The New LAX

Los Angeles needs a new airport. There's very little new about that statement, to be sure, but the fact remains that Los Angeles International is fast running out of room to do what it needs to do in serving the 2nd largest metropolitan area in the United States. So we can concentrate on the uniqueness of "LAX," let's get the other airports in the area out of the way right up front.

Ontario, Burbank, Orange County and Long Beach are "satellites" that serve their immediate area with domestic and some international service to Mexico and Canada. None of them are big enough for much of anything else so the locals are accustomed to driving up to 70 miles to get to LAX where nonstops to Hawaii, Asia, Australia or Europe are readily available. These four have little hope of becoming another Gatwick or Orly for Los Angeles in the way those airports compliment Heathrow at London and Charles de Gaulle at Paris, respectively.

The terminal complex at LAX has been redesigned at least three times from the original concept, including the Tom Bradley International Terminal, the Delta Flight Center and various gate reconfigurations to accommodate the 777 and A380. Another redesign of over one billion dollars is underway to carry the airport for the next 50 years or so. What next? Let's say there will be and the 747s, 777s and A380s of the present day will all be long gone, outliving their usefulness by contemporary standards. Will airports even look or operate the same by then? Before this turns in to a commercial piece on Star Trek, let's go with the technology in hand and figure out what to do with LAX or figure out where to put its replacement.

Palmdale has been bandied about on numerous occasions. It is in the high desert with plenty of land around it that nobody seems much interested in. It is also a good 50 miles north of L.A. past the San Fernando Valley and right next to Edwards AFB, the reason so many seem enamored of the area. Edwards is an active military base that serves as protector of Los Angeles in case of attack, a shuttle landing site and an airplane graveyard. In short, though historically significant to American aviation (Chuck Yeager's breakthrough happened here) on paper it seems, it doesn't have much to do but has a ton of land and plenty of potential to turn in to the kind of commercial facility Los Angeles needs.

The government won't give it up without a fight, the locals don't want to drive there and no airline will support any move to pay for the kind of facility they constantly say they need but is not their responsibility to build. I don't live in the area so all of this is easy and academic to me. I'll put up with Los Angeles until a better solution comes along - some thought it might be El Toro but that hasn't happened either. I say do what the Chinese did in Hong Kong: Spare no expense, go with Edwards, build a freeway and high speed rail network to support it and let the future, unborn tax-payers finish paying for something that was always a part of their lives and therefore no big deal.

Gotta go.

First Time in San Francisco

The plane landed from Tucscon just after sundown. It was during a time in my life when my wants did not translate in to real costs but somehow my parents came up with the money in 1979 to send me around the country to visit friends from Junior High. We used to live in the same town in Germany but that was the year before. Now the whims and ways of the United States Armed Forces scattered us all to the far corners of the United States and I missed them. After ten days in Southern Arizona I was now on my way to the second leg of the trip, ten days in Northern California with my other good buddy from back in the day.

Arizona was fun but unbelievably hot. I remember my friend's family admonishing me to stop wearing long pants, something to this day I still prefer over shorts but in Arizona I accepted and then came to like the adjustment quite well. After the blistering heat of the Sonora Desert some time in the ocean breezes along the west coast would be welcome relief indeed. My friend and his family met me at the airport and proceeded north in to San Francisco and the Presidio, the famous Army base overlooking the Golden Gate.

I don't remember the precise route we took in to the city but I was understandably disoriented after my time in the Southwest and never having been to the city by the sea before in my life. Part of me was envious of my friend because they were posted to this new and wonderful part of the country whereas my family had returned to familiar territory in Central Maryland at Ft. Meade situated between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. Who hadn't heard the amazing stories coming out of the Bay Area, the bridges, the waterfront, the constant weather and the eclectic mix of people, culture and curiosity. It was all around me albeit shrouded in the darkness of the night and the famous rolling fog that started in from the ocean a tad earlier than usual so I was told.

