A Surprise Turns Visitors Into Believers

They were here in Southern California for a family reunion, more than 100 folks gathered from across the country at a Manhattan Beach hotel.

Manhattan . . . Beach.

The name alone invokes the image of Southern California they are prepared to meet. Bright lights and brighter night life. The gleam of white sand beaches under the hot sun.

Instead, they spend their first night here huddled in jackets around the hotel pool, poring over pizza-delivery menus. It was past 10 when their family party ended--too late to catch a meal at any of the trendy restaurants nearby. And the coastal fog had rolled in, giving a clammy chill to the August night air.

“It’s colder here than it is at home!” I hear one after another exclaim . . . folks from New Jersey and Ohio and Tennessee, expecting perfect weather ‘round the clock in paradise by the sea.

It is hard in the face of imperfect reality to make visitors understand why we love this place, in spite of wildfires and earthquakes, drive-by shootings and traffic jams. Because it is not just the weather that keeps me here--not my job, my friends, my children’s social ties.

Life here may not always be easy, but it never loses its power to captivate and surprise. And I wish I could find words to explain the magic of a place where nature’s beauty glitters more brightly than any neon sign.

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It is a busy few days for the reunion-goers, filled with parties, dinners and the obligatory tours of tourist must-sees.

Still, they wind up unimpressed. Venice Beach was less colorful than they expected. No movie stars were spotted shopping in Beverly Hills. Hollywood Boulevard seemed little more than a gaudier version of the main drags in their own hometowns. And how do we stand those crowded freeways? . . .

I am driving as we inch forward one night on the 405, stuck in gridlock that has 40 miles of freeway jammed. I catch a glimpse of my guests in the rearview mirror, faces pained as they peer out the window at the line of cars.

“What do you think is the problem?” my brother-in-law murmurs from the back seat. “There must be a really bad accident.”

I am too embarrassed to tell them this is simply Friday-night traffic on the 405.

I think of all the ribbing we take back East: “Why choose to make your life in La-La Land, where a short trip on the freeway can consume half a day, where the ground can upend you at any moment, where the air is so thick it sometimes hurts to breathe?”

I glance back at my mirror as we climb the hill and see the lights of the Valley twinkling below. And I feel a rush, as I always do; like Dorothy must have at her first sight of the Emerald City.

“Look behind us, out the window,” I say, and my passengers turn and peer back. But they miss the city lights glittering like stars. Instead, they see only the taillights of cars snaking down the hill in a procession that seems interminably slow.

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It is our city’s last chance to redeem itself: a beach trip on the reunion’s final day. But the morning dawns cold, overcast and windy.

Still, a dozen families turn out at Dockweiler Beach, to shiver in their swimsuits on the sand.

Only the children are willing to brave the waves. They return to shore with teeth chattering, and I grab sweatshirts from my car to bundle them up, while their parents pack up for the return bus ride.

Then all at once, the sun slides out from behind the clouds, the wind ceases, the sea takes on the blue of the sky. And we turn toward the water, as the children beg to swim once more.

Suddenly someone lets out a squeal of joy. And there in the ocean, close enough to swim out and touch, are a herd of dolphins at play. They leap and dive, black fins cutting through the waves.

The children shout and run into the ocean; their parents stand and stare, mesmerized.

Forgotten are traffic jams and crummy weather, tourist traps and boring nights.

And I just nod and smile, as if every day at the beach in Southern California carries the promise of dolphins at play.

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Sandy Banks’ column is published on Sundays and Tuesdays. Her e-mail address is sandy.banks@latimes.com.