Orange County
Some observations from a recent trip south
Work took me to Orange County last weekend. I hadn’t been to the OC in a while, not to the beaches, the inland cities, not to Disneyland. And I’d forgotten a couple things about my vast southern neighbor—the hyper-soullessness of Irvine, the fish burrito at Pedro’s Tacos in San Clemente. I mean, I am grateful I saw Wayfarers Chapel in its original location, back when it wasn’t falling into the sea, but that was a while ago.
So, rather than a typical “sixty minutes” of focus aerobics, some observations spread over two days, specifically in and around Dana Point.
—On a sidewalk one morning, three white girls, early thirties, on a hot girl walk. Identical outfits: crewneck sweatshirts, leggings, black crossbody bags and black sunglasses, with milky iced coffees—oat lattés, most likely?—in plastic cups held claw-grip style.
No conversation that I overheard. Two were wearing Airpods. Did woman number three feel left out?
—Surrounding the lobby of a fancy hotel one evening, several shops sold expensive women’s fashion, and there was a jewelry store next to the hotel bar. And though the other businesses closed at a reasonable hour, the jewelry shop appeared to stay open as long as the bar was open.
Given some of the bar’s clientele—more on that in a moment—this made a lot of sense.
—One afternoon, two blond women, maybe fifties, definitely with filler, did their own hot girl walk in a public park. Tank tops, no sweatshirts—it was nearly noon, warming up—and sporting water bottles instead of little bags, but similar vibes as the girls in the morning.
“I worked for four years between my two marriages,” one woman said as I passed, with a tone of being grateful that such a disappointing era was behind her.
—Percentage of white men in two days wearing baseball hats, who were wearing flat-brimmed baseball hats: about seventy percent.
Percentage of white men with visible tattooage: about the same.
—When did Ku Klux Klan begin its activities in Orange County: more than a hundred years ago.
—At a nail salon next to a CVS, all the employees were Asian, all the customers were white ladies. More surprising, maybe, was a preponderance of Lexus vehicles in the parking lot. SUVs, sedans, new and old, definitely more of them than any other brand. Is Orange County a Lexus land?
—Kinda creepy, kinda great, or just odd: a sign in a public park offering a number to call for “after-hours maintenance.”
—The hills at sunset around Laguna Niguel, Mission Viejo, were stunning.
—The amount of filler in ladies’ faces, not yet deflated or whatever we call that trend, was also stunning. So much maintenance!
—Regarding that hotel bar: one night, a senior white man sat at the corner, wearing tight white jeans, expensive-seeming gray sweatshirt, black on white low-top Air Force Ones. It was the look of someone young jarringly draped on someone old. His hair was a white combover, down to his shoulders. His order was a glass of red wine.
Suddenly, he was joined by an woman probably half his age, maybe a quarter of his age. Possibly Asian, possibly Latina, possibly Asian-Latina, I couldn’t tell. Tattooed arms, very pretty. Her order was espressso martini. Very soon, his hand was on her lower back, even though the two of them didn’t seem to know one another.
Then another man appeared, younger, maybe Indian ancestry, dressed in a similar if inverted outfit as our Combover man: expensive-seeming sweatshirt (hooded), skinny jeans (black), low-top Air Force Ones (white on block). He said hello to Combover but kept his distance; the impression was a somewhat-junior-employee saying hi to the boss. Were they at the hotel for an executive offsite? Were they buddies at work or outside? Did the younger man admire the older man’s style, or the reverse?
Younger man backed off and Combover returned to his date, touching her again. Until a loud ponytailed woman appeared, middle-aged, wearing jeans and a sweater. She asked Combover a bunch of things, waving her hands. They had conversation for ten minutes, maybe twenty. Not once did Combover introduce his date to the woman, or even acknowledge her existence. Instead, she finished her martini, scrolled her phone, and ordered a bottle of expensive champagne.
Finally, the loud woman left—seemingly another coworker—and Combover’s hand was back on his date. He leaned into her body. He said something to make her rest her phone on the bar. Maybe he promised her jewelry?
In Orange County, many things don’t disappoint, especially hotel bars.
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“Meditations in an Emergency” is a weekly essay from author Rosecrans Baldwin about something beautiful. Paying subscribers receive a Sunday supplement with three-plus things to love, plus a monthly travel-lust ballyhoo.
Rosecrans is a correspondent for GQ, a contributor at Travel + Leisure, and the bestselling author of Everything Now, winner of the California Book Award. Other books include The Last Kid Left and Paris, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down. His debut novel, You Lost Me There, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice.
For magazine articles, bio, contact info: rosecransbaldwin.com.
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