My 1955 Chevrolet broke down

..but I never went to Solvang

Photographs by Paul G Ryan

It was back In 1967 – on a long drive from my apartment in San Francisco to Los Angeles. I don’t remember exactly why. My 1955 Chevrolet sprung a radiator leak and ground to a halt. Blasting steam over the windshield.

I had no idea where I was, It was long before GPS , but in those days of paper maps I saw that Solvang was the nearest town, only five miles to the east.

I hitched a ride into the otherworld incarnation of a Faux Danish Village…..

I had never gone back to that niche of California…. until last week.

2024 - Priscilla and I took a short escape vacation  – three days away from Santa Monica -

Justin had told us about Los Alamos, the smallest town in the Santa Ynez array of villages…and seemingly the least developed, still on that track of escalation to economic high end.

That was appealing to me. Towns depending on transients almost always go through a morphosis from dirt road undiscovered to overpriced and over populated.

From Santa Monica, we headed south, along the Pacific Coast Highway seldom out of sight of the ocean waves. 

The grape fields were withered in off season, having given up their fruit months ago.

It was dark when we arrived.
It was late – we wanted essential snack foods – water, yogurt, apples, beer.
The only open store was an all-purpose gas station/mini mart. They had none of that.

.I wanted two bottles of Weihenstephaner German beer, but the clerk would only sell by the six pack.

The cars parked outside seemed to function as art tableaux, not unlike city billboards.

The Skyview motel was atop a hill, in fashionably renovated 50’s aesthetic.

It was a time bend of 1970, small one story rooms surrounding an outdoor courtyard with wooden chairs, dirt walkways and a firepit.
But there also were two Tesla charging stations.

While checking in, I was distracted by a book of photographs by William Eggleston. People’s choice of books is significant I believe. This was good. I was impressed.

There was no rational reason to be tired, but I felt good stretching out on the king size bed and turning on the overhead fan shaped like the propellor of a WW2 fighter plane. Priscilla read her book.

NEXT MORNING

The view from the back of the room - rolling California hills with widely spaced Live Oak trees leaning in askew directions.

We walked the thousand steps down the curved path from the hilltop, past water starved vines curled in dormant state, lashed for the winter to yellow pipe supports, aligned in regiments cresting over the hillside.

Past a shelter, decorated with cartoons, for those waiting for a shuttle ride up to Normans restaurant (Norman Bates – of Bates Motel ?)

We crossed under the 101 freeway, a passage decorated with a latticework of stones surprisingly placed with a visual eye for design.

A right turn onto Bell street.

An antiquated and decaying sign slightly leaning backward telling us that we were in Cottonwood Valley.

There was a confluence of water culverts disappearing into a stand of oak trees.

Its’ entire concrete surface was painted in cryptic graffiti “SPINE WORD MY RESPECT X” Written in overstuffed letters.

Down the street was a gray characterless building, “SENIOR CENTER “ A single Ford SUV parked in front.

Trucks sped by, with a sense of impatience.

I thought of Harry Reid’s recollection of his youth in Searchlight Nevada

 “I used to watch those cars and trucks go by an wonder where they were going, what they were doing..”

Past two discarded wooden buildings with notices announcing the planned future occupancy – another café…

Then “Bob’s Well Bread”, Coffee, bread and sandwiches - with a half dozen cars parked against the fence.

It seemed the town’s social focus of the morning. The outdoor seating space with metal tables and chairs stretched back to the trees with an unused but nicely manicured Bocce Ball court.

Across the space a woman was engrossed in the local newspaper. She was mostly hidden by her daily belongings.

And further back into the morning shadows, perhaps seeking solitude in public, was a young woman lost in her book.

We went inside and it took me a long time to choose from the array of pastries – Blueberry hand pie, ham and cheese croissant, flaky and well toasted. I’m never decisive about these kind of delicacies.

The barista was able to make a double shot cappuccino with the proper amount of foam, not overloaded with milk. Unusual even in Italy.

Priscilla went off to walk Billy the Dog. I sat with a view of the street. Cars now lined up neatly against the wooden rail fence, like horses tied up while their riders went for refreshments.

Then a white Chevrolet  Silverado 2500HD pulled up and the driver in a John Deere baseball cap and wide sunglasses jumped out and joined a husband and wife, she pregnant, more urban types, already sitting there. The rancher thumbed thru a small notebook. I imagined another city person buying into a long time ranch property. 

I finished my Blueberry Pie and Priscilla came back with Billy.

So we wandered the length of Bell street. Like many truly small towns, that was its spine. There were no cross streets of commercial consequence,  Though the crossroads of political feelings were apparent.

The occasional gothic mansion raised historical questions that I never found an answer for.

The possibity of a superb meal or two was one of the motivations for this trip. One recommend was Bar Le Cote in Los Olivos – the next town.

Walking the street there it was apparent that Los Olivos was much further along the path to dense trendiness than Los Alamos.  There was, as I had read, one wine tasting shop every 0.01 acre.

Neither of us drink much wine any more, though I wistfully recall the days when I would spend a Sonoma afternoon in the grottos of Montelena Vineyards tasting an array of cabernet, zinfandel and pinot .

So we passed on the appeal of wine tasting boutiques

But we came across a sign purveying Olive Oil tasting – Ten varieties of local oil – served with bread. So we rushed in.
But the Botoxed shopkeeper lady promptly told us that we were welcome but Billy our small dog could not be inside
“ … we have a commercial kitchen…”
Which seemed odd for a store mainly selling trinkets and bottled oil.
So we left and wandered on past the Hat Store selling $ 600 cowboy hats.

But our dinner  at Bar Le Cote was as good a meal as I can recall:

“Crispy Skin Branzino
Dry Aged Filet. JW’s Pickled Peppers, Sweet Onion Puree

AND

“Peel & Eat Shrimp
Half Pound. BLC Spice, Cocktail Sauce, Lemon Aioli” 

The last day

Bob’s Well Bread was full of breakfast people.

On a drizzly morning all the inside table seats were taken.

So I got another Blueberry Hand Pie and a Ham Cheese Croissant to go  and we drove off in the Mazda.

We drove into the morning fog.

It all faded into the distance – the food the trucks, the walks.
It was foggy the whole way.
At times we could only see 200 feet.

Los Alamos also faded into our memory and I wondered how soon the town would change.