records building which is found across Broadway from Clara Foltz. It is the kind of building that makes me immediately imagine floors full of men with buzz cuts, white shirts, narrow black ties, and thick, black rimmed glasses. For some reason I imagine the 60’s workforce composed entirely of NASA Mission Control circa the moon landings.
The most impressive building in the area is also the most hidden - boarded up, fenced off and overgrown the Hall of Justice sits on yet another corner of Broadway and Temple, abandoned since sustaining damage in the 1994 Northridge earthquake. The neoclassical Beaux-Arts style building was completed in 1926 and was home at one time to the Los Angeles county courts, coroner, sheriff and district attorney as well as being the primary county jail which housed the likes of Bugsy Siegal, Charles Manson, and Sirhan Sirhan. Notables who passed through the coroners included Marilyn Monroe and Robert Kennedy.
Now it sits, a ghost inside the city. There are plans to restore the building, repair the damage and give it a good scrub, at which point it will once again serve as the Sheriff’s Headquarters. While it will be nice to see it returned to its former glory, I suspect that fixing it and inhabiting it will take away some of the allure for me. Living history is nice; ghosts from the past are better. One last peek through the fence and I turn the corner, back toward the present, back to City Hall.
I am excited about this stop and even happier to discover that I have happened upon a weekly farmers market in City Hall Park, right in the shadow of the tower. Always one to appreciate a good farmers market I take a little stroll through the booths, sampling the fruits, listening to the chatter of the crowd, enjoying the delicious aromas emanating from the hot food tents. I’m further thrilled to find that this is one of the markets frequented by Corn Maiden, makers of gourmet and (slightly) healthier tamales. I now know what I am having for lunch, but first, City Hall.
Gracing the badges of the LAPD and recognizable to any fan of Dragnet, City Hall was designed by John C. Austin, Albert C. Martin, Sr., and the aforementioned John Parkinson and was completed in 1928. At the time of its completion it was the tallest building in Los Angeles, an honor it would hold until 1964 thanks to a law that prohibited any structure taller than 150 feet. The tower was supposedly built to resemble the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus – one of the seven wonders of the ancient world – though one can also see some similarity to the Los Angeles Public Library, which had been completed just two years prior. Truly a California monument, the concrete used in the tower was made with sand from each of California’s 58 counties and water from the 21 historical missions.
Passing through the public entrance on Main St. I embark on what feels like a scavenger hunt. Signing in at the desk I receive a visitors badge and a list of instructions – my clues. Take the express elevator to the 22nd floor. Once there, transfer to the local elevator and take that another four floors, to the 26th, where you will find the Tom Bradley Room and portraits of a majority of LA’s previous mayors. Interesting in and of itself, but not what I am here for. Up the grand staircase to the 27th and the meeting room, ready for a speech with rows of chairs facing a podium framed by flags. Then through the doors and outside to the 27th floor observation deck – a free 360-degree view of downtown Los Angeles. I wander around the deck, taking in the view and snapping pictures from every vantage point, realizing just how in flux this area is. Two thirds of the block directly in front of City Hall across Spring Street lays vacant and fenced off. The end lot holds a mysterious foundation, its original purpose eluding me so far, another ghost in the middle of the city, another spot I want to explore but am unable to do so.
The middle lot shows more signs of life, being under active construction. On the next block up lies the Court of Flags, where I emerged from underground, and beyond that another block with more construction. It turns out that the entire area is being revitalized, the current promenade between Grand and Spring being undated with the goal of turning Civic Center into a “Central Park” for Los Angeles. The revamped 16-acre promenade between City Hall and the Music Center will include a grand terrace, a great lawn, gardens, and a plaza. Three parking lots around the Walt Disney Concert Hall will be replaced with mixed-use lots combining residential towers, retail blocks, and hotel space. An ambitious undertaking and one I am interested to see the results of.
Looking further out, I realize how small downtown actually is and how little attention I’ve paid on previous trips. Chinatown, Union Station, Little Tokyo, the Music Center, all visible from here, all within walking distance, and aside from the Music Center, I’m not sure I would have been able to tell you that City Hall was visible from any of these spots. Broadening your gaze and through a bit of Los Angeles haze you can see Dodger Stadium and Elysium Park, Griffith Park and the Observatory, and the Hollywood sign. It is a spectacular view and no one seems to know about it.
I spend at least half an hour popping back and forth from one side to the next and no one shows up. In a city the size of Los Angeles, with the number of tourists that visit every year, you would think more people would know about this, more people would be taking advantage of this unique and free view of the city. The only down side is that the deck is only accessible during regular City Hall hours, which makes it difficult for anyone with a 9-5 job, but it is absolutely worth it if you find yourself in the area on a weekday with a little time on your hands. Realizing that I am short on time I head back down the stairs and make a quick circle around the 26th floor taking in the portraits of previous mayors, and thinking that we really don’t know how to rock a sweet beard anymore. Check in with Thomas Foster or Prudent Beaudry and I think you’ll agree. Waiting for the elevator I finally see someone else coming up for the view, a lone visitor who appears to have a jurors badge. Thankfully this is not a revenue source for the city or we would be in even more financial trouble than we already are.
Retracing my steps I head back out to the farmers market, grab a couple tamales, and make my way back up Temple to the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels for a free guided tour. I’ve passed through the Cathedral before but never spent much time there and walking into the grounds I am once again struck by the sounds of the city fading away – a small oasis in the city, made more impressive by its location directly next to the 101.
The tour is actually very informative and not overtly religious, though being a tour of a Roman Catholic cathedral it is obviously not devoid of religion. Designed by the Spanish architect Professor José Rafael Moneo and built between 1999 and 2002, the Cathedral replaced the Cathedral of Saint Vibiana as the Roman Catholic Archdiocese after that building was also damaged in the Northridge earthquake. While I won’t go into great detail on the history and architecture of the building, as I would be unable to do the volunteer docents justice, there were a handful of facts that jumped out at me. First the location – traditionally European cathedrals were built next to rivers and Moneo considered the Hollywood Freeway as LA’s “river of transportation,” connecting people to each other. With the design of the cathedral, all the exterior glass that can be seen is simply there to protect the actual windows of the cathedral, which are made from alabaster.
And for durability (the cathedral was designed to last for 500 years) the 75,500-ton building sits on 198 base isolators allowing it to “float” up to 27 inches during earthquakes of up to 8.0 magnitude. As a result of this there are some support columns in the courtyard that are purely decorative – the beams that they “support” actually floating a few inches above them. Anyone interested in what came before can head less than a mile south to the original Saint Vibiana’s at the corner of Main and 2nd. Now called simply Vibiana, the old cathedral houses a performing arts complex, event space, and the Little Tokyo branch of the Los Angeles Public Library.
Once more on the move I head down Grand, passing through the Music Center, on my way to the Museum of Contemporary Art. Having been through here only when seeing a show, it feels a little strange to walk by the Ahmanson and Taper when they are quiet and devoid of people. Pausing briefly I realize that it is a familiar feeling and one that I find somewhat bittersweet. It is the feeling of being the last one there, the feeling you get when something you have been anticipating comes and goes, the feeling when everyone else has moved on but you aren’t quite ready to let go. It’s interesting that I feel it here and now. Perhaps an echo from my theatre past, the energy of theatre lingering across time. One more moment of taking it in and then moving on. I will be back again tomorrow.
On Thursdays MOCA offers free admission after 5:00 and I debate waiting a couple of hours to take advantage of that but ultimately decide that $10 to support art is worth the cost. A good decision as it turns out since I have managed to show up on installation day and because only half of the museum is accessible, admission is free anyway. Walking in, the smell of oil paints instantly takes me back to any number of museums and galleries that I’ve visited with my father. Standing in front of a Rothko I am reminded of a half serious conversation I had with him - my father, not Rothko - on several occasions, that it was harder to see “modern” art as art because it was something that I could do. His reply was always, “but you didn’t.”
This is actually what I love about “modern” art, the feeling that I could do it. Standing in front of a Rembrandt or Rubens is intimidating. Standing in front of a Rothko or Pollack is inspiring, the seeming simplicity of their work makes me want to pick up paints and create. The irony being that more often than not, I couldn’t do it. Trying to reproduce a Rothko or Pollack, it comes out amateurish, without feeling – they are more than paint on canvas. But the inspiration is there.
The museum houses an impressive collection, some beautiful pieces by names I recognize, which is apparently integral to my criteria for an impressive collection. Mark Rothko, Robert Rauschenberg, John Chamberlain, Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein…but it is the Jackson Pollack that grabs my eye and holds my attention.
Number 1, 1949. I stand, transfixed, and find myself having an unusual thought. I want to get inside the painting. I’ve had that thought about other, more traditional paintings, pieces by Edward Hopper, Norman Rockwell, and Claude Monet, but this is not generally the sort of painting that one would say that about. Gazing at it, eyes darting every which way following the chaos of the paint, it looks comfortable, like an inviting embrace. Up close I marvel at the minds ability to assign order to chaos. I find faces, small figures, full bodies in motion. I try to find the last color applied, tracing a line until I find it interrupted by another color. I want to touch the painting, to feel the thickness of the paint, and figure that this is a good time to move on. They don’t take to kindly to touching the art. Walking through the rest of the accessible space there are other pieces that draw me in, but none to this extent. It is a nice collection and is definitely worth a stop if you are at all interested in art. Reflecting on what I’ve seen as I wander out of the museum I stumble across another quiet oasis in the city. Behind the museum in a pedestrian throughway lay a fountain and a pair of reflecting pools. Sitting by one of the pools I am overcome with a sense of calm contentment. I’ve found a new favorite place downtown.
For the most part my day is done. I wander around a bit more, grabbing shots of the Disney Concert Hall and City Hall from the top of one of the parking garages that will eventually give way to one of the mixed-use lots. Looking back on my day I am struck with the feeling that there was little to connect my various stops, that my sightseeing felt a bit like randomly flipping through channels and just catching snippets of different shows – CNN to Bravo to ESPN, City Hall to Our Lady of the Angels to MOCA. Little connection and no obvious through line, but somehow it works. I make my way back home, still thinking about the various things I’ve seen, and would in fact end up thinking about the area for most of the night. Civic Center had gotten into my head and it wouldn’t let go. Fortunately I was all set to go back again the next day.
Click on photos for larger views.
For more photos, visit my flickr page…
For more information on the Catherdral of Our Lady of the Angels,
visit their website…
For more information on the Museum of Contemporary Art,
visit their website…
Metro Series - Union Station
Staring out the window of the Orange line watching the vaguely familiar buildings pass by as it makes its way toward North Hollywood I feel something that I haven’t felt in a long time, if ever, in Los Angeles. I feel like a tourist. For perhaps the first time in the thirteen years that I have called Los Angeles home, I feel like a visitor to the city and I kind of like it. I’ve often wondered how I would plan for a visit to LA, how I would overcome the sheer size of the city knowing that even as a long time resident I’m still somewhat intimidated by the Herculean task of navigating around the city, especially in rush “hour” when the traffic maps are all but devoid of green and the quickest route is not necessarily the most direct one. Shortly after I start to ponder this question I usually thank the heavens that I don’t have to plan a trip here and go about my business. But why not? Why not attack Los Angeles like I would New York, London, or Tokyo? Why not start thinking of the city in terms of where the subway will take me? Sure the rail lines are far from comprehensive and to get anywhere you basically have to route through downtown, but the same thing that limits the Metro – the massive sprawl of the city – should also work to its advantage. With size comes diversity and there must be something interesting to see at every stop.
From North Hollywood I grab the Red line for the 30 minute trip to Union Station, the center of rail transport in Los Angeles and the last of the great American railway stations. Opened in 1939, its combination of Spanish Colonial and Art Deco styles are likely recognizable to many who have never walked through its doors, having served as a backdrop for many films and television shows through the years – the most memorable to me being its role as the police station in Blade Runner.
An iconic fixture of Los Angeles, its designers were also responsible for several other notable and instantly recognizable LA landmarks, City Hall and the LA Memorial Coliseum among them. Deserving of its place on the National Register of Historic Buildings, the station itself is worth a visit and I have to pause to take a couple of shots, though this is not what brought me down here today.
Out the front doors of Union Station and directly across Alameda stands the reason for my trip – El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historical Monument. I have passed through here several times before, but usually only on my way to Chinatown, which is a short walk from the station, and a trip for another day. Until today I had never ventured here for the sake of seeing what the monument had to offer nor, to be honest, even realized that the area was an historical monument. On September 4, 1781 near the site of the present day plaza, eleven families of various cultural backgrounds settled the first non-native civilian settlement in southern California. This is where Los Angeles began. 44 people recruited by Spain from northern Mexico laid roots in a town whose original borders spread from present day Hoover Street to Indiana Street and began what would become the second largest city in the United States. Standing here in the midst of this city of 3.8 million people covering 498 square miles, it is next to impossible to imagine that starting with only 44 people. With the massive sprawl that has consumed the area, it is mind boggling to think of being able to stand on one edge of the city and being able to see the other side. The names of each one of those 44 inhabitants are now commemorated together on a large plaque within the plaza as well as on individual family plaques, which circle the outer ring of the plaza.
Walking around, reading each name, one wonders how many families have remained in the area over the ensuing 220 years, how many people in Los Angeles today can trace their ancestry back to those first eleven families.
Reaching out from the plaza to the northeast is Olvera Street and likely what draws the most people to the area. While the history of the street stretches back to 1877 when a short lane known as Wine Street was extended and renamed in honor of a prominent judge, the street in its current incarnation came to be in 1930 when through the efforts of Christine Sterling it was blocked off to traffic and transformed into a tourist destination meant to evoke a Mexican marketplace. Walking through this short street today – really no more than an alley – one is hit with a sensory overload.
Crammed to the gills with shops and stalls selling everything from colorful handcrafted Mexican goods to inexpensive lucha libre masks and ukuleles, the smell of the copious amount of leather goods envelopes the visitor as they enter. Adding to the bouquet, restaurants are littered throughout the alley offering “traditional” Mexican cuisine (although LA is not hurting for spots where one can find more authentic Mexican food). On weekends strolling musicians and music from the plaza add another layer to the sensory tapestry. Today traditional Native American instruments provide a soundtrack that sounds tip of the tongue familiar. Pondering the song I realize that what I’m hearing is Chiquitita by ABBA, a somehow fitting representation of modern Los Angeles – indigenous instruments playing a song with a vaguely Spanish title, written by northern Europeans.
Roughly one third of the way down Olvera lays the Avila Adobe, the oldest extant residence in Los Angeles. Originally built in 1818 by the Avila family who were affluent ranchers in the area, the home passed through many hands in the ensuing years, gradually falling into disrepair. By 1928 the Adobe had been condemned by the city and was on the verge of being demolished. Christine Sterling championed for the home to be saved and restored and it was in fact the Avila Adobe restoration that prompted the creation of modern Olvera Street, as she understood that without the surrounding area being revitalized, restoration of the adobe would merely postpone the inevitable. It now stands as an historical recreation, “furnished as it might have been during the days when the Avilas were there.”
I am particularly fond of these recreations, which often take me back to the road trips of my youth as the family explored the Southwest, but found this one to fairly basic and in some places rather stark. While it was an interesting walkthrough, there was little there that kept me truly enthralled and several of their interpretive signs had so much wear that they couldn’t be read. Housed within the grounds of the adobe are two other exhibits – Water in Los Angeles, which traces the development of the Los Angeles water supply, and A Tribute to Christine Sterling – though neither exhibit was accessible on the day I was there. There is also a short interpretive film detailing the history of the area that is played periodically through the day. Though lacking great depth, it is an interesting diversion and hard to argue with the historical interest of the oldest house in Los Angeles. While admission is free, donations are gladly accepted and would no doubt help to restore the wear and tear the site has received.
Northwest of the Plaza, across Main Street, is La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles, or Our Lady of Angels Church, a mission style church that holds the distinction of being the oldest church in the city (I may be noticing a pattern here). On this spot in 1784 a sub-mission was built to serve the religious needs of the Pueblo but was eventually abandoned as the Pueblo grew in size. A new church was built on the site between 1814 and 1822 and once again rebuilt in 1861. It is this church which stands today, now serving as the parish church for the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles. Not a mission itself, the church does share some characteristics of the California Missions – the solid buttressed walls, the broad undecorated wall surfaces, the bell wall, and the fountain patio – which in this case resides in a courtyard which also houses food vendors, only one of which was active when I was there. Stepping inside I am hit with the unmistakable scent of the church candles as dozens of sense memories instantly take me back to any number of churches and cathedrals I’ve visited in the past. The smell of burning wax and I am in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Smoke from an extinguished wick whisks me the mission churches in New Mexico. The underlying mask of incense and I’m at Christmas mass as a child. It’s been a long time since I’ve been a regular churchgoer but all those moments are pulled together here and I am moved to a moment of quiet introspection. Removing my hat I take a seat in one of the pews and reflect on not just this space but life in general, amazed at how quiet a church can be. I can hear little more than the shuffling of feet and the near silent murmurs of the devoted though hardly removed from the hustle and bustle of the city.
I gradually return my attention to the church itself. It is a modest sanctuary, active and functional. I think its appeal is more for the history of the location than the church itself. A map of the monument shows that the city’s first cemetery, Campo Santo, once stood next to the church. All that can be found there now is a large construction zone – the future home of a Mexican-American cultural center.
Continuing around, LA’s first firehouse stands southwest of the plaza. Completed in 1884 the Plaza Firehouse’s tenure as such was brief, ending in 1892 after which it was used as a saloon, a lodging house, and a store. Restored to its firehouse state in 1960 it became a small museum showcasing the history of firefighting in Los Angeles and housing firefighting memorabilia dating back to the 19th century. While interesting to see some of the old equipment, I ultimately found the museum to be a fairly quick walkthrough and probably spent no more than 10 minutes there, though it undoubtedly holds greater interest for those whose passion lies in the history of firefighting. The one thing that I did learn was that the aptly named Chief Walter Lips was the first Los Angeles fire chief to proudly display his lips - being clean shaven while all six of his predecessors were bearded or mustached. I’m sure the museum would be glad to know I picked up on this.
Having been steeped in the Hispanic heritage of the monument to this point, it was interesting to find that perhaps the most engaging attraction for me was the Chinese-American Museum on North Los Angeles Street - although the entrance lies in the rear of the building. Seemingly out of place, the area around the monument was actually the original Chinatown before Union Station displaced it in 1939. The rest of Chinatown having been razed, the Garnier building, which houses the museum, is the only surviving structure from this original incarnation. Opened in 2003, the museum tells the story of Chinese-American life and the difficulty of making their way to and in a new country. A large portion of the current exhibit deals with their passage through Angel Island in San Francisco (the west coast version of Ellis Island) and the paper sons and daughters – the practice of established immigrants claiming unrelated children as their own in order to help them immigrate during a period of severe anti-Chinese laws. A compelling story of their journey is told through the use of historical artifacts and accounts from the surviving ancestors of those early immigrants. The upper levels of the museum offer temporary exhibit space, which when I was there was an exhibit titled Dreams Deferred – Artists Respond to Immigration Reform, artistic representations of the current state of immigration. I spent a good deal of time walking through the museum, which piqued my curiosity and made me want to learn more. There are some activities for children as well, though it seemed far from a comprehensive children’s experience. Definitely worth the three-dollar suggested donation and I look forward to future exhibits.
There are other historical buildings dotting the area around the plaza – the Merced Theatre, the Pico House, and the Sepulveda House to name a few – all of which have interpretive signs and plaques placed along the sidewalks and the buildings themselves to help paint a picture of the early days around the plaza. I believe that there is normally a Visitor Center in the Sepulveda house but it appeared to be closed for construction with signs warning of no floor. There also seem to be plans to convert the Italian Hall, which is located at the corner of Main and Cesar Chavez, into the Italian Hall museum. But the places I have visited today are the main locations that you can interact with and as such bring my day of tourism to an end with the thrill of discovery of this city I call home awakened. I look forward to further exploration, to seeing the city like I would if I were but a brief visitor, to soaking up Los Angeles both on and off the beaten track…as long as the Metro will take me there.
Click on photos for larger views.
For more photos, visit my flickr page…
For more information on the LA Conservancy walking tours,
visit their website…
For more information on the buildings found in El Pueblo,
visit the Olvera Street website…
Jim Colbert Memorial Road Trip, Part 1 - Is It Time for Bed Yet?
June 18/19, 2009 – It begins….
By the time our first mile rolls onto the odometer it is well past midnight and I haven’t slept since the night before. Courtney had been called into action along with her house which was serving as a movie set for the day, keeping us from getting started any earlier. Given the circumstances, with the anniversary of my father’s passing falling on that night, I did not want to set out any later. I wanted to be away from the city, I wanted to be somewhere where I had a stronger connection with him and his memory, and for me that meant the open road, having taken so many road trips with him in these later years. My original plans had called for a nap between getting off of work and hitting the road, recharging the batteries just a bit before undertaking 500 miles worth of driving in two states with at least five different sightseeing stops, but as they say about the best laid plans…and so it was, having been awake for the last 18 hours with the next opportunity to sleep being at least 15 hours away that we struck out on the second annual Jim Colbert Memorial Road Trip.
Our Route - Day 1…
The excitement to once again be out on the open road, heeding the call, is enough to keep me going for a bit. Courtney fills me in on the events of the movie filming day, we chat about the plans for the trip, and then she begins to fade. I make it a little further on the Coke that I’ve been drinking and then it hits me how long a night I am actually in for, my eyelids start to get a bit heavy. As the miles roll beneath our wheels, I grow increasingly jealous of Courtney, curled up in the seat next to me. She’s offered to take over any time I need it and I know she would do it, but I couldn’t ask her to. This is my ridiculous schedule, my irrational need to be away from the city that night, my ritual of remembrance. I am thrilled that I am not doing this alone, but in my mind this is my cross to bear and so I yawn, and fidget, and do what it takes to remain awake.
We’re heading east out of Los Angeles, through Barstow and on to Baker, California – home to the world’s largest thermometer. Having begun its history as a stop on the Tonopah and Tidewater Railroad just over a century ago it is fitting that this small town now serves mainly as a way station on the route to Las Vegas. Baker marks our departure from the Interstate Highway System and serves as a good opportunity to get out and stretch the legs (and eyelids) a bit. Despite not needing it yet, I also decide to stop for gas as well. I’m still a bit anxious over a previous road trip that found me driving on a very quiet and infrequently traveled back road in the middle of the Mohave desert with my gas light on and absolutely no cell phone reception hoping beyond all hope that I wouldn’t fall prey to the unforgiving desert. After several agonizing miles with not so much as a glimmer of civilization I thankfully managed to make it back onto a highway and eventually to gas while vowing to never to do that again. Since we were about to head north on Death Valley Road, I figured that this would be a good time to ensure that I kept my promise to myself.
Gas topped off and legs stretched we head north, still in the dark of night. We’ve got a ways to go before we start seeing seriously daylight, but thankfully it isn’t too long before I begin to notice a bit of definition on the horizon, the sky starting to distinguish itself from the land. It’s not often that I get to watch the sunrise in the desert and I am looking forward to seeing it come up. As an added bonus, more light makes it a lot easier to stay awake. As the landscape slowly gains more detail I am reminded of other road trips. This is familiar terrain. While we never traveled this particular road, I spent a lot of time in this desert with my father. Through countless hours of watching the desert pass by I have come to love it, to want to seek out the few remaining treasures that it holds. I’ve said before how in my childhood the trip was a necessary evil to get to the destination and I can’t help but think I would have found the desert more evil than other byways. Now I find the landscape incredibly beautiful and while I believe that the beauty is always there it is a lot more difficult to see when the midday sun is beating down and washing all color out, muting the scenery to drab shades of gray and brown. As the sun continues to rise I get to see the desert in all of its glory, in the gorgeous magic hour just after sunrise when the light is at its most golden coaxing the desert to offer up vibrant oranges, reds, yellows, and even greens to complement the ever-present grays and browns. I know this appreciation comes from my father and that makes me miss him even more. I pull over to throw my full attention onto the dawning day. The rising sun marks the beginning of my third year without him.
The Sky Separates From the Land…
Desert Morning…
Crossing into Nevada we stumble across the first unexpected sight of the trip. A magnificently large cow. I am tickled as I slow down enough to turn around and head into the parking lot of the Longstreet Casino of Amargosa Valley. I had researched potential roadside attractions along our planned route and somehow managed to overlook this beauty. Having passed up the opportunity to document my stop at the world’s largest thermometer, I figure it would not be very fitting of me to also neglect the world’s not quite largest but still pretty big cow (a little research tells me that there is a 38 foot tall cow in North Dakota – this little Bessie was maybe 12 feet on a good day). Driving away I’m glad that I hadn’t turned this attraction up in my research. The unexpected find was much more delightful.
Bessie…
Back on the road we make our way toward the first official stop on the itinerary – Carrara, Nevada – and I find it’s time for more reflection. I’ve been down these roads before, having passed this way on the last road trip I took with my father. On that trip we stopped at a sight that I thought was Carrrara, but which I later learned was an old cement plant built and abandoned in the 1930’s, never used due to the Great Depression. I’m not sure whether or not my father knew that it wasn’t the town site of Carrara when he took us there. This time around I intended to remedy having missed the town, having found better directions to the site. Pulling off the main road I head up a fairly rough dirt road, considering not for the first time the absurdity of off roading in a Dodge Caravan. We pass some small ruins in the distance but based on what I’ve read I believe that there is more further up the road and so press on. The road narrows, gets rougher and rockier and still I push forward, foolishly passing spots that would make a good point to turn around, spots that are becoming fewer and further in-between. I finally stop for a long moment of internal debate – I want to press forward, knowing that my father would have, but not knowing how much further there is to go and becoming ever more aware of the limitations of my car. What would my dad do? Eventually I call it quits and can’t help but feel a little disappointed in myself. I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t help but feel that this in someway dishonors the memory of my father. Never mind that he did the same thing many times on our road trips, this is somehow different in my mind. Having passed the last widening of the road some time ago we end up having to reverse down the hill, something I have never been all that good at but which I manage to do without much trouble. We finally make it to a slightly wider section of the road and after a five or six point turn we are able to proceed without my having to strain my neck looking over my shoulder. So as to not leave completely empty handed I make a quick stop to check out the small ruins we had passed earlier. Courtney is still not quite awake so I make the short trek off the road over to the structure and am once again reminded of my father – many was the time that he would strike off to check something out while my sister and I milled about the car. I reach the structure, which turns out to be a chimney, snap a few photos and head back to the car. There’s really not much to see.
Lonely Chimney…
Still being fairly early in the morning and not quite time for breakfast I figure we should pop over to the cement factory, which is less than a mile up the road. Even though it’s not the town site I was looking for, it is still an impressive bit of abandonment and worth another look. Plus it falls into a theme that these trips have taken on, connecting with my father across time – reliving experiences that we had shared as a way to remember him. A way to pay homage, revisiting sites that I never would have been to the first time had it not been for him. Little has changed at the fake Carrara since I was last there almost three years ago. A long expanse of crumbling grey concrete with a few supporting structures spread around the perimeter. Knowing nothing of the cement making process, I don’t have an inkling of what the purpose of each structure would have been. Obviously, and sadly, it is a popular spot for gun enthusiasts and graffiti artists – as many of these abandoned sites are. Since the last time new graffiti has proclaimed it to be both Hell and “a little slice of home,” neither of which I feel are accurate descriptions. Too fascinating to be Hell and to industrial to be home. My mind wanders back, trying to imagine the site in its prime, remembering my last visit….I shoot a few more pictures and proclaim that it is now time for breakfast.
The Cement Factory…
Hell “a little slice of home”…
Hell “a little slice of home” Detail…
A few more miles and we are in Beatty, Nevada. I can’t remember specifically having been here before when we first drive into town, though I know I have since it lies directly between Carrara and Rhyolite, both of which were visited the last time I had come this way. As we drive around, looking for a place to eat breakfast I catch glimpses of buildings that slowly stir up some memories. The motel that we stayed at, the now defunct casino where I won $80 on a nickel slot machine. We find a little greasy spoon restaurant and have breakfast with the locals. The food is nothing to write home about but the natives are entertaining. I feel very out of place as I take in the three old men sitting at the next table, obviously hardened by life in the desert, clearly cut from a different cloth than I am. I am very much a city boy who could in no way pass as a local. We contemplate what makes a person live in a place like this and I wonder whether I could survive as a hardened desert dweller. What would my life have been like had I been born into this environment. Like many of the smaller towns in the Nevada desert it feels a little dead, like the desert is winning out, reclaiming the land. Everywhere you look you see more abandoned buildings, more signs of the passing of a way of life. If I lived here what would I be doing now, what would my dreams be, what would I think of the big city tourists wandering through town and staring at me while I ate my breakfast. In the end I’m glad that I didn’t have to find out.
We move on, heading a short way out of town to our next stop, Rhyolite, Nevada. I had been there before but not having been in the drivers seat I couldn’t remember exactly how we got there. I seemed to remember a bit of off roading so didn’t think anything of taking the dirt road I had found on Google maps - though several forks in the road later I was fairly certain that we were no longer traveling in the right direction. Once again I had to decide – press on or turn back. Once again I wished that my dad was in the drivers seat. He always seemed to make the right decision. Weighing my options and feeling pretty certain that we weren’t going to reach Rhyolite I turned back. On the main road I decided to head just a little further down and not two miles on we passed a road sign pointing the way to Rhyolite, right down a nicely paved road. …it always seemed so effortless when my father was in charge. Driving up that road it was what I remembered. The town had begun as a mining camp in early 1905 and reached an estimated population of 3,500 to 5,000 souls two to three years later. Its rapid rise was equaled by its rapid decline with the population dwindling to less than 1,000 in 1911 and down to zero by 1920. Since then it has been given over to time and tourism. The now abandoned train depot was converted into a casino and then a museum, which ran up into the 1970’s. It now sits behind a fence – tantalizingly close, but oh so out of reach. Several less intact structures dot the side of the main road through “town”. The skeletal remains of the bank and schoolhouse.
The Cook Bank Building…
The Rhyolite School…
More lie off the road, further down a small hill. Some efforts to restore and maintain the town have been undertaken, the most notable being Tom Kelly’s Bottle House (old bottles were used to make the walls) which has been rebuilt and restored several times. There are other people around, which is to be expected with a site so close to the main road, so easy to reach, but I wish they weren’t there. They remind me how much of a tourist that I am in these places. I have no illusions that I belong here, but when we are alone, I feel more connected, more like I can blend in with the landscape. Seeing other people stick out like a sore thumb and I realize that I do the same. Plus I don’t want to share the site. I want the site to be mine. I want to be able to look out at the ruins uninterrupted by reminders of our modern world, try to imagine the site in its heyday as I had done with the cement factory. As we head back out of town we stop on the outskirts at the Goldwell Open Air Museum, an outdoor sculpture park with sculptures that stand in stark contrast to the decay of the town, yet at the same time managing to work with the town, especially the eerie spectral shrouds which form an interpretation of the last supper or one who is preparing to ride a bike.
Biking Shroud…
More road, more miles, more desert. We are into the heat of the day, which thankfully is not nearly as bad as it could have been. It wasn’t crisp, cool, autumn weather by any stretch of the imagination, but we aren’t sweltering either. The next stop, Bonnie Claire, Nevada, was new to me. Like pretty much all of the ghost towns in the area, Bonnie Claire grew as support to a mining operation. A mill was built around 1904 and later rebuilt in 1913, which is the main structure left standing today. Unfortunately on arrival we are greeted with a one of the ubiquitous barbed wire fences and a fairly prominent “No Trespassing” sign. Still being fairly close to the road and with a structure which looked lived in just across the small road that we came in on I’m weary of venturing in beyond the fence, despite a gaping hole that would have allowed me to drive through if I wanted. We take some pictures, and sit contemplating the mill ruins from a distance.
The Mill Ruins - From a Distance…
While we sit there a couple of German tourists roll up and I am amazed at how far someone will come to see what seems to be such an insignificant site. I’m not sure why this is so odd to me, knowing full well that if I were to ever find myself in Southern Spain I would make every effort to track down and visit the still standing sets where they shot many of Leone’s spaghetti westerns…but still, for some reason, I was surprised to see them. After getting their own photos they move on. Once again by ourselves and before we also move on I take a few tentative steps inside the fence and take some shots of a structure just inside. It’s nowhere near the mill, which is what I really wanted to see, but having a very low guilt threshold and knowing that I would be a mess the entire time I was in there I settle for these shots.
No Trespassing…
Tantalizingly close to being able to shut my eyes for a bit and done with the small out of the way sites we turn toward our next stop. Another hour through the desert and we end up in Goldfield, Nevada. Despite being the Esmeralda County seat, Goldfield houses only 200 or so people and feels more like a ghost town than an active one. Driving through town every other building seems to be vacant, some empty long enough that they are falling apart, crumbling to the ground.
Nobody is Home…
Old Buiding, New Bench…
The scale of decay is also larger than it was in Beatty. The Municipal High School – vacant since the 1950’s – sits fenced off and looking ready to collapse in on itself. A plea for restoration funds is posted nearby, and has been there since at least six years ago when I first passed through town. The large four story Goldfield Hotel sitting on the main street has been vacant since the 1940’s, though remains in much better condition than the high school. Every way you look you are confronted with more decay, more reminders of a glory that is long gone. We have a picnic lunch sitting on the steps of the hotel, watching the occasional car pass by. It is a dead town but not without charm and whether due to having been here before with my father or some unknown reason, I am a little smitten with it. I wouldn’t want to live there, but I sure do like passing through. Before moving on we stop in a small market to pick up some ice for the cooler. Two old men are sitting and smoking out front and we pause to have a few words. They seem to fit well in the town, two old relics in an old relic. More examples of the hardened folk who make their home in the middle of the desert. They ask us how we like the town, note what wonderful photo opportunities there are, and hint at some real ghosts they believe are in some of the abandoned buildings. I would love to have the time to sit and listen to them for hours, hear what they had to say about the town and their history there, but I know if I were to sit long enough my brain would shut down and I would be lost to sleep.
School’s Out Forever…
The Goldfield Hotel…
Another half hour up the road and we reach our final destination of the day – Tonopah, Nevada. In contrast to Goldfield, Tonopah is still relatively lively. Sharing common backgrounds, both cities having sprung up around gold and silver mines, both serving as county seats, Tonopah has managed to remain a more active town, thanks in part to the nearby Tonopah Test Range (also known as Area 52 and neighbor to the infamous Area 51) which has served as a more constant source of employment for the denizens of the town. While there are a handful of abandoned buildings, and one large old and empty hotel/casino, Tonopah is home to several active casinos, more than a handful of motels, and a modern high school (not to mention their very own McDonalds). We take a short drive through town, weighing our lodging options but knowing that the only choice is the Clown Motel, both due to past road trips and its proximity to the restaurant and casino that will serve as the choice for the memorial dinner and nickel slot gambling which will occur later in the evening. Happy to finally be off the road we get our room and I finally kick up my feet a mere 33 hours and nearly 500 miles since I last slept. While the day is not done, for the moment I am as I let the events of the day and those of this day two years ago wash over me. Much more is coming, but for now I rest.
Our Host for the Evening…
After a brief rest - knowing that to allow myself any more will be to abandon myself to sleep for the night - and phone calls of remembrance to the rest of my family, Courtney and I venture out into the world one more time. The weather has turned and we are blessed with a little rain, a spectacular horizon burning sunset, and a heat lightning show. I breathe deep and enjoy the smell of the desert rain, a very enticing fragrance.
Sunset or Deadly Fire?…
Our evening’s entertainment had been decided for us many years ago, when dinner at El Marques Mexican restaurant and a few goes on the slots at the Ban¢ Club became a Colbert road trip tradition when passing through Tonopah. After margaritas and slots, we head back to the motel. Drained from the drive as well as the emotions of the day the time has finally come for me to close my eyes and surrender to the sandman.
Continue to Part 2…
Click on photos for larger views.
For more photos, visit my flickr page…
For earlier shots of Carrara or Goldfield please follow the links…
Valley Greek Festival
Date: May 23, 2009
Location: Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in Northridge
Distance from Home: 12 miles
Festival Fee: Free
Parking: Pretty much street parking in a mainly residential area (although on a major street).
I had heard from a variety of sources that the Greek Festival was one of the best festival offerings out there. Whether the Valley Greek Festival was “THE” Greek Festival that seems to have everyone so smitten is unknown although I’m guessing that it wasn’t. It was none-the-less with much anticipation that we set out on that afternoon on our way deeper into the Valley, this time with our friend and adopted son Vince along as guest festival patron. Not knowing the church by name, when we approached St. Nicholas I was delighted to realize that it was a church I had admired in passing on a number of occasions. I was even more thrilled when I learned that church tours were offered as part of the festival.
Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church…
Climbing the front steps we passed to the side of the church onto the festival grounds, which were a bit smaller than I had imagined and were, rightfully so, dominated by food booths. There was also a large bandstand with an accompanying dance floor that was continuously filled with dancers – either older festival patrons who had been moved to their feet by the Greek music, or local dance students demonstrating the numerous dances they had learned.
Starting as usual with a quick walk through we passed by the main food area and back behind the church to the small collection of craft booths. If I had one complaint about the festival it would likely have to be the size of this area, which was limited to about 8 or 10 tents. While the food was a major draw, I would have liked to see more arts and crafts. With very limited options we quickly passed through the tents offering packaged Greek foods, jewelry and clothing, Orthodox iconography, various Greek odds and ends, and one tent full of Russian stacking dolls with dogs portraits painted on them – all of which seemed to be looking directly at you leaving one feeling oddly unsettled walking through the tent. I wonder now whether each layer had its own portrait. One could also pick up blank dolls to create their own eerie dog portraits. Thinking back, and hoping I didn’t miss them if they were there, I would like to have seen a set of dolls where each layer was a different Orthodox icon.
Why won’t they stop looking at me?…
Sampling the Food
With food being the main aspect of the festival, it’s difficult to leave this in its own little section, especially since we tried so much of it. It was in the “crafts” section where we got our start, sampling a couple types of pastry. While the baklava was calling, I figured it was an opportunity to branch out in the world of Greek pastries (as much as you can when they all seem to be variations on a theme) and started with the kataifi – “a shredded pastry stuffed with nuts, spices and sweet butter, browned in the oven and steeped in syrup”. Try as I might to break out, in the end the theme won out and it tasted an awful lot like baklava, which is not a bad thing. Vince was a little more successful in breaking away with the melomakarouna – a “honey delicacy with a bit of orange flavor and a touch of Cognac, dipped in honey and sprinkled with walnuts” – which was also very tasty.
Starting the festival, as we did, in the middle of the day, these pastries really just served as appetizers and we decided that it was time to head back to the main food area. It was probably a good thing that we arrived at the festival with empty stomachs since everything looked so delicious and it was near impossible to limit our grazing to one or two items. After a quick walkthrough we came to the logical conclusion that sharing was the way to go and split up to converge again with fried calamari (I later learned an unfortunate truth when I saw them wheeling around boxes of frozen Italian style calamari), loucanico (Greek sausage sautéed with orange rind and lemon juice and served with olives, bread, and feta cheese), and pork souvlaki (marinated and grilled pork skewers). The latter was served with baguette slices dipped in pork juices declared to be so delicious that Vince wanted to drink that juice with a large boba straw that would allow him to suck up any random chunck of pork that happened to be floating by – so I suppose you could say that was pretty good. Each of these were indeed, delicious, though the fried calamari was probably the most pedestrian of the bunch – likely due to its Italian heritage…for shame Greek festival. Having ultimately only had a few bites of each dish we were all still a bit hungry so went back for more. Courtney had to have some more of the loucanico while Vince and I opted to give the gyros a try. Sadly, they were nothing to write home about and I wished that I had had some more pork instead. Thus filled we set out to make the rounds to see if we had missed anything.
Can’t talk, eating…
It was then that some of the dancing demonstrations began out on the dance floor. We gathered around and expecting adult dancers were tickled by the very young and extremely non-Greek children who took made their way through several dances all while being reminded to smile by a very enthusiastic teacher. After a couple of age groups the stage was given back over to the older festival patrons.
Looking pretty swarthy to me…
Back in another corner of the grounds was the children’s entertainment section outfitted with your standard carnival games – knocking down the milk bottles, popping balloons with darts, etc. I watched these and pondered the rationale behind rewarding children who win these games with the prize of a living goldfish. Perhaps I am an old curmudgeon but there is a small part of me that thinks it is cruel to the parents to award children with something that will eventually die and leave them potentially heart broken.
Electing not to saddle ourselves with a life we headed back over to the crafts section where a cooking demonstration was about to take place. We milled about a bit, waiting for the demonstration to begin but ultimately jumped ship when we got a copy of the recipe simply because the tent was not designed for any sort of crowd and the demonstration was focused to a very narrow selection of people.
Having gone nearly half an hour without eating anything we figured that is was surely time for a little dessert. Back into the food court we grabbed a further selection of pastries, further variations on the theme and all delicious but whose names now escape me, as well as a very small Greek coffee. I was surprised to find that I enjoyed the coffee, not being one who usually drinks coffee – though I was less delighted by the layer of sludge that seemed to make up about half the contents of the cup. All this was topped off by the marvelous loukoumathes or “Greek donuts”. While Vince can have the pork juice, you could bathe me in the honey and cinnamon that smothered these heavenly fried dough balls.
Deep fried goodness…
Deciding to cut out while we could still move under our own power we started to make our way out, only to be reminded of the church tour. Once again, having admired the church in passing I was excited to see the inside. While I would hesitate to call it a tour (how much can you tour what is essentially one large room) it was an interesting audio presentation that briefly described the history of the Eastern Orthodox religion and offered a few facts about the founding of the church and the multitude of mosaics that covered the walls. It was a pleasant half and hour or so and while not much of a religious person myself I do enjoy a good house of worship and have always enjoyed the art of Orthodox iconography.
Buying a Souvenir
While I probably should have gone with some of the iconography (or a dog faced nesting doll which could be staring at me even now) now of the pieces on offer really jumped out at me and they all seemed rather ordinary. Not wanting something that would just sit gathering dust and having just about used up the soap I had purchased at the Cherry Blossom Festival I went with a practical purchase and walked out with some soap made with olive oil. I’ve used it a few times since I bought it and can report that olive oil makes a fine soap. That said, I could probably be a little more daring with my purchases.
Overall I’m going to have to give the Valley Greek Festival four and a half olives. It was a very nice afternoon, they certainly stuck to their theme, but I ultimately would have liked to have seen more in terms of Greek goods and crafts to counterbalance the food. Though you can’t argue going with a strong point and it certainly was some of the best food that we’ve had since starting the festival rounds. It was another good festival for families or anyone looking for a nice bit of Greek food. Assuming that this was not really “the” Greek Festival, it has piqued my interest and made me ready for more.
Click on photos for larger views.
