You say Oh-hi, not Oh-jay. First lesson for non southern California residents.

Well it’s mysterious.

I somehow suggested Ojai for a little day trip before being home for New Year’s eve, like most suburbanites tend to do.

John and I had been to Ojai a few times before, approaching via the 101 freeway exit near Santa Barbara. When you do that you have to will yourself away from the ocean, over the mountain range and consciously forego Sant Barbara’s bustling State Street’s big pedestrian area. It ain’t easy. Within an hour of where we live, we can go to Old Town Pasadena, Carpinteria (but our favorite restaurant there is long-shuttered and the beer tasting pub has no decent food), or Solvang, the cute Danish pastry/Christmas destination, or Los Olivos for wine tasting.

We are already on the same side of the mountains that parallel the California coast from Mexico to Oregon as Ojai. John hit the map function on his phone, finding a back road, taking us the pretty, farmland way. Avocado groves, avocado groves, lemon groves, orange groves, avocado groves, lemons, lemons, lemons. Steady sunshine and irrigation has made this citrus heaven since the 1920’s. Not a lot of guacamole demand back in the 20’s so avocadoes are quietly taking over. I would not be surprised if the dry creek bed scenes in “Chinatown” were shot out Ojai way.

Once you get through the switchbacks of Balcom Canyon (our own mini road to Hana) you are practically there. Halfway through Balcom, we got to see our own nature documentary as two coyotes, in broad daylight, went after a lagging cow. Don’t worry the bull came a runnin’ and the coyotes literally high-tailed it.

“Just seeing that made my day,” sez I. “”That’s it? Fine, let’s head home.” Ok smart ass.

Passed through our local farm towns of Fillmore and Santa Paula, both rough around the edges. Suddenly we are in the gateway of the very lovely Ojai Valley. Ojai is a Chumash Indian word meaning either “the nest” or “valley of the moon”. That’s a pretty big variance in translation. How about “really pretty”? Passed an honor stand where we bought the lone orange/giant tangerine for a quarter (have not eaten it yet.)

It being an odd Tuesday we wondered would it be jammed or what? We found an easy parking spot off the main drag and passed the very adorable Three Birds breakfast cafe. John was tempted. He loves, I mean loves, breakfast. I was holding out for different, or at least not the first place we saw. Two doors down was the very adorable, yes I already said that, but this place was…. very adorable. Pixies General Store had two chatting moms behind the counter and Christmas ornaments 40 percent off. I said hi and started wandering. One mom calls out “Christmas is 50 percent off.”

“Better than the sign,” I said.

“I like you,” she said.

How to make a sale! Bought two ornaments and some locally made chutney. The mom ringing me up was not named Pixie. Pixies are the local, much-loved, multi-seeded, very sweet tangerines that land around March.

Parked for ten minutes and already carrying something. We stopped into a fancy olive oil store which was clean as a science lab, but the aproned staff very friendly, like everyone in town, it seems. Little tasting cups were parked by dozens of flavored oils and vinegars. “Taste as much as you want”. How to make a sale, part two! You can get your eventual choices in small, medium, regular and probably giant, bottles. We went for the below three. The nice clerk gleefully closed our bottles with her heat sealer. “It’s fun every time, ” she said. John has been reading up on the messy, fraud-filled olive oil business, and the two of them talked about how the oil is local and vetted.

Now we were carrying even more. We poked along the main drag and what should happen by but a very adorable trolley. Yes I KNOW, I keep saying that. It was very adorable!

It was not even a stop but the affable driver pulled over and invited us on. He was a middle-aged surfer type. “Dollar-fifty a piece.” Cash? I dug in my purse and found a five and two singles.

“Two bucks is fine, put it in the cash box.” I handed it to John who put it in the box. It’s one of those couples things.

“Where ya from?”

John: “Thousand Oaks, not far. Perfect weather today.”

“Yeah we go down to TO. Nice mall. Where ya headed?”

“We’ll ride for a while.” Somehow the subject of the Ojai Valley Inn came up and we figured out it’s a couple blocks ahead, so let’s go there. Yeah, we do travel for a living but when we do stuff on our own we avoid research, maps and plans. When it comes to amazing hotels in the area, we’d done San Ysidro Ranch, El Encanto and the Four Seasons in Montecito. All stunning experiences.

As we rode, another middle-aged surfer type local gets on, did not pay as far as I can see, and soon was chatting with the driver. He vividly recalled seeing a surfer movie starring local surf sensations the McClintock brothers many years ago and how he was so enthralled with the movie he kept reaching into the popcorn of the stranger next to him. Unlike over the mountains in fancier Santa Barbara, or over toward the Chumash casino and Solvang, Ojai has that old California feel, more hippy than techie. The driver was nodding along amiably to the local’s story, but sharply pulled over.

“Ojai Valley Inn right over there.”

We got off with Happy New Years all around. We walked down a lovely lane, passing tennis courts and a few private homes, mature trees. Slight breeze, 75 degrees. California perfect. In summer Ojai is notoriously hot – too far from the ocean. Not today.

We passed a family of hotel guests dressed for a walk and they asked us the way to town. It happens in Paris, it happens in Ojai. We gave directions.

If the grounds were any indication, the hotel would be spectacular. We passed the gate guard who helpfully pointed out a path to the central compound. This is a rambling property and, as we neared the mission-style central area, we saw the placard “Historic Hotel of the World.” Lunch it will be! The on-site pub or the fancy place? Fancy place had the view. We ate, therefore, at The Oak. John got drinks in go cups from the pub in case there was a wait. We sat right down, rather miraculously. The place was jammed. Hotel had to be sold out. Kids and families everywhere.

I noticed an older son with his very elderly parents, meticulously dressed in head to toe Ralph Lauren shades of resort yellow and gold. The dad was wearing beautifully polished saddle shoes. Grateful we generally leave the house dressed slightly upscale unless it is as 100 degrees. The lunch menu was spa-ish, with quinoa and kale, not too many sandwiches, a lone burger and, as the fries passed by to another table, decent portions.

I call it country club menus. Middle of the road, something-for-everyone food. In high school, as I held out hope to be hired at our local mall (I got there), I was in the meantime a waitress at our neighborhood country club, thanks to my cousin being the catering manager. In Houston, there was the golf club where the oil company owners played, and the golf club where their employees played. This was the latter. I lasted three days thanks to the Sakowitz job coming through, but I still recall our manager’s mantra for getting tips.

“Heavy pour and plenty of fries.” Though members at the club signed for meals, they left modest tips under their plates. Our manager let us keep them. He was busy undercounting the frozen shrimp and steak deliveries and reconciling the numbers his own way.

I was considered a spy for upper management, and seemed to have taken somebody’s friend’s promised job. Just as well I left.

Meanwhile at The Oak, our waitress was a friendly single mom (and chatty, since that’s how we knew her story). She rounded up an off menu Chenin Blanc for me and another lavender vodka lemonade for John. We settled on tortilla soup (John) and roasted squash salad (me). They took forever and were pretty good. We ordered entrees.

A big quinoa kale salad for John and for me…..

Inner voice:
Don’t get the fish, not as many deliveries over the holidays.

Other Inner Voice:

This is a really nice hotel, top of their game.

Inner Voice:

Ask the waitress at least if it is local or what?

Other Inner Voice:

Mmm, Chenin Blanc.

“I’ll have the fish.”

I’ll spare you the sad photo of the sad fish. It did not make me sick at least. We were in a fun mood and did not feel like sending something back or complaining. Another time, maybe we would have.

We settled up and started the walk back through the grounds and to town. Visited the beautiful mission style hotel lobby for a last restroom stop. Exited the lobby to find one of the resort golf carts that ferry guests to their rooms pulling in.

“Let’s get a ride,.”

“Do you have at least 5 bucks for a tip?” John worked as a valet and gets it. I check – not only a five, but a ten.

The very nice driver took us to the edge of the property and pointed out a walking path that went right to town. Which we would never have seen otherwise. He got the ten and a Happy New Year.

We traded off schlepping the bag and made it back to Three Birds and the car. We got a tea and some shortbread for the road. Shortbread was delectable with a hint of tangerine.

Yes, that was the best place to eat. First place was best. Driving back we passed a lookout with a few cars. It’s near sunset and we have to get back for the pets, and for grandpa. Later we learn everyone at the look out was no doubt waiting to see the famous Pink Tinge as sun sets in the Valley.

Next time.