Unbeknownst to me my welcoming party had planned a small tour and took me straight to Ft. Point just under the south landing of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was dark, it was foggy, there was a mist in the air but out of the car we got and groped our way to the very edge of the water. The waves crashed below us and the mighty bellow of the bridge foghorn sounded up above somewhere in the thickness of the swirl. I was facing north and didn't know it. Alcatraz Island was off my right hand shoulder but I couldn't see it. One of the greatest cities in the world was at my back and I had no clue. I stood there in vocal disbelief that I was anywhere near the bridge as well; there was no visual proof of anything other than the white-gray of the fog swallowing everything as if out of some cheesy 1950s horror film.

We finally made it to the home of my friend and his family deeper in to the Presidio and I welcomed cool linens and a soft pillow after my travels from Arizona and the ride in from the airport. I was safe and happy in San Francisco and though tired couldn't wait to begin touring the area. And I was in for the biggest surprise in the world when we went back to the same spot under the bridge the next morning!

Gotta go.

Plane Spotting under Clear Skies in California

The most elusive commodity in the City of Angels is the very sunshine Los Angeles builds its reputation around. Smog, fog and haze generally rule the air above the city where landing at Los Angeles International Airport in a brown swirl is as routine as the traffic on The 405 just to the east of the field. I lived there in the mid-90s and well remember one day to the next when the sun seemed only to come out at dusk and then just in time to set on the Pacific horizon. The temperature was always as advertised, along with the weather itself, rarely ever a rainy day but the skies above were best viewed after take-off heading back to wherever the disappointed tourist came from.

One Sunday afternoon last December was a day right out of central casting. There was hardly a cloud in the sky and the weather was a comfortable 75 degrees. This is the kind of day the travel brochures boast of and the realtors use to lure unsuspecting citizens in to god awfully pricey real estate. For me I couldn't have dialed up a better day for one of my favorite activities of all time, plane watching.
I'd already been to the beach and captured some glorious sunsets the Friday before, including this one. Saturday was the day for one of the ultimate music fan pilgrimages, a trip to Neverland Ranch to see what I could see of the former home of the late Michael Jackson. Today was a day, relatively speaking, to relax by the side of one of the greatest international airports in the world and watch airplanes from the four corners come and go under text book California sunshine.

"Funeral Hill" on the south side of the airport is in El Segundo just along the surface road that marks the beginning of The 105 freeway running east towards Norwalk. It got this colloquial name due to the Douglas Funeral Home that sits across the road at the top of the hill that offers unfettered views of the entire southern half of LAX. The skies were clear enough to see the "Hollywood" sign and all of downtown while laid out before me were the international gates as well as the terminals for American, Delta, Continental and United.

It was early afternoon and I had largely missed what is known as the "Asian Invasion" when the major Pacific Rim carriers launch for Korea, Japan and China. Air New Zealand and V-Australia were cooling their heels on the west side remote stands waiting to start the journey south long after dark and long after I will have left for the day. I did see China Airlines head in to the sun bound for Taiwan but the real show for me was to be the similar exhibition of European airlines headed east for all the usual places. British Airways and Lufthansa were in plain sight and would surely lift off before the sun set.

Ever since I was a child, so my parents tell me, I always wanted to know "where dat one going?" whenever they took me on an outing to the airport. I've been in love with airplanes ever since. Seeing a recognizable international flag carrier launching in to the sky lifts my spirit and imagination.

I know where dat one is going and I wish I was on it!

Gotta go!

Never to Neverland

In the United States there are five main houses that pretty much everyone knows by name and location: The White House, the Biltmore, Graceland, Southfork and the exquisite Hearst Castle. Then there is Neverland Ranch. It is not famous at all for the main house which was hardly more than a typical ranch home like others in the area and rarely seen. Neverland Ranch, the former home of the late Michael Jackson, was more about the collection of trains, rides, animals and other amusements strewn throughout the grounds to entertain Michael and the long list of famous and underprivileged visitors.

The infamous man-child entertainer had passed away some 18 months ago and hadn't lived on the property since 2005 after the fallout of the second child molestation case brought against him. The place was overrun immediately following the death of the superstar and there have been few serious efforts to sell the place since. It stood alone, quietly to itself among the other ranches and wineries in the area just north of Los Olivos one beautiful Saturday afternoon, the day I chose to finally go and see it for myself.

Leaving the hotel where I was staying on business in Woodland Hills the drive seemed no less shorter for starting in the San Fernando Valley. Heading west on US-101 I joined California #154 for the drive over the mountains in to the Santa Ynez valley about 30 minutes north of Santa Barbara. In this same area is the Dutch tourism village of Solvang but my radar was locked in on finding Figueroa Mountain Road leading to the mountain range on the north side of the valley. Five miles up and on the left was #5225, the former home of Michael Jackson, Neverland Ranch.

The gate was all anyone today can see. What must it have been like when Michael lived here, groupies at the gates hoping for a glimpse as the motorcade sailed past? The gilded lettering announcing "Neverland Ranch" is gone. All of the floral arrangements from mourners were gone but much of the small graffiti left on the low walls around the gate remained. I parked in a small bare patch on the opposite side of the road that clearly had seen much use and thankfully noted two other cars parked farther down - at least I wouldn't be the only fan making a pilgrimage. I shouldn't have worried. The seen-it-all guards at the security house on the other side of the gate never came outside to see what was going on.

I took pictures from every angle, through the bars, off to the side, up a slight hill and as deeply in to the grounds as my zoom lens would let me go as it followed the winding road about a mile in before the road disappeared to the left around a small hill towards the main areas. I read some of the graffiti from well wishers that had traveled from as far afield as Australia, Japan, and Italy to pay and leave their respects. In September Nancy from Germany wrote on this rock "You were the greatest entertainer of all time. I will always keep you in my heart. I will never forget you."

A young couple from Chicago drove up soon after I did and we took each other's picture by the gate. Most stunning of all, a family stopped by in a minivan and helped the elderly grandmother walk to the gate first, cane in one hand, determination on her face.

The security guards came out to talk to her but the gate remained closed. There is really nothing to see except, as if visiting some ancient ruin, where things used to be. The house is empty, the rides and animals long gone. All of it in fact, and Michael, too, is gone too soon.

Gotta go!

The Drive Thru The Desert

So there I was in California on business for the last time in 2010 that also included a weeklong visit to Phoenix, Arizona. This after having already been on the golden coast for a week and all within days of the Christmas holidays. I prayed to every god known to man that this trip would end quickly because I was due on the East Coast for the family festivities!

The issue with this trip was how to get between our offices in Los Angeles and the ones in Phoenix. Where most of you are automatically saying "fly, silly!" I chose to drive the 400 miles instead. My rationale seemed fairly straightforward at the time, starting with the rental car. I typically use Hertz and saw that the one-way rental between my pick-up in California and the drop-off in Arizona was not that much more than renting a car for a week at each location. The other consideration was in saving the airfare for myself and the co-worker I was traveling with even after filling the topping off the tank before leaving and filling it once again after we'd arrived.

Further, having previously written about the backwardness of checking in two hours ahead of a one hour flight I figured I'd be at the outskirts of Phoenix at roughly the same time any scheduled flight would have arrived from Los Angeles. Here's how I saw the flying option playing out:

a. Leave for the airport at 12 Noon for a 3PM flight out of either LAX or Burbank to Phoenix from our offices in the Valley. ALWAYS plan an hour to get to LAX from anywhere in LA, minimum.

We left the offices at exactly 12 Noon to begin our drive down The 215 towards Pasadena.

b. Arrive at the car rental agency at 1PM, turn in the car and take the shuttle to the terminal.

c. Arrive at the check-in counter at 1:30PM and check-in, including one large suitcase for two weeks worth of clothing. My computer case and camera bag are my two carry-ons.

We'd driven 80 miles to merge with The 10 for the haul through the desert to Phoenix.

d. After making it through security there is roughly an hour before the flight with boarding to begin 30 minutes prior to departure. In this day and age of carry-on space, there is a reason to be there as early as possible. Oh, and though I'm a premium customer on American, they don't fly the route. It would have been either Southwest or USAirways, neither of whom hardly know I exist.

e. IF the departure is on time at 3PM, we arrive in Phoenix at about 5PM after the time change, maybe 5:15 after some generous schedule padding by the airlines.

Roaring down the road past Indio and Blythe we crossed in to Arizona along the lines of 6ish.

f. Collecting luggage again takes until at least 5:30 or 5:45 after the flight has landed followed by the shuttle bus to the car rental counter just outside the west end of the runways.

g. The car is picked up and the hotel maybe 20 minutes away in Tempe, even in the thick of Phoenix afternoon rush hour. If we had flown we'd be checked in at the hotel by 6:30 at the latest.

As it happened we pulled in to the Arizona capital about an hour after that and went straight to dinner. Relaxed, comfortable from the smooth ride and the generous front seats of our Toyota Camry as compared to the convenience of an hour and fifteen minutes in coach.

No bags to check and possibly lose, no long lines at security to deal with and possibly be strip-searched in to the bargain, no cramped seats, lack of carry-on space, delayed flights or overworked and possibly surly crews. We got there when we got there with all of our stuff in the trunk where we put it.

I'd do it again in a minute, even to Tucson!

Gotta go.

On Eating Organic

The die-hard "meat and potatoes" folks don't know much about wanting or trying to eat right but most other people will at least on occasion pick up an apple or a raw vegetable if for no other reason than they simply taste good. Then there is California where raw, organic and holistic are almost lyrics to the state theme song. After the Galleria arguably the next shrine to west coast living is Whole Foods Market where I decided to go one day for lunch while in Orange County on business.

I remember when "organic" produce was a small table filled with shrunken and shriveled goods still caked in farm dirt at nearly twice as much per pound as the shiny, glowing options on display all around the produce section. Whole Foods Market is a green grocer in virtually every sense of the word "green." Their prepared food section is legendary, offering everything from true vegan to London Broil and the finest locally grown produce around. Me being one who could easily lose a few pounds and trying not to spend every dollar of my per diem at the fast food drive through Whole Foods seemed a perfectly sensible choice to make. Let the shopping begin.

A small green salad with balsamic vinaigrette was an easy choice to begin though it was pure dee murder resisting all of the delectable hot entrees and soups on display, including several chicken dishes, vegetable medleys and rice casseroles. I do love fresh fruit, however, and went for some seedless grapes, a couple of oranges and two organic "Fuji" apples, my favorite type of apple, subtle in flavor and always crisp and crunchy. I wasn't trying to go for a power mix of antitoxins, minerals and vitamins, I just picked up what I like along with a single serve bottle of Odwalla Orange Juice to wash it all down with.

Anybody who has ever purchased that single serve bottle of fresh squeezed Valencia orange juice knows the price of it alone is about the same as any single sandwich at McDonald's. Some twenty dollars later I'm rushing back to the office to eat before my next meeting, cursing myself for the impulse purchases and all the while trying to justify the cost in saying at least the oranges, grapes and apples would last me more than just one meal. A third of that and I could have had some sort of combo meal at Mickey-Ds or Chick-Fil-A, maybe even super-sized.

All of the products were delicious and certainly did a body good but I must admit I didn't notice much difference in taste or texture between my organic apples and the ones laced with carcinogenic pesticides, fertilizers and growth hormones. If the taste is the same and I'm paying a premium merely for not introducing those chemicals in to my body then why not pay less instead of more? Eating healthy with commercially grown produce is costly enough over fast food so why are organic groceries even more expensive than that? Seems to me that if they really wanted to get people to eat better then they would sit between those two options, pricier than a hamburger but healthier and less expensive than "Frankenfood."

Natural, organic food, it seems, has come a long way up. Now if only the price would come down.

Gotta go.

Lucille's Wasn't A Guitar

Put California and food together in the same sentence these days and it's hard not to automatically envision sculpted or anemic people counting the grains of wheat germ, eating sprouts with chop sticks or spritzing a carrot stick with a light vinaigrette and chasing it with a no-salt daiquiri. "Real food" usually comes with cut limes and a pineapple garnish, clay-oven baked at the most but never - not even tempura - fried. The Redwoods and Sequoias are preserved not from logging but from the locals seeking a high fiber diet to go with their organic tofu.

But I digress. And I stand astoundingly corrected. In Orange County, California, center of the world for barely breathing haute couture - Laguna Hills Mall is not even a mile away - sits "Lucille's BBQ." Despite today's international reputation for "light," "fusion" and organic foods that barely register with the digestive system the history of California cooking comes straight from the comfort cuisine and survival sustenance. From south of the border come tacos, gorditos and burritos while north of Fresno, 49er country, comes grilled meats over an open fire and washed down with pure spring water moonshine!

Lucille's is of the latter ancestry, originating in the kitchen of one Lucille Buchanan who came up at her grandmother's knee in Greenville, California, learning and perfecting the recipes patrons enjoy at a dozen restaurants around the state. My traveling companion and I found the one in Lake Forest while on our way south to San Diego and few road stops were ever worth the time as much as this place.

Never mind the atmosphere, which was typical for a barbecue restaurant with hard woods, nostalgic touches and oldies music. This place knows the money is in the meat and they do not disappoint. Whenever I try a new barbecue joint I go for the sampler plate, wanting to see how things go across the beef, pork and poultry groups. The combo platter was nearly a steal, plain and simple, with a smooth sauce that simply defied belief or expectation while the meats were fork tender and bone clean.

The one thing shared between this restaurant and other establishments right down to the hole-in-the-wall set-ups is "mopping." I don't know if it is a unique West Coast style but where the argument back east is between dry rub and wet sauces, the sauce is typically ladled, poured, infused, steeped or squirted on to the meat from bottles. Californians literally use a clean mop handle to brush paint the sauce over the meat before serving. The longer they use the mop the more saturated it becomes with sauce and the easier and faster it is to serve up one delectable plate after the other.

At first I thought Lucille's referred to a certain famous blues guitar since I'm from back east where the blues and barbecue go together like nothing else unless you add beer. After this meal I can easily believe and recall the glory days of northern California's gold rush but still wonder at the success of the place in Orange County! It's there and it's real so go and see for yourself if you want solid food in or near sexy Santa Ana.

And if you don't believe me, just have some guac with that heaping helping of ginger root and rosemary infused olive oil.

Gotta go!

Seafood, San Diego Style

I must admit to being somewhat spoiled when it comes to eating out. As a military brat I grew up in the heart of Europe and became accustomed at an early age to what authentic foods should taste like, from hearty German fare to Italian and even plain but discerning fish and chips. As adult I've lived in several regions of the United States which has only served to heighten that level of expectation to the point of simply not eating some foods unless I happen to be in the part of the country where the dish first came from. Lobster in Boston, Cuban in Florida, Tex-Mex in Texas and deep dish pizza in Chicago come readily to mind. I'm just happy barbecue is pretty much unique all across the country!

Obviously the good thing about this strategy is being reasonably guaranteed that an authentic dish won't be "regionalized" according to local preferences for more or less spice or whatever. The downside, though, can sometimes have those reasonable expectations disappointed just as easily for whatever reason, too much hype or just a bad day in the kitchen.

My boss and I had recently wrapped up a very successful trip together to California, doing meet-and-greets at several office locations around Southern California. While casting around for a place to dine that evening it was decided that Anthony's Fish Grotto would be a nice, per diem friendly place to mark all of our hard work. Well situated on the waterfront overlooking Coronado with central downtown just behind, Anthony's is one of the more popular restaurants in San Diego, having drawn a faithful following for over 60 years.

Boss-Lady and I felt that these people must know good seafood and what better city than to experience it than San Diego where a nice mix of traditional mixed with Baja offerings might be in the cards. Boss-Lady also happens to be of fisherman stock in Florida so she is finely attuned to what acceptable seafood is and is not. Both of us were in a forgiving week regarding our seating as the prior week had been taxing in itself. At the height of the dinner rush and with no reservations we took the offered side table along the main corridor instead of waiting an hour for a table by the window.

While we accepted lower-tier seating we were not impressed with the rushed service from our waitress. No time to smile it was the kind of service that stopped long enough to take drink orders on the way to doing something else. The drinks were brought along with more hurry-it-up attitude as we placed our dinner orders from the lengthy but surprisingly uninspired menu.

We would have done better with fish tacos from Wahoo's, a local fast food chain famous for these Baja treats from right near the border. The cod was unremarkable, the calamari appetizer ordinary and the king crab cold and tough. At least the drawn butter was hot and golden.

San Diego is a delightful city and we both allowed that tonight must simply have been an off night. Neither of us live there, however, so a repeat visit to San Diego might be in the cards but turning up at one of Anthony's competitors seems a guarantee.

Gotta go.