Yesteryear lives on in North Coast village
“There are 8 million stories in ‘The Naked City,’ and this is one of them.”
Remember that splendid intro into each episode of the masterful 1950s TV series, “The Naked City,” on ABC? Filmed in New York, it portrayed stories from the 5th Precinct.
Last week, my lovely bride, Hedy, and I spent several days in a seaside village between San Francisco and Eureka. We stayed at a lovely hotel, and took our meals in its restaurant-pub.
The historic hotel was established shortly after the Civil War. It underwent restoration a hundred years later, but has recently languished. Even with black mold lurking in the crevices of our bathroom, we appreciated its ambiance.
We walked the beaches and headlands, took photos of sunsets, visited wineries and vineyards, tramped redwood forests, and enjoyed star-filled skies and unparalleled solitude.
We also got to know the local populace, more so than we’d expected.
There are 463 stories in The Naked Seaside Village, and these are a few of them:
We sat at a cozy corner table in the bar for our three dinners, and met the village’s finest — every night. It was a “Cheers” redux. A representative sample of residents seemed to hang out at the convivial watering hole.
So who are they?
There’s Giles, the 70-year-old choir director/musician at the Presbyterian Church. Giles has been in town 20 years. He departed the restaurant/bar at 6p.m. our first night to conduct the inaugural rehearsal of the church’s 2016 Christmas pageant.
“It’s going to be great,” he enthused to a fellow citizen while finishing off an IPA. “We’re putting the men in Victorian top hats and mufflers; and the women in bonnets, scarves and mittens. No shepherd’s outfits made from pillowcases!”
Giles promised to reoccupy his seat at the rail when released from his rehearsal duties at 9. We didn’t await that return.
He wore his gunmetal gray hair in a ponytail. One morning, we spied him walking about town with a black-and-white mutt under leash and his hair pulled regally into a man-bun. He reeked of celebrity.
There was Father Martin of the Catholic Church ‘round the corner from the pub. In his late 70s, Father wore a blue pin-stripe suit, sans the clerical collar. He was a favorite among the pub’s denizens. Virtually everyone came to slap him on the back as he nursed a glass of port.
When “Big Bob,” a large gentleman in his 70s with his fiancee, Leslie, got up to leave, Bob called to Father Martin: “See ya in confession tomorrow morning, Padre.”
“Sorry! Father can’t set aside enough time for you, Bob!” zinged Patty at the other end of the bar. Everyone roared.
There was Willow, a 60ish dance instructor with tangled platinum tresses. She was bedecked in a sort of navy-and-pink leotard made of, I’d guess, the same material as constitutes a baby’s burp cloth. It was way too snug.
She discussed, ad nauseum, her recent ankle injury.
Also “Fast Freddie,” the retired auto salesman with the distinctive silver mullet. Fred seemed imperial in white Bermudas in 50-degree temperatures. He moved to The Naked Seaside Village from the Bay Area a decade ago.
“San Francisco used to be a great city,” he commiserated with a bar mate. “It’s lost its charm.”
Debbie, the 40-something barkeep, stayed atop drink orders around the horseshoe-shaped rail, and took meal orders from tables in outer orbits.
“Sorry, Hon, things are running late,” Debbie yelled at me as she raced by with platters of food for another table. “You hit us on a busy night.”
It was the same the next night, and the one after that.
And who could forget Vivian, wife of prominent local attorney, Marvin.
“Vivian, where’s Marvin?” she was repeatedly asked during our three dinner visits.
“He’s outta town this week,” was her rejoinder. We would have enjoyed making his acquaintance. Like sorting out complex Charlotte Bronte characters, we tried to imagine him but had little success.
These are but a few of the stories of The Naked Seaside Village.
JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.