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Larry Ellison
In praise of California's (disappearing) funky beach joints
In praise of California's (disappearing) funky beach joints

The first time I stepped into San Clemente's Beachcomber Motel, the hairs on my neck rose with deja vu. The low-slung Spanish building, the tiny rooms with Venetian blinds and picture windows, the kitchenette with its lemon-chiffon tile, the black night and crashing surf — I felt transported into a 1950s noir movie about a dame who holes up with her gangster lover in a sleepy beach town after a big heist. The fact that I had two toddlers, a respectable husband and a minivan only made the fantasy more delicious. The price was right too — just north of $100 for a room for four perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. Years later, the Beachcomber still stands, but...

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