Ojai’s Pink Moment (4 of 40)

I started my career in ultrasound at a hospital in Ventura, California. Though the hospital itself has been around for decades, I got hired in just after a major renovation so I was fortunate enough to enjoy working in a beautifully modern building with large patient rooms and picturesque vistas. Even the parking structure had ocean views and seeing the Pacific soon became a favorite part of my work day.

The hospital itself was lovely; lovelier still were my coworkers. While academic prowess is an important part of sonography, nothing replaces boots-on-the-ground experience in honing the skills needed to be really competent. In this profession, the phrase “You don’t know what you don’t know” is astutely accurate. My coworkers graciously took this rookie under their wings and helped me become, well, slightly less rookie-ish. Plus, I just liked ‘em. 

It was one of these coworkers that told me about Ojai’s Pink Moment. Ojai, which (fun fact) means ‘moon’ in Chumash, is a small town about 15 miles inland and nestled along the base of the Topa Topa Mountains. The town itself actually reminds me a lot of Sedona, Arizona, near where I grew up. It is an eclectic community filled with art galleries, wineries and hiking trails. Over the years I’ve been to Ojai a handful of times but I’d never actually heard about this daily phenomenon until Walter mentioned it.

Apparently there comes a point each evening, weather-permitting, where the sun setting on the horizon casts a stunning rose-hued glow against the Topa Topa Mountains. According to one site I found, this moment happens pretty specifically 13 minutes before sunset. While this may seem oddly specific, I can attest that the timing is critical for the full effect. 

Anyone could argue that sunset is innately a beautiful time of day. I certainly wouldn’t disagree. I have long maintained that twilight (yes, specifically twilight) contains my most favorite moments of any day. I have to say though, witnessing the Pink Moment at its peak is a sight to be seen. It’s a stop-you-in-your-tracks kind of beautiful. One that makes you think, “Wow, I should really take a picture,” but you just know that by the time you do, you will have missed the magic and, truly, the photo is not going to do it justice anyway. 

This, at least, is what I tell myself since I did not capture my pink moment experience on film. 

The other day, however, I was walking the pup when I realized that I could see the Topa Topas from my neighborhood so I was able to snap this pic. Not nearly fitting enough but at least you can get the idea.  

If you live in around here, I would recommend you go check it out for yourself. Apparently November through February are the most brilliant months to witness it. If you are not local, however, have no fear! The Ojai Valley Inn has a live webcam that captures nature’s show every evening. 

The Last Bookstore (3 of 40)

The Last Bookstore, arguably LA’s more famous literary venue, has been on my 40 by Forty list since a friend posted about their visit a couple years ago. I’m a sucker for used books. One of my favorite activities has always been to peruse the previously-owned sections of the local library. I like that I never know what I might stumble across. The fact that someone else has passed a particular book along feels like a personal endorsement somehow. Certainly the price can’t be beat. The Last Bookstore doesn’t solely house used books, but it does boast being the largest used and new bookstore in California. That’s definitely worth a trip downtown in my book. (See what I did there? Clever, right?) 

So last fall, during the bitter depths of quarantine, I dragged my friend Tim along with me to DTLA. I had come across a self-guided haunted tour of Los Angeles online which to me sounded like a perfect socially-distanced spooky excursion. Traipsing through the pee-lined streets of Skid Row is surprisingly not everyone’s cup of tea. Being the good friend that he is, Tim did agree to tag along but only after professing, “You know this is going to be totally lame, right?”  

Now, I’d love to say that he was wrong and that lameness did not ensue...but I’d be lying. The stories were super tame, nary a shiver in the bunch. Ironically, they were all surprisingly similar. Turns out if you were a hotel maintenance worker in the early years of Los Angeles, there was a pretty good chance you were going to fall through an open elevator shaft from the third floor of the building and spend the rest of eternity haunting the halls of your former workplace. Bummer. 

It was at about the third stop that we came across The Last Bookstore, and all was not lost! Located on the ground floor of the Spring Arts Tower, it is an eclectic two-story store with many creatively designed alcoves and several gallery shops. Upstairs, there is a hallway of books that stretch overhead creating a tunnel-like effect and shelves arranged in a labyrinth making it even easier to get lost while book-browsing. 

I found a gem almost immediately. The title seemed to scream at me from the shelf and I knew I must walk no further in this life without knowing precisely what an Effing Bird is!

Now I feel I should explain that I have no real fascination with birds. I mean, I like them okay enough. I even enjoy when I see one that appears more unusual than, say, a pigeon, but on my list of creatures that interest me, they’re not in my top ten or anything.

I am however a total fan of well-placed curse words. And sarcasm. And even some seriously juvenile potty humor. So when I leafed through the pages of this book, I knew I had found my jam. 

Because I didn’t actually take any photos at The Last Bookstore itself, I figured I would add a little spice to this post with a small literary review. And, yes, that is my best attempt at the librarian look. 🤓

Concert at the Wiltern (2 of 40)

When I went back to school to become a sonographer, I had a 45-mile one-way commute in rush hour traffic from my home in the suburbs to Koreatown near downtown LA. Even though I have lived in the surrounding Los Angeles area for the majority of my adult life, up until that point, I had rarely ventured too far into LA itself. There was the fact that I grew up in a small town where freeway driving didn't really exist coupled with an unfortunate incident that occurred pre-google maps where I found myself driving around Skid Row alone at night that gave me the feeling that city life might just not be my thing. I'm not sure what it would have taken for me to start to venture into this second largest US metropolis aside from sheer force of circumstance, but I am thankful I eventually did.

The daily drive was long and monotonous, but there is a point where the 101 veers south into Hollywood that always brought a sense of wonder and awe to my morning. I loved seeing the spires of Hogwarts on my left as I passed by Universal Studios, and the way the whole of LA seems to open up when the famous hotels and buildings surrounding Capitol Records come into view on the right. As I exited the freeway, the homeless encampments with tents and random objects were a sober reminder that some of those Hollywood dreams are really nightmares. 

My favorite part of the drive, though, was just before my commute ended. At the corner of Western and Wilshire sits an imposing patina-hued building called The Wiltern. I would idle at the intersection waiting for the left turn signal and read the regularly updated marquee. Usually it boasted of upcoming headliners (not capturing photographic evidence of the most fabulously named band The Front Bottoms remains a great regret of my life), less often it bore tributes to recently deceased musicians (RIP Tom Petty). I felt somehow closer to the heartbeat of this musically driven city just by falling under the shadow of the Wiltern and I resolved to see a live show before I no longer found myself so frequently beneath it.

Hozier happened to be headlining in October of 2018. I've always been a bit of a sucker for tall, dark-haired, slightly odd looking dudes. Throw in his genious song-writing and Irish accent and there was pretty much no way I wasn't going to be a fan. His self-titled album is the resonant soundtrack for a great love and a great loss of my life. 

The Wiltern is an intimate venue with standing room only. The earlier you arrive, the more likely you are to get a decent spot inside. As such, it wasn't uncommon for lines to stretch down the city block hours before the doors opened. A little known secret is that it offers a VIP lounge that, for the low low price of forty bucks, allows you enter the venue early and pass the time sipping adult beverages on vintage pleather couches.

My friend and I practically threw our money at the bouncer when we quickly realized that waiting in line was decidedly more appealing for 20-somethings with energy to spare than two 30-something single, working moms. An added bonus was early priority entrance into the general seating section. Within an hour, we found ourselves happily buzzed under the dimming lights in argueably the best "seats" the Wiltern had to offer. The show itself was everything I hoped it to be. I sang every line of From Eden and Cherry Wine so loudly my voiced scratched for days. If that had been the end of the night, it would have been perfection in and of itself.

When the concert ended, however, we decided to try to beat the crowd by back-tracking through the VIP lounge where we pre-gamed it earlier. That decision turned out to be quintessential icing on the cake when we turned the corned and found ourselves practically bumping into Hozier himself...all 6 feet, 6 inches of him! He was incredibly gracious, willingly taking not just one, but two photos with me after the first turned out to be less flattering than my vanity would like to allow.

In the end, it was a night of multiple unexpected joys that I will carry with me forever. A few days later, I was unexpectedly thrilled once again, when Hozier posted a picture of me on his official page! Okay, maybe it wasn't just me, and maybe even if you could see me, I might be holding a camera over my face, but let's not muddle the magic with such unimportant details.