Los Angeles is unique. Where will you find another city like it, so
open, so bright, with such handsome apartment houses, designed for light
housekeeping, such multitudes of cafeterias? Where will you find such a
green square of civic center with people sitting quietly about, enjoying
the sunshine, the splashing of the fountain, the tameness of the
starlings? These are the happy, not the unhappy, unemployed. They have
come from far and near to live simply in light housekeeping apartments,
to bask in the sunshine, many of them to enjoy a sunny old age on a
modest but comfortable income. The last census, they tell us, shows that
80 per cent of the Los Angeles people are from the State of Iowa. But
from all the Middle West they have fled from the cold winters to the
warmth of this big city which really seems to be not a city at all, but
an immense collection of open parks, bright houses, and handsome
streets. Thousands of people are pouring into Los Angeles every year.
Great fields around the city have been included within the city limits,
fine streets with ornate lamps and copings have been cut through them,
handsome stucco and shingle villas have been erected. These are homes of
well-to-do people who mean to spend at least part of each year, if not
the rest of their lives, in Los Angeles. It is all a puzzle, this
phenomenal growth of the city. It is not wholly due to business, for the
most prosperous business man in Los Angeles is probably the real estate
dealer, who has plotted the fields, added new streets, and sold at
ever-increasing prices the villa and home sites. The merchant and the
provision dealer do well, but after all, their territory is the city
itself. There is no great hinterland with which to deal. It is not due
to manufacturing interests, for as yet these have been but little
developed. It must be, as a lady said to me, "the sale of the climate,"
an unfailing stock of sunshine that has made Los Angeles the happy,
growing, extremely prosperous city that it is.
One may choose from many hotels one's hostel, or one may live in a
beautiful apartment, cook one's own breakfast of bacon and eggs, and
sally forth to any one of a dozen cafeterias for luncheon and dinner. We
found the Hotel Leighton on West Lake Park eminently satisfactory; a
spacious, quiet, well managed establishment with the spaces of the park
before it and the cars within three minutes' walk.
From Los Angeles we drove through the San Gabriel Valley, dominated by
snow covered Mount San Antonio, to Long Beach. The valley is a panorama
of new suburban towns, market gardens, and walnut groves. Long Beach is
a mixture of Coney Island, Atlantic City, and a solid, substantial
inland town. Its public buildings are very fine, its churches being
particularly handsome. Its big Hotel Virginia reminds one of the
handsome hotels along the boardwalk at Atlantic City, and its long
arcade of amusement halls, cheap jewelry shops, and other booths for
seaside trinkets is like Coney Island. This stretch of amusement halls
and shops lies along the seashore at a lower level than the city proper,
and does not impart its character to the rest of the town. It was at
Long Beach that I first heard a night-singing bird, somewhat like the
nightingale. The little creature sang gaily all night long in the park
opposite our hotel. Long Beach and San Pedro are both sailing points for
Santa Catalina Island, twenty-five miles away, whose purple-grey heights
can be dimly seen across the water. The trip to Catalina is in rather
small boats, and is likely to be somewhat trying; but the trials of the
two or three hours of voyage are amply awarded by the Island itself.
[Illustration: 1. Harbor, Catalina Island. 2. Seals on Rocks at Catalina
Island. 3. Catalina Island. 4. Home of Owner of Catalina Island.]
Santa Catalina has a curving, sickle-shaped harbor around which cluster
the hotels and boarding houses which make the home of the summer guests.
This little white village against a background of hilly country, taking
on lovely lavender and grey tints at sunset, is not unlike some of the
towns on the picturesque coast of Cornwall. Santa Catalina is a paradise
for deep-sea fishermen, a lotus eaters' island where one may walk over
the hills into the quiet interior or take a boat and dream along the
rocks, gazing down for hours at the beauties of the gardens of the sea.
I would advise all tourists to take time to visit these swaying groves
of kelp and other sea plants in a row boat. One sees them in this way
far more intimately and satisfactorily than by a more hurried
inspection. In the late afternoon everyone at Catalina gathers at the
pier to see the fishermen come in with their spoils. Boat after boat is
seen approaching. They round the pier and the big fish are lifted up for
all to admire. Then come the weighing and the cleaning of the fish. The
seagulls hover near, ready for their share of the spoils, as the
entrails of the fish are thrown into the sea. A tame seal swims around
from his home on the rocks several miles away in order to have his
portion of the feast. At the time of our visit he was in a fit of sulks,
as a fisherman had struck him on the head with an oar because he had
tried to clamber into a boat in his zeal for his supper. A unique
experience at Catalina is an evening ride in a swift motor boat equipped
with a powerful searchlight. Faster and faster goes the boat in the
darkness, the searchlight swinging from side to side over the wide
waters. The flying fish, startled by the sweep of the light upon the
water, leap wildly into the air. The air is full of them, and of the
sound of their rushing wings. Plump! Here comes one into the boat! and
here's another, and another! We shield our faces with our hands,
shouting with laughter as the fish fall with a thump into the boat,
sometimes on the laps of the passengers. More than one passenger has
been struck by a flying fish, and our landlady tells us of a tourist who
went out for an evening ride in the motor boat to return with a black
eye from the blow of a frightened flying fish. Flying fish is delicious
eating, and our catch is divided up among the passengers. We were
attracted to this excursion when we first landed at Catalina by a
startling advertisement describing the experience as "Thousands of
flying fish tangoing through the air."
Catalina Island is a quiet spot, outside its little rim of houses along
its curving harbor. The pedestrian may go inland for a number of miles,
taking his luncheon with him, and have only the hills and the birds for
his company. We had such a walk, and saw a hawk alight and settle
himself calmly upon a fencepost, holding in his talons a newly captured
snake. The creature was still alive, its body ringed in a rigid hoop in
its effort to escape. But the cruel claws held it fast, and its captor
was preparing to finish it with his sharp beak. We were told that the
dust from Santa Ana Valley, twenty-five miles away, could be seen
approaching in a grey cloud across the water on windy days from
shoreward. Our landlady deplored such days, when her immaculate house
was covered with the dust of the distant mainland. Santa Catalina, a
grey green agate in the sunlight, a purple amethyst at twilight, ringed
by lovely seas, is well worth a visit.
Returning to Long Beach, we drove on toward San Diego, through the Santa
Ana Valley to San Juan Capistrano. As we came through the great valley
in which lie Santa Ana, Fullerton, and Anaheim, we passed fruitful
groves of lemons and vast fields of beets. We observed an odd optical
illusion as we came near Tustin. All the fields before us seemed to be
covered with water, and we at first thought that the irrigating streams
had been turned on and were flowing through them. But as we reached the
fields we found them perfectly dry. Field after field stretched before
us apparently swimming in water, and field after field as we came near
we found dry and brown under the sun. This occurred more than once in
southern California as we were driving along in the sunlight.
At San Juan Capistrano we stopped to see one of the most beautiful
Missions in all California. The cloisters of San Juan, the ruins of the
very fine old church, the bells in their places above the walls, all are
extremely picturesque and beautiful. At San Juan with its quaint little
street we found two hotels, both of which had attractions. The Mission
Hotel offered us Spanish cooking, attractive to one fond of red pepper
and high seasoning. Las Rosas looked like a pleasant country home turned
by some enterprising woman into an inn. We chose Las Rosas and had an
excellent home dinner there. From San Juan Capistrano we drove on south
to Delmar, where we spent the night at the Stratford Inn. This hotel,
which sits flower-encircled on its sandy hillside overlooking the blue
seas, has every modern appointment and luxury. The settlement does not
yet seem to have attracted a large cottage population, but there are
some homes of very charming architecture and with beautiful gardens. We
walked up the picturesque hills back of the hotel, and came at their
summit to the precipitous edge of a great bowl from which we looked down
upon a green valley stretching away many miles in extent.
[Illustration: 1., 2. and 3. San Juan Capistrano Mission.]
From Delmar the next morning we again drove south with the sea on our
right and the hills on our left. The road winds over very hilly country
through a growth of rare pines known as the Torrey pines, found only
here. From the heights of these hills one sees at a distance a point of
land stretching into the sea, with a little town shining on its slopes
like a jewel in the sun. It looks, as one approaches it from the north,
like a Riviera town. This is the enchanted spot on the southern coast
known as La Jolla (pronounced La Hoya), a little town frequented by
people who love the Spanish warmth of the Southern sun and the blue of
the Southern sea. Here is a beautiful Episcopal school for girls, its
stucco buildings planned in Spanish fashion. Here is a charming little
church of the same architecture. Here, perched on the rocks, looking out
to sea along the coast fringe of the town, are flat-roofed stucco houses
with a matchless view of the water. Farther back on the hills
overlooking the town, are lovely winter homes, also built in the
architecture of Southern countries. La Jolla is one of the loveliest
spots on the whole Pacific Coast. Its rocks, its caves, its Southern
sea, its sunshine, all combine to make it a delightful place in which to
spend a winter.
La Jolla is only fourteen miles from San Diego, and it was an easy drive
from there into the bright, clean, shining city of the South. San Diego
is at present in a state of transition, the transition from a little
city to a big city. She has a matchless harbor, plenty of room in which
to grow, and what is becoming a rich surrounding country. She has a
perfect situation, with the harbor before her and the hills rising
behind her. When the rails connect her with the "back country" she will
undoubtedly become a powerful city.
What could be more beautiful than the drive from San Diego out along the
point which curves like a great claw into the sea and is known as Point
Loma? The road first sweeps along close to the water, passing rows of
pretty suburban homes. Then it rises, swings up over the hills on to the
high ridge of Point Loma proper, the open sea to the right, the harbor
to the left, passing the beautifully kept grounds of the fine property
belonging to the School of Theosophy. Beyond, the road still climbs
until it comes to the end of the Point, on which stands a little old
Spanish lighthouse, now abandoned. High above the sea one looks off to
the far away islands. Turning about, one sees the city, white in the
sun, the mountains rising in the distance behind it. Running out from
the city is a long, narrow strip of land which widens into Coronado
Beach, with the red roofs of the hotel and the green stretches of the
beautiful little town of Coronado. Just below is the blue water of the
great harbor. It is a grand view, and ranks in my opinion with the noble
views of Sydney Harbor in Australia and of Auckland harbor in New
Zealand.
San Diego, like her sister cities of Los Angeles and San Francisco, is a
town frequented by tourists. Many are the hotels and apartment houses,
devoted to winter sojourns and light housekeeping, offset by excellent
cafeterias. There are plenty of excursions from San Diego, a short one
being to the Spanish house in the village of old San Diego, known as the
home of Ramona. The old house with its walled garden and its wide
porches has been put in order and is now used as a depot for curios and
Indian goods. Another delightful trip, somewhat longer, is to Grossmont.
Grossmont is, in spite of its name, a little mountain, some fifteen
miles back of San Diego. It is an irregular heap of rocks, rising from
rather barren surrounding country. Mr. Fletcher of San Diego first saw
the possibilities of Grossmont and marked out the road which now runs
around the mountain to its summit. Here are the modest houses of an
artist and literary colony, among them the cottage of Madame
Schumann-Heinck. From the porches of these cottages, perched high upon
the bare rocks, one looks down upon the exquisite little El Cajon (The
Box) Valley, where grow lemons, oranges, and other fruits in beautiful
green luxuriance. El Cajon could once have been bought for a song, but
now its fertile acres, under the spell of irrigation, are worth many
thousands.
Beyond El Cajon rise the superb mountains of the South in all their
rocky grandeur. They take on most wonderful colors; warm clay yellows,
rich browns, lavenders, tints of ashes of rose. They are constantly
changing as the day advances, and are a world of color. No wonder that
singers, poets, and artists love to look upon the glowing greens below
and the glowing lavenders afar. The view from Grossmont is extremely
poetic and beautiful.
We should have considered our visit to California very incomplete
without having seen San Diego, its Southern seas and its fascinating
"back country." It is wholly different from Los Angeles, and the charm
of the South is over it all. Were I a young business man, seeking to
cast in my lot with a growing California city, I should cast it in San
Diego.
From San Diego we proceeded through El Cajon Valley to the little town
of Julian, nearly 4000 feet high. That was a memorable ride, taking us
through green valleys and then up, up through broken hill country and
past heavy oak and pine forests and rich mountain pastures. In going
over Mussey's Grade I saw, for the first time, growing on the rocky
hillsides groups of tall yuccas. I could not be content until I had
climbed out of the motor and cut one of the towering stalks, springing
from a mass of thick, sword-shaped leaves. Its white scented bells
covered the stalk from top to bottom. It was a tree of creamy bloom and
perfume. I laid it on top of our luggage, enjoying its perfume from time
to time; but the beautiful bells began to droop, and by the time the
day's long journey was over the flowers had withered. Afterward, I saw
many of these yuccas growing in lonely, rocky places, blooming
luxuriantly. They were like tall white candelabra.
On our way to Julian, a few miles from the little town, by mistake we
turned left instead of right, and had a long wandering through a great
mountain country. The roads were narrow, twilight was coming on, and we
found ourselves in a seemingly endless forest. Sometimes from high
points we had wonderful sunset glimpses of distant mountains looming
above green valleys. Then again we came upon lush meadow patches, wide
and lonely in the midst of the hills. Still the road wound on, down
through ravines, up over steep hillsides. Not a house was to be seen,
only the lonely forest and the deepening darkness. It looked as if we
must spend the night in the woods. At last we came out through a rough
gate into the main road and reading a sign by the light of a match found
that we were a mile from Julian. It was good to reach the tiny village
and to find the Robinson House, a very clean and respectable village
inn, kept by an old colored soldier and his wife. They gave us an
excellent supper and we found a very comfortable bed awaiting us. We had
taken a road through the mountain district back of a beautiful summer
inn, known as the Pine Hills Inn, and had wandered over the drives
planned for the pleasure of summer guests.
We saw the Pine Hills Inn perched upon the hillside, the next morning.
It was only a short distance from where we had struck the main road for
Julian. We had fully intended to spend a night at this famous little
inn, but must leave that for the next time. Julian is famed for its
apples, growing nearly 4000 feet high. We saw a charming picture of
blossoming apple trees, grown against a dark background of tall mountain
pines which flanked the orchard slope. There is a famous view near
Julian. Looking down from a break in the hills one sees far, far beyond
and below the grey stretches of the desert and the Salton sea.
From Julian we drove on to Warner's Hot Springs, where many people
resort for the healing power of the Springs, and where a pleasant little
hotel, surrounded by cottages, makes a delightful stopping place for
those who wish to enjoy the sunshine and to pierce the defiles of the
mountains back of the valley of the Springs. The Springs are on a great
ranch which covers thousands of acres and supports hundreds of cattle.
To reach them one drives over long stretches of plain, partly rich
grass, where cattle feed, partly somewhat barren country.
Leaving the Hot Springs, we drove again across the vast sandy stretches
and the rich green plains of the Warner Ranch, coming from there through
picturesque and somewhat broken country to the little Pala Mission.
Before reaching the Mission one comes along a mountain road cut like a
shelf into the hill and very high above the valley. The little town
which is the seat of the Mission is reached by a long descent. The most
interesting thing about the Mission now is its bells, which are set so
that the wall in whose open niches they are hung makes a picturesque
framework for them. Leaving the town we came on through a deep and rocky
canyon, whose scenery was wild and mountainous. From this we emerged
into a broad valley which grew more beautiful as we traveled northward.
Wide grain ranches stretched away to the right, walled in by the massive
ramparts of Nellie Palomar Mountain. Other ranches stretched to the
left, ending in the foothills in rich groves of olive trees. We were
traveling through Temecula on our way to Elsinore, a town of hot
springs. There we spent a comfortable night at a hotel situated on a
little lake. The lake in the evening light with the olive orchards
stretching down to its waters from the foothills opposite was very
charming. From Elsinore we drove on in the morning through an open
canyon, where Matilija poppies grew plentifully, to Corona. Corona is a
lovely little town belted by an encircling boulevard, broad and shaded.
It lies in a fertile valley whose plains and hill-slopes are covered by
thousands of lemon trees, tended with a mother's care. Above the valley
rise the mountains on the distant horizon. One can see lemons being
gathered, flowers blooming, and new groves being planted in the valley,
and then look up to snow-capped peaks beyond. Here lemon orchards are
valued at $2,000 and more an acre. When the trees have reached the
bearing stage and are in good condition, lemon orchard land is a gold
mine. We heard of people who rented their orchards on the basis of
$2,000 value per acre, receiving interest on that valuation. We heard
also of successful lemon growers who had purchased large acreages of
lemon-bearing land at $1,000 per acre and who had within two years after
purchase marketed a crop of lemons whose selling price covered the
entire amount paid for the orchard two years before.
[Illustration: 1. Pala Mission. 2. Hillside Orchard in California.]
We visited a big packing house and saw dark eyed Sicilians, alert and
prosperous, sorting, cleaning, and packing the lemons. Everything
proceeded with swiftness and yet with orderliness. Down the long troughs
rolled the lemons, each gravitating through a hole according to its
size. Into a bubbling cauldron they were gently railroaded, where
brushes from above and from below washed them and pushed them on. With
much deftness packers caught a square of tissue paper with the left
hand, a lemon with the right hand and wrapped the fruit. The filled box
was pushed along a polished runway to the inspector. He deftly and
quickly looked the box over, decided whether the packing was close and
firm, nailed on a top, and bound the box with supporting iron bands. It
was then ready to go into the freight car on the track a few feet away,
where experienced men were loading the car with the yellow fruit. We
were told that notwithstanding competition with the Sicilian and Italian
fruit, California lemons had all the market their owners could wish for.
Certainly when one sees the care with which the fruit is grown, the
mellow sun under which it matures, and the skillful gathering, cleaning,
and packing of the packing houses, one wishes every right of way for
California lemons. One lemon grower told us that in the course of the
past twenty years he had advanced hundreds of dollars to his Sicilian
laborers who had asked his help to bring over their fathers, their
brothers, and other relatives. He said that kinsman after kinsman had
been brought over and had added himself and his work to the Corona
colony, and that their benefactor had never lost a dollar. All the loans
had been conscientiously returned in the course of time.
Californians look forward to a great flood of immigration within the
next few years, and hope that Europe will send them the men to till
their lands and cultivate their rich valleys and hill-slopes. There is
plenty of room for them in this splendid empire of a State.