Lifestyle
On the precipice of turning 40, I sometimes wonder: Where can one find paradise?
In our household, beauty wore different names. This was back in 1995, when we lived on 58th Place, in the upstairs unit of an ash-white triplex in Ladera Heights, many miles south of the glamour and stock beauty of Hollywood Boulevard. The beauty in our home didn’t announce itself like it did in the movies I worshiped during countless weekend family trips to the Marina del Rey theater. There was no pageantry or grand exposition behind its reason for being. In our household, beauty just was.
Lately, I’ve been trying to find my way back to beauty. On the precipice of turning 40, somewhere halfway through this marathon of a life, I want to exhume what I feel I’ve abandoned and lost. I want to recall what’s been washed away by the pull of adulthood, what age and responsibility demand that we compromise, that we let go of. I again want to remember what’s worth finding.
So I reach back as a way forward.
Beauty was the configuration of my mother’s deliberate care. It was love baked into grilled cheeses and currents of laughter that swept through the house during unexpected moments of long quiet. Beauty was also coyly positioned, always in view of my and my brother’s drifting curiosities, like the framed print of “Jammin’ at the Savoy” by Romare Bearden that she hung just outside the kitchen’s entrance that I loved so much, that I sometimes wanted to live inside of, debonair and irreducibly cool like Bearden’s jazz men.
Many years later, in graduate school, when I first read “Sonny’s Blues,” a short story originally published in 1957 by James Baldwin about family and addiction, I would think back to this painting, in this house, and how its beauty halted me in my tracks, how it dared me to pause and consider my place in the wide world. “For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new,” Baldwin wrote, “it always must be heard. There isn’t any other tale to tell, it’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness.”
The narrator of Baldwin’s story watches from the audience as his brother, a pianist, plays onstage. He’s moved by what he sees, the beauty of it all. Baldwin understood, as I later would. In a country that has never given Black people very much, beauty was our right. Not physical beauty — though we also had a right to that — but made beauty. Beauty built from and for love.
Personalized. Tender. Yours.
More often than not, beauty appeared in one very specific form. At least once a month, my mother would pull birds of paradise from the downstairs bush, arrange them like so, place them in a vase and position the flowers as a centerpiece in the living room atop our mahogany coffee table. At the time, I was obsessed with Marvel comics and action flicks like “Mortal Kombat” and “Batman Forever.” I didn’t know anything about flowers really, but I knew this one was badass, with its sword-sharp silhouette and inferno-orange coloring. This was how the bird of paradise first made itself known to me.
In most Black homes, the living room is off-limits save for special occasions. Ours was no exception. Through my eyes, this gave the flower a unique significance. I secretly loved how the flower craned skyward, never quick to diminish its presence, what I considered its sharp elegance. It was something to be cherished. In our household, it wasn’t just beautiful, it also gave our beauty meaning.
Today, the bird of paradise is one of the predominant flora across the city. It also wears many names — the African desert banana, the crane lily — but formally, it is known as Strelitzia reginae and is one of five species of Strelitzia. “They were widely planted in the early days of Los Angeles,” Philip Rundel, a UCLA professor emeritus in the department of ecology and evolutionary biology, says of how the plant arrived in California.
Originating in the KwaZulu-Natal provinces of South Africa, on the Eastern Cape, the bird of paradise found its way to the Huntington Library, Art Museum, and Botanical Gardens in San Marino sometime before 1932, when the institution’s record-keeping began, explains Kathy Musial, senior curator of living collections. By the next decade, Japanese flower farmers were growing them across the Southland; the species was able to survive on little water and stretched up to five feet tall. In 1952, as L.A. celebrated it 171st year, the bird of paradise was designated the official city flower by Mayor Fletcher Bowron, a Republican with a nasty appreciation for internment camps who would lose a bid for reelection that same year. (While state flowers are common, many cities also appoint a specific flower as a local insignia.)
Often, in spite of its spoiled political terrain, L.A., like the bird of paradise, found a way to sprout. It grows “slowly but steadily,” Rundel tells me.
There it is — occupying manicured lawns in View Park, lining the boulevards of Historic Filipinotown and Little Armenia. At Mahalo Flowers in Culver City and Century Flowers in Inglewood, the multiuse plant is ceremoniously styled in floral arrangements bought by customers. As regional emblems go, only the palm tree seems to rival the bird of paradise in popularity.
“It’s a very charismatic flower. Its form and coloration are quite striking,” Musial says. I ask her what it best personifies about L.A. I want to know what makes it special despite it now being so commonplace. “It can adapt to a range of growing conditions,” she continues. “It is a good symbol for a cosmopolitan city that is home to lots of human transplants — from other parts of the U.S. and around the world.”
Rundel suggests another interpretation. “It’s a beautiful plant,” he says, “sturdy and hard to kill.”
Yes, I think. That’s it. Because isn’t that what beauty is, in all of its prismatic totality — hard to kill, always in bloom?
Everything I’ve learned since those years when we lived on 58th Place has stayed with me. What my mother had accomplished was simple but lasting. The beauty we make establishes a sense of order. It grounds us in who we are, gives our chaos body. At its most brilliant and spectral, beauty helps us hold on.
And because the world, and one’s continued engagement with it, is a repeated litany of small erosions, it is through the practice of beauty that we learn to survive, to soar even. It helps one find newer, better ways of being. Yes, failure will make itself known. It will attempt to convince you that it is your only option. But it is the order we find in the beauty we make, in ourselves and others, just as we do in the things around us, that sustains and comforts.
Like winged creatures of the sky it draws its nickname from, the bird of paradise seems always ready for takeoff, angling itself toward the light of better tomorrows, or at least the possibility of them. It’s what I remind myself of when life gets hard. Because though it was never guaranteed in our household, in those years following the rebellion, in those sometimes unsteady months as a new family of three in the haze of my parents divorce, we held on to the depth of that possibility no matter what came our way.
Now, well into adulthood and everything adulthood urges of the body and mind, I sometimes wonder, where can one find paradise?
It’s all around us, I’ve learned, but it is also inside of us. In the molecules of my memory, I hold on to the punctuated beauty of the flower because I believe in what it can accomplish, in what it returns, in what it allows room for. In the molecules of my memory, it sings, and what it sounds like is home.
It sounds like a kind of paradise.
Jason Parham is a senior writer at Wired and a regular contributor to Image.
Tom Layward, the narrator and main character of Ben Markovits’ new novel, The Rest of Our Lives, introduces himself in a curious way: On the very first page of the book, he talks, matter-of-factly, about the affair his wife, Amy, had 12 years ago, when their two kids were young.
Amy, who’s Jewish, got involved at a local synagogue in Westchester; Tom, who was raised Catholic and is clearly not a joiner, remained on the sidelines. At the synagogue, Amy met Zach Zirsky, who Tom describes as “the kind of guy who danced with all the old ladies and little pigtailed girls at a bar mitzvah, so he could also put his arm around the pretty mothers and nobody would complain.”
After the affair came out, Tom and Amy decided to stay together for the kids: a boy named Michael and his younger sister, Miriam. But, Tom tells us “I also made a deal with myself. When Miriam goes to college you can leave, too.” The deal, Tom says, “helped me get through the first few months … [when] we had to pretend that everything was fine.”
Twelve years have since passed and the marriage has settled back into a state of OK-ness. Miriam, now 18, is starting college in Pittsburgh and because Amy is having a tough time with Miriam’s departure, Tom alone drives her to campus.
And, once Tom drops Miriam off, he just keeps driving, westward; without explanation to us or to himself; as though he’s a passenger in a driverless car that has decided to carry him across “the mighty Allegheny” and keep on going.
The three-page scene where Tom passively melds into the trans-continental traffic flow constitutes a master class on how to write about a character who is opaque to himself. “[Y]ou don’t feel anything about anything,” Amy says early on to Tom — an accusation that’s pretty much echoed by Tom’s old college girlfriend, Jill, whom he spontaneously drops in on at her home in Las Vegas, after being out of touch for roughly 30 years.
But, if Tom is distanced from his own feelings (and vague about the “issue” he had “with a couple of students” that forced him to take a leave from teaching in law school), he’s a sharp diagnostician of other people’s behavior. What fuels this road trip is Tom’s voice — by turns, wry, mournful and, oh-so-casually, astute.
There’s a strain of Richard Ford and John Updike in Tom’s tone, which I mean as a high compliment. Take, for instance, how Tom chats to us readers about a married couple who are old friends of his and Amy’s:
[Chrissie] was maybe one of those women who derives secret energy from the troubles of her friends. Her husband, Dick, was a perfectly good guy, about six-two, fat and healthy. He worked for an online tech platform. I really don’t know what he did.
So might most of us be summed up for posterity.
As Tom racks up miles, taking detours to visit other folks out of his past, like his semi-estranged brother, his meandering road trip accrues in suspense. There’s something else he’s subconsciously speeding away from here besides his marriage. Tom tells us at the outset that he’s suffering from symptoms his doctors ascribe to long COVID: dizziness and morning face swelling so severe that daughter Miriam jokingly calls him “Puff Daddy.” Shortly after he reaches the Pacific, Tom also lands in the hospital. “Getting out of the hospital,” Tom dryly comments, “is like escaping a casino, they don’t make it easy for you.”
The canon of road trip stories in American literature is vast, even more so if you count other modes of transportation besides cars — like, say, rafts. But, the most memorable road trips, like The Rest of Our Lives, notice the easy-to-miss signposts — marking life forks in the road and looming mortality — that make the journey itself everything.
The water bubbles up hot from the earth and sunlight filters down through the branches of mighty oaks.
But before you can soak in Santa Barbara County’s highly popular Montecito Hot Springs, you’ll need to hike a little over a mile uphill, threading your way among boulders, oaks and a meandering creek. And before the hike, there are two other crucial steps: getting to the trailhead and knowing what to expect.
The trail to Montecito Hot Springs.
These rustic spring pools are about 95 miles northwest of L.A. City Hall, just upslope from well-to-do Montecito, whose residents include Oprah Winfrey, Prince Harry and his wife, Meghan Markle, and Gwyneth Paltrow.
Though the trail and hot springs are part of Los Padres National Forest, the trailhead is in a residential neighborhood of gated mansions. Beyond the trailhead parking area (which has room for eight or nine cars), the neighborhood includes very little curbside parking. After visitation surged during the pandemic, some neighbors were accused by county officials of placing boulders to obstruct public parking. Parking options were reduced further when county officials added parking restrictions earlier this year.
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Bottom line: Unless you can arrive on a weekday between 8 and 10 a.m., you’re probably better off taking a rideshare service to get there. Whenever you arrive, you’re likely to have company. And you might want to wait until the landscape dries out a bit from the rains of recent weeks.
As Los Padres National Forest spokesman Andrew Madsen warned, “the foothills of Santa Barbara are especially fragile and hiking is especially precarious in the aftermath of heavy rains.”
All that said, the hike is rewarding and free. From the Hot Springs Canyon trailhead at East Mountain Drive and Riven Rock Road, it’s a 2.5-mile out-and-back trail to the hot springs, with about 800 feet of altitude gain on the way.
Arriving at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, I got the last parking spot at the trailhead, stepped past the signs forbidding parking before 8 a.m. or after sunset, then stepped past another sign warning that “this is a challenging and rugged hike.” Also, there are no bathrooms or trash cans on the trail or at the springs.
“It’s important that people know what’s going on up there before they show up,” said Madsen. “It’s not all that glamorous.”
Even though it’s only 1.2 or 1.3 miles to the hot springs, plan on about an hour of uphill hiking. Once you’re above the residential lots, you’ll see pipes along the way, carrying water down the hill, along with occasional trailside poison oak. As you near the pools, you’ll pick up the scent of sulfur and notice the water turning a strange bluish hue. Then the trail jumps across the creek — which I initially missed.
But there was a silver lining. That detour gave me a chance to admire the stone ruins of a hotel that was built next to the springs in 1870s. After a fire, it became a private club. Then it burned in the Coyote fire of 1964, which blackened more than 65,000 acres, destroyed more than 90 homes and killed a firefighter. The hot springs and surrounding land have been part of Los Padres National Forest since 2013.
Hikers look west from the ruins near Montecito Hot Springs.
(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)
On a clear day with the sun in the right place, you can stand among the overgrown ruins, look west and see the ocean, a few old oil platforms and the long, low silhouette of Santa Cruz Island. This is what the native Chumash would have seen (minus the oil platforms) through the many years they used the springs before European immigrants arrived.
Pleasