To skip over Santa Monica would be a terrible mistake
From start to finish in this Californian city, I didn’t see anyone frown. Perhaps they can’t. No matter. It was like being in a dreamy version of an already perfect life.
California is where people dream of ending up. I heard that somewhere recently, and I thought, yes, that’s quite true. Santa Monica, in particular, is the paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. They have beaches and blue skies. They have 200 days of sunshine every year.
But we have all that in Australia. We have that in spades, and I think that’s why Australians tend to overlook California as a place to take a summer holiday. We go to Greece. We go to Bali. When we do go to California, it’s to Disneyland and perhaps to Hollywood. We are making a terrible mistake.
Santa Monica has recently re-badged itself as the “good vibes” destination. The precisely right dose of Dogtown (skating and surfing) still exists about the place but it’s become super-luxe.
Our mini-break started at the Santa Monica Proper on Wilshire Boulevard. Immediately, I was smitten. The hotel is in a 1920s building with a softly opulent extension. The walls curve around you, like a proper hug. Interior designer Kelly Wearstler scoured vintage shops to source the delightful furniture in the foyer. (That’s a chair? But how do you sit in it? There’s a plant growing out the back, like something out of Dr Seuss.)
There are nooks and tan leather sofas into which you can sink to read books. Locals gather here, and so you will see beautiful people of all ages, milling around the bar, glowing casually in their expensive cashmere, and in their linens and silks.
Their mien? Zen.
We had to ask for a few things and the girl on the reception said, “That’s cool” and then, “OK, no worries, sure thing, no drama, you bet.” From start to finish in Santa Monica, our stay was like that. I didn’t see anyone frown. Perhaps they can’t. No matter. It was like being in a dreamy version of an already perfect life.
I met on day one with the representative from Santa Monica Travel & Tourism. Her lovely name was Lauren, and she was on her way to yoga, because of course she was. I asked her what she thought we should do while we were in town. “You do you,” she said. “We just want you to enjoy yourself.”
This is so far from the normal travel assignment, where every day tends to be packed with meets- and-greets and sees-and-dos.
Lauren had arranged a dinner, and a brunch; a bike ride, and a little picnic on the beach. It couldn’t have been cruisier. Santa Monica has free citywide wifi, and a fleet of safe and clean electric shuttles to get you around.
We set forth, with no real itinerary in mind, whizzing along the beachfront on two electric bikes. Santa Monica has dedicated bike paths. You don’t have to share with pedestrians, and they’re so wide and flat, it’s ridiculous. You could go for miles, and we did.
The famed Santa Monica Pier, where Route 66 ends, is more than 100 years old, and completely charming. It has the world’s only solar-powered Ferris wheel, which lights up at night. We ordered a funnel cake (deep fried and sprinkled with icing sugar, it was so light, it somehow didn’t make me feel guilty.) We took in the Farmer’s Market – it’s all ripe tomatoes and colourful gourds – and visited shops on Main Street.
Santa Monica is home to the original Muscle Beach. Truly does a Santa Monican like to show his biceps. It was the same with the girls with tanned rumps playing volleyball on the beach, for whom men would doubtless sacrifice decades of their lives.
On day two, we hiked the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area. In this forest there are owls and deer, rattlesnakes and bobcats. A true wilderness, just off the freeway.
They’re really pushing wellness, so we also ate, and ate, and ate.
The Santa Monica Proper has a roof deck restaurant, Calabra, near the pool. I had the best butternut soup of my life in the restaurant. It came out looking like a golden pond, scattered with little flowers. They brought lamb for the table, and you know how Australia likes to think it has the best lamb in the world? That’s now up for debate.
You will find all over Santa Monica food that is vegan, organic, slow-baked, and thrice-throttled, served with sides of tumeric communion wafer and bottlenose dolphin or something, but you wouldn’t want to miss Mel’s Drive-In, which has been open since the 1940s. It serves American comfort food (think burgers and banana splits).
Alternatively, the Proper hotel’s Palma canoodling space offers a matcha-date smoothie for breakfast. This will be too much information, but it was like colonic irrigation. You know how when you travel you get all stopped up? You need this smoothie. I began to feel light, and free.
The Third Street Promenade refers to the mall, meaning a street with no cars, near the pier. It’s anchored by Santa Monica Place, which has a Peloton store, which tells you all you probably need to know. It’s fancy.
We also went to Venice, which isn’t technically in the City of Santa Monica, but not to be missed. It was a bit sketchy. We had heard in advance about the tent cities, and the zombie drugs that have left people catatonic in the gutters. I’m not going to say we didn’t see it. We did. Houselessness, as they now call the problem of homelessness, will be part of your experience, and Australians do find it challenging.
The Uber driver on our journey back to Santa Monica had an emotional support dog on the front passenger seat. The dog looked like Chewbacca and the owner looked like his dog. He – the owner, not the dog – was writing a screenplay because you’re not that far from Hollywood.
We moved upon return to the Hotel Casa Del Mar, constructed at great expense in 1926. A fancy wedding was unfolding in the foyer. The hotel is right on the beachfront, and it’s oh, so elegant. We booked wellness treatments at the Sea Wellness Spa, which specialises in “anti-ageing, deep-hydrating microcurrent oxygen facials”. Given how the locals tend to glow, wouldn’t you want to try it?
The Casa Del Mar will organise a beach picnic for you. The picnic people will bring cheese and olives, cushions and umbrellas, and they’ll set it all up on the sand, with your name on a chalkboard, and all you’ve have to do is sip on fizz while the sun sinks below the ocean.
Alternatively, the hotel has a pool on level five, with daybeds with striped towels. You can order lobster rolls and Cobb salads with blue cheese dressing, and you can drink mimosas, and you’ll have a view, from the hot tub, of the sea.
After a few days of this – hiking and riding, sunning and eating and deep internal cleansing – I noticed that my skin, too, had begun to glow. Good vibes. I feel you.
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