“No offense, mom, but you don’t look like a California girl because you don’t wear the right kind of bathing suit,” Levi said, referring to the barely there excuse for a bikini most of the girls were sporting on Moonlight Beach during a recent trip to Encinitas, about 40 minutes north of San Diego. “I don’t like girls my own age, but I like these girls!” He made me listen to “California Gurls” by Katy Perry on repeat for our entire trip, belting out the lyrics, “California girls are unforgettable, Daisy Dukes bikinis on top,” from the back seat of our rental car. Every year, I take Levi on a last-hurrah-of-summer trip before school starts.
This year we returned to Southern California, taking advantage of the direct flight from Aspen to LAX that departs at 7 a.m. and lands before 9 a.
m., so you can have your toes in the sand before lunch, even if there are delays. Knowing I can fly direct from Aspen to the West Coast assuages the sudden but desperate need to see the ocean that hits at least once a year.
If enough time goes by, I can feel it in my bones, an ache for that endless expanse of water; for a candy-colored sky where the sun dissolves into the liquid horizon; for salt-curly hair; for bohemian sundresses swirling around tanned ankles and checkered Vans. We stayed in a small studio close to the beach in downtown Encinitas, where not much has changed in the 30 years since I lived there. I found the same falafel burger at Roxy’s, the Pacific Roll at Cardiff Seaside Market and the Japanese ahi wrap I still dream about at Kai’s, with its fat slices of avocado and spicy wasabi sauce wrapped in a whole wheat tortilla.
A lot has changed, too. Like everywhere else, there are more people and more traffic and hordes of young, rich-looking couples with small offspring pushed around in elaborate strollers. It reminded me of Brooklyn, except drenched in sunlight, oversaturated, like a real-life Instagram filter.
While my favorite surf shops remained, there was a slew of new fancy boutiques, including Rowan, where “Love is the road” is scrawled in large loopy black cursive on the side of the building and everything was made from butter-soft, hand-dyed organic cotton and arranged on vintage tables that made the clothes look good enough to eat. Next door was Goodonya, an upscale cafe where you can purchase bone broth by the ounce. I went for an iced oat milk latte instead, infused with mint essential oil that tasted great — but wrong — almost like swallowing soap.
After three days in our not-so-sleepy little beach town, we ventured north to Los Angeles and the Santa Monica Proper Hotel, where we spent our mornings wrapped in fluffy robes, well rested after sleeping in crisp, cool Bellino Italian linens. Our hair and skin smelled of cedar and bergamot rind from the fancy products stocked in the glass-walled shower from Aesop, and if it sounds like ad placement, it kind of is. All the luxury products provided in our room were available for purchase.
The location was far enough out of the fray to be quiet and quaint, but still within walking distance to the beach and the Third Street Promenade where we indulged in a back-to-school shopping spree at the Nike store. We explored The Marvin Braude Bike Trail, aka “The Strand,” on wobbly rented in-line skates and slurped fresh cut mango and watermelon from a street cart perched on a concrete bench where the trifecta of ocean, sky and sand was almost too much to take, much like an ice cream headache. Back at the hotel we dined at Calabra, the rooftop restaurant with ocean views where attractive beige-linen-clad waitstaff wore dark glasses to cut the intense glare of the setting sun.
I ordered salmon tartare, chunks of delicate pink raw fish adorned with crescent-shaped orange and avocado slices and fresh herbs arranged so intricately I assumed tweezers must have been involved. The best was the rooftop pool where we sprawled out on upholstered chaise longues and were happy to discover actual families with kids. Despite its laid-back vibe, the entire hotel reeked of luxury, of sandalwood and cedar with an undertone of something fresh, like lemon peel.
The lobby décor was like interior-design porn with its sexy layered textures in every shade of beige (or the more trendy “sand”) that quietly screamed beach. It was all “organic this” and “earthy that,” hardwood floors and grasscloth walls furnished with an array of deep upholstered couches and chairs in unconventional silhouettes. That laid-back California sensibility was so curated it almost didn’t feel real, but maybe that’s exactly the point.
Even though I know Levi is just as happy camping and eating hot dogs cooked over the campsite fire pit, I love sharing my inner princess with him. I’m just glad I didn’t have to squeeze my butt into one of those string bikinis to do it..
