As Tour Bus Destination, Ventura County Is Strictly Middle-of-the-Road

Boy, did I get a shock when I recently thumbed through a London tour company’s brochure advertising “10 Days in California.”

I had picked it up because I was curious about what, exactly, a Brit would want to see in the great state of “California Dreamin’,” “California Girls” and “California Here I Come.” The tour starts out (ho-hum) with three nights in San Francisco. You have your Fisherman’s Wharf, your Golden Gate Bridge, and you have all those people who will have a cow if anyone says Frisco in front of them.

From Frisco, the tour bus heads south on Highway 1 through Big Sur (exactly what I’d do, too) to an overnight stop in San Simeon to see that tacky castle. How predictable. Then, after an afternoon’s shopping in Santa Barbara (what else can you do there?), the bus gets back on PCH, where it immediately slams on the brakes for two nights in Ventura.

That was the part where my mouth fell open and brow furrowed. Why Ventura? I wondered.

And why two nights?

I mean, I’ll be the first to sign up for the Ventura County Boosters’ Club if someone else does the paperwork, but I couldn’t quite picture Our Town as a two-night wonder for foreign tourists. Their tour of California only allows for one night in Los Angeles, for crying out loud.

Then I read the fine print.

Ventura County is an ideal spot for those seeking a relaxing stay at the end of their holiday before returning home.

Oh--I got it. The turnip truck didn’t just hit a bump in the road and pitch yours truly off. These Brits were saying, “After all those awesome natural wonders and cute trolley cars, you must be tired. Sit down. Take a load off your feet . . . in quiet, average Ventura County.”

The truth is, those tea sippers have us pegged. We’re not gargantuan like L.A., or glitzy like Hollywood, or quite so gorgeous as Santa Barbara. We’re, like, “Don’t polish the silver or anything.” We’re just . . . nice.

I’m always surprised if anyone from back East has heard of us. When describing the location of Ventura County to an outsider, I say, “We’re north of L.A. and south of Santa Barbara.”

Now, I have observed that quite a few people who live in this county are migrants, if not the sons and daughters of migrants, from the Midwest. And anyone who grew up there is taught early on not to overstate her case.

“Go forth and be modest,” exhorted my junior high school health teacher. “Don’t try to be what you’re not.”

I thought of the type of booster slogan I’d write for the place I live, if anyone asked. The slogan of my second-grade teacher, Miss Kelly, was “Don’t exaggerate.” Yes, ma’am. “Ventura County--A Pretty Nice Place.”

“Ventura County--Land of Maybe Not Everything, but Quite a Lot.”

“Ventura County--Gateway to Bakersfield.”

“Ventura County--Not as Picky as Santa Barbara.”

I mean, we may not have Half Dome, but we have Mugu Rock. We may not have the Hollywood sign, but we have the Fillmore sign.

Beverly Hills doesn’t have a Pink Moment, but we do in Ojai. The San Diego Zoo can’t claim any wild condors buzzing over Balboa Park; we at least used to have them before they moved farther north. We may not have Nob Hill, but we have the Father Serra Cross. It’s nice up there.

I do have to admit that all those “I Left My Heart” songs, whether they are about leaving it in San Francisco or Avalon, make me a little jealous. I’m working on the lyrics to “I Left My Cap on Anacapa.” It’s more modest to leave a cap than your heart, anyway.

After all that lukewarm sloganeering, I’m feeling a superlative coming on, Miss Kelly or not:

“Ventura County: First in Lemons.”