When I listen to Antonio Carlos Jobim, I dream of Brazil and of riding on a float at Mardi Gras, just once, in a feather hat, dressed like Rita Hayworth. Music evokes a writing mood, like jazz or blues writing; they are similar. When I listen to Sarah Vaughn or Nancy Wilson, it feels like a close female friend confiding in me and knowing I understand heartbreak.
When I sit at my desk and look at my mother’s photograph, I dream of the first lunch we had at Bullock’s Garden Room, watching the fashion show and discovering style. When I shovel snow, I dream of the coastal beaches: Del Mar, La Jolla, Santa Barbara, and Carmel. Commercials about travel dominate and fuel my craving for a flight. As my responsibilities here are unfinished, I will wait and daydream about the next voyage.
Daydreaming, unlike night dreaming, where we are flying, conquering, or battling some inner masked trauma, illuminates where we want to be, who we want to be, and if we take it seriously, how to get there. The medicine of daydreaming is unmatched by books, healthy food, vitamins, yoga, religion, or mind-altering experiences; it is the essence of who we are.
The sea is like rolled oil, and the breaking waves are the size of lake ripples. At this momentary recess of chaotic beach activity, all the heaviness of life rolls out with the waves. Observing the elan of beach life carousing, suntanning bodies already tanned leather, joggers and runners, bicyclists, fishermen, volleyball players, and the surfers.
That’s my garden of grace and glory. They are like ballet dancers, some of them, some seem to think they’re driving a car or motorcycle, but the longboarders, old school aged surfers, skim waves athletically and spiritually, one with the board like a musician with an instrument.
And the fisherman, the other clan, is worth watching because they are interlopers in Del Mar. They come alone, dressed in rubber boots, floppy, stained hats, and pocket vests, like longshoremen or train conductors, an aura antiquated in Del Mar history, when fishermen were in greater numbers than joggers, lifeguards, and beach parties.
Living in Del Mar from 1982 – 1996 enriched my spirit, health, and distance running. Even though I’ve heard, you can’t go back, I’m striving to break that fact.
As children, our waiting depends on how long it takes Mom and Dad to finish what they’re doing and pay attention to our needs. It takes hold of us, like a fever, and we resort to nudging them, whining, even sobbing, If we are made to wait longer than we expected. During the school year, I waited all semester for the summer. In Los Angeles that meant it was hot enough to go swimming in the ocean.
When I lived in Hollywood, I rode two buses, to get to Santa Monica. The second bus dropped me off on Ocean Avenue, above Santa Monica Beach. I ran down the ramp that connects to Pacific Coast Highway and headed north to Sorrento Beach. I jumped into the sand running to find the place where my schoolmates clustered: in a caravan of towels, beach chairs, radios, and brown bag lunches. I couldn’t just run to the ocean, I had to sit and talk and have something cold to drink, and then I made myself wait until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Then I ran down to the shore, and embraced the waves, tumbling inside their grasp until I lost my breath, and floated into abandonment.
After I moved to Santa Fe I stopped thinking about the ocean, I had to remove the memories from my thoughts, so I could continue to experience this spark of New Mexico. The dry sage ocean of pink soil, and radiant blue sky that pinches your eyes when you’re driving, the sunlight, the warmth of a desert night, and the white snow on pink adobe rooftops. It had postcard perfection, even with fallen leaves spread like trash everywhere, the trees almost naked, and the dead plants in the garden. I tried not to think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyelids, or from the bluff at Del Mar, or the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I tumbled beneath the surface.
I waited, as I did as a teenager, for that time to come in the fall of 2010, so I could return to the sea. I stood at the water’s edge in Del Mar, it was like summer without all the kids screaming, barking dogs, volleyball and paddle board games, lifeguards thrashing the beach in their jeeps shouting, ‘no dogs off the leashes, no glassware, and no surfing today’. They were missing, and so were the parade of beach runners, and surfers. In fact, I was the only one swimming, on that first day at the beach. Before I went into the water, I reclined on a big black boulder and faced the sea, letting my eyes wander amongst the scenes of the beach on a Tuesday afternoon. In front of me was an older man with graying hair, in a beach chair reading. He must be retired, he looked perfected adapted to his spot about five feet from the shoreline. I thought about retirement, and how I still cannot come to grips with spending my days on park benches or in cafes watching younger men and women live. There was one swimmer, on a bogeyboard, he was far out, and floating along, and I wished I’d brought mine with me, but it was in Rudy’s van. The last time I used it was when I lived in Solana Beach in 1997. I also wished I had a new bathing suit, because the one I was wearing was too loose, and the neck straps were tied together in a knot so I could swim without losing my top. The sun baked my body, and I let it without abatement, without shading my limbs or wearing a hat, just enough sunscreen to keep the rays from trotting over my lily-white skin. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, the waiting suddenly felt so imperial, so much so that I began to think about waiting as an aphrodisiac or something like a good cocktail that you have to make last for hours, while you wait for that moment that makes you feel immortal, childlike, and emancipated.
I felt the beach flies, and the tang of salt water on my lips, and when the seagulls swarmed above the water’s surface, like so many beads of a necklace, I thought, that this is about the most beautiful day I could have, and it’s all because I WAITED. I didn’t give up on the ocean, or my place in it, or believing that I would have my day in the sand, under a faded denim blue sky, with cotton ball clouds floating above me. I baked until the sweat drenched my pours, and then I raised myself up and walked slowly to the edge of the water. The surf made tiny breaks not enough to shatter my body warmth and I felt the first sting of the water on my feet, and then my knees., I submerged and found that the best way to celebrate this day was to keep flopping backward on top of each wave as it crashed, and I did this for a dozen rounds, until I felt giddy, submissive, and dented with the surf. That waiting thing again, meant something that I should write about because all of us are waiting for the election, the economy to recover, wars to end, streets to be safe and our real estate to be worth something again. We are all waiting for this big change so we can feel secure and optimistic about the future. There is something useful about waiting, something predisposed, that gives us the support and substance we need, so when the waiting is over, and we are all flush with optimism again, it will feel like the first time. It will overwhelm us with power and joy, like the ocean.
As children, our waiting depends on how long it takes Mom and Dad to finish what they’re doing and pay attention to our needs. It takes hold of us, like a fever, and we resort to nudging them, whining, even sobbing, If we are made to wait longer than we expected. During the school year, I waited all semester for the summer. In Los Angeles that meant it was hot enough to go swimming in the ocean.
When I lived in Hollywood, I rode two buses, to get to Santa Monica. The second bus dropped me off on Ocean Avenue, above Santa Monica Beach. I ran down the ramp that connects to Pacific Coast Highway and headed north to Sorrento Beach. I jumped into the sand running to find the place where my schoolmates clustered: in a caravan of towels, beach chairs, radios, and brown bag lunches. I couldn’t just run to the ocean, I had to sit and talk and have something cold to drink, and then I made myself wait until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Then I ran down to the shore, and embraced the waves, tumbling inside their grasp until I lost my breath, and floated into abandonment.
After I moved to Santa Fe I stopped thinking about the ocean, I had to remove the memories from my thoughts, so I could continue to experience this spark of New Mexico. The dry sage ocean of pink soil, and radiant blue sky that pinches your eyes when you’re driving, the sunlight, the warmth of a desert night, and the white snow on pink adobe rooftops. It had postcard perfection, even with fallen leaves spread like trash everywhere, the trees almost naked, and the dead plants in the garden. I tried not to think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyelids, or from the bluff at Del Mar, or the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I tumbled beneath the surface.
I waited, as I did as a teenager, for that time to come in the fall of 2010, so I could return to the sea. I stood at the water’s edge in Del Mar, it was like summer without all the kids screaming, barking dogs, volleyball and paddle board games, lifeguards thrashing the beach in their jeeps shouting, ‘no dogs off the leashes, no glassware, and no surfing today’. They were missing, and so were the parade of beach runners, and surfers. In fact, I was the only one swimming, on that first day at the beach. Before I went into the water, I reclined on a big black boulder and faced the sea, letting my eyes wander amongst the scenes of the beach on a Tuesday afternoon. In front of me was an older man with graying hair, in a beach chair reading. He must be retired, he looked perfected adapt to his spot about five feet from the shoreline. I thought about retirement, and how I still cannot come to grips with spending my days on park benches or in cafes watching younger men and women live.
There was one swimmer, on a bogey board, he was far out, and floating along, and I wished I’d brought mine with me, but it was in Rudy’s van. The last time I used it was when I lived in Solana Beach in 1997. I also wished I had a new bathing suit, because the one I was wearing was too loose, and the neck straps were tied together in a knot so I could swim without losing my top. The sun baked my body, and I let it without abatement, without shading my limbs or wearing a hat, just enough sunscreen to keep the rays from trotting over my lily-white skin. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, the waiting suddenly felt so imperial, so much so that I began to think about waiting as an aphrodisiac or something like a good cocktail that you have to make last for hours, while you wait for that moment that makes you feel immortal, childlike, and emancipated.
I felt the beach flies, and the tang of salt water on my lips, and when the seagulls swarmed above the water’s surface, like so many beads of a necklace, I thought, that this is about the most beautiful day I could have, and it’s all because I WAITED. I didn’t give up on the ocean, or my place in it, or believing that I would have my day in the sand, under a faded denim blue sky, with cotton ball clouds floating above me. I baked until the sweat drenched my pours, and then I raised myself up and walked slowly to the edge of the water. The surf made tiny breaks not enough to shatter my body warmth and I felt the first sting of the water on my feet, and then my knees., I submerged and found that the best way to celebrate this day was to keep flopping backward on top of each wave as it crashed, and I did this for a dozen rounds, until I felt giddy, submissive, and dented with the surf. That waiting thing again, meant something that I should write about because all of us are waiting for the election, the economy to recover, wars to end, streets to be safe and our real estate to be worth something again. We are all waiting for this big change so we can feel secure and optimistic about the future. There is something useful about waiting, something predisposed, that gives us the support and substance we need, so when the waiting is over, and we are all flush with optimism again, it will feel like the first time. It will overwhelm us with power and joy, like the ocean.
Even though I lived in Del Mar, California and have traveled back several times a year, my May trip was transformed into a Hotel Indigo vacation.
Imagine, an unsmiling, tense, anxious guest arriving for her first stay at Hotel Indigo, a bit wrung out from a two day desert crawl in the Van.
Then, I looked around the lobby, and I felt like I was in Tangiers. The Moroccan blues and reds poked at my sleeping senses, and the gentleman, who checked me in, was as well mannered as Cary Grant. The sun-light that flecked the lobby beckoned me to the adjoining deck, where comfortable sofas, and tables formed a circle around a fire- pit. The ocean fills the gap between an expansive deck and the horizon. I imagined I’d be there later, when the sun drops down.
Still pestered with a needle of tension, about the room, as rooms booked online may be virtually enticing, but in reality, end up cheating us. My room theme, as all the rooms have themes reflecting the neighborhood story, was a sea-shell. Every room is dressed in a mural, with matching fixtures, and coordinated bedding. The furnishings are new, unmarked, and the bedding stacked with pillows. I flopped on the bed and stared into the tunnel of a white shell. I closed my eyes, and just as suddenly sat up and called the Spa.
The whole concept of Spa is so luxuriating, and indulgent, some of us feel uncomfortable. This spa has the vibe of a nurturing and harmonious enclave. While waiting for the therapist I drank Tea, nibbled on trail mix, and read Travel & Leisure. Danielle, a woman with a childlike smile and rosy cheeks escorted me into a spa room, and while she prepared me, I was already feeling the drainage of tension. Eighty minutes later,(and only $125.00)I lay there like seaweed; boneless, semi-conscious, and grateful. I floated by the pool, and decided to walk into town and have lunch at the Secret Garden since the hotel restaurant wasn’t open for lunch yet. (one more week)
Secret Garden sidewalk Peruvian bistro serves the best Ceviche this side of Spain. Afterwards I vacillated between senseless shopping or going back to the hotel, and the hotel won. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to the village; and you can take the beach route, the bluff route or Camino del Mar.
With a few hours before dinner, I followed my instincts and took a day nap, at a time one can be interrupted by guest noise, but I heard nothing. It was when I woke up, that
the transformation came full circle. My fatigue was subdued, and my head empty of annoying chatter. As I passed through the hotel lobby, the conversation from the dining room, was joyful, and inviting.
We chose to dine in the village, at IL Fornaio, where we have spent so many festive evenings over the years I lived in Del Mar. After a day of decompressing, the evening
was like being in an out of focus movie. The restaurant was crowded, a lot of pretense and showiness, but it wasn’t annoying. My body and mind were at peace.
The next morning, I rose to birds singing, and sun splashed curtains. After a dip in the very deep and powerful spa, I strolled into the dining room for breakfast. Now, deeply committed to spa weekend, I passed on the Breakfast Panini and Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict and ordered the Fruit Plate, ($12), deliciously fresh and large enough for two persons. Once again I took notice of the authentic and bountiful attitude of the staff; they are obviously professionals in a business that has moved civility to the back burner.
Propelled by the excellence I hunted down the manager to
Pass on my Spa Experience. Susan Knapp, is the answer, she is vivacious, warm, and a gentle person, who took me by the hand and explained the coming attractions.
Poolside cabanas with massage.
Race Track Events
Live Music
I asked Susan how she managed to employ such a brilliant group of people. “I hire people with personality. You can train them on all the other facets, but you can’t educate someone on personality.”
I am a diarist. I record life around me so I can understand, as if by understanding I will find peace. Recording the exaggerated emotion and incidents of life began as a young girl when my mother gave me a diary. A good storyteller has to live life differently than the rest of us; otherwise, the stories will be predictable.
My father had those kinds of stories.
Allen Smiley: Illegal immigrant, Russian Jew, convicted criminal, hoodlum, extortionist, con-man, racketeer, bookmaker, tout, pimp, and high-ranking lieutenant and best friend of Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel.
“ Luellen, You have to come and get me out of here.”
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
“Just come down here and get me.
“Daddy you’re in the hospital.”
“I know where I am. They’re coming to get me.”
The phone call had woken me up. It was the first of several that night. I sat up in bed and looked at the clock.
It was past midnight. Why was he up so late? I called the hospital and asked to speak to the head nurse. I told her about the phone call. She said he was hallucinating, and that he’d refused medication. That was the first time I had ever sensed desperation in my father. He was afraid they were coming to get him. Who were they?
Several days later the phone calls stopped. He died as secretly as he had lived. There was an absence of publicity or concern. I knew what to do. He had given me instructions. I was to go to the bank, draw out what money was in the account, and go on a vacation.
“Clear the hell out of town. Reporters may start calling, don’t talk to any of them. Don’t trust anybody; remember what I’ve been telling you all these years. “
I took his phone book, the photograph of Benjamin Siegel, and one of his baseball caps. I packed up his black El Dorado Cadillac, and shot out of Los Angeles. It was the final scene of the first half of my life. I drove south on 405 hwy down to Del Mar. There was nothing waiting for me in Del Mar; no friends, or job, or anything to connect to. I only knew that when my feet touched the Del mar beach, I had to move there.
That summer I went to the Del mar Race Track and sat in the bleachers just like anyone else, wearing a hat, drinking Long Island Iced Tea and trying to see with the blinding sun in my eyes. It was strange to sit with the general public. The few times my dad took me to Santa Anita we sat in the Turf Club. I had no idea my father was part of the historical narrative of Del Mar race Track, and of Del Mar history.
After living in San Diego more than ten years, I returned to Los Angeles for a job offer. One afternoon I visited my father’s walking path along Ocean Park in Santa Monica. He walked from one end of path to the other beginning at San Vicente and ending in Venice. Afterwards we’d stop at the Lobster House for a plate of fish and chips, and a cold beer. While I was walking in his memory, imagining him next to me, I looked up and recognized one of his walking pals, Sonny Barry. He looked like a retired Vegas dealer; dark shades, v necked open shirt, and Beverly Hills signatory gold chain with a Star of David.
‘Hi Sonny, how are you?” I called out.
Sonny turned and looked, raised his tanned arms up in the air, “For crying out loud, Luellen sweetheart.”
“Where have you been—how’s everything, gee you look terrific.”
Sonny called out to another man in the near distance, sitting on a park bench. “ Sandy come look whose here.”
“Luellen, you know Sandy Adler, he was friends with your Dad a long time ago. Sandy Adler, my father had mentioned his name, but I didn’t know how they met or when. He was another man that fit into the mysterious and unspoken years he was partner with Ben.
“Oh well, I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl.”
“You knew my Dad when we lived in Bel Air?”
“ Way before that; I knew your Dad when he was with Benny Siegel—and I knew your mother.”
It was the mention of my mother, who died when I was thirteen that pierced my antenna of interest. Sonny stood back while Sandy took my hand, and said let’s take a walk. We walked along the bluffs overlooking the pacific ocean. He spoke slowly, and paced himself as if the memories were lodged in books and he had to dig into them.
“ I ran the El Rancho hotel in Vegas, and then the Flamingo. I knew your Dad very well, he was some classy guy.”
“ Oh I remember the Flamingo but not the El Rancho.”
“ Well, anyway-where are you living now?”
“I just moved back to Los Angeles, I was living in Del Mar.”
“ Del Mar? I owned the old Del Mar Hotel –in fact your mother and father used to come down and stay there.”
“ He never mentioned Del Mar to me.”
“ He had his reasons; yea they came down during the race meet and stayed at the hotel. I remember them coming down, one time, and Allen got upset with your mother. They were having quite an argument. Your father left, and I walked with your mother on the pier, and tried to comfort her.”
I couldn’t utter a word I just listened. The Del Mar Hotel had burnt down before I moved there. I’d seen photographs of the hotel, and heard stories about the Hollywood stars that stayed there. It was a magical legend in Del Mar, everyone who lived during its glory days talked about it.
It was sometime after that, that I walked in the sand where the hotel had been located. I understood that one day I would begin plucking away at my family history.
ADVENTURERS IN SINGLE LIVINGNESS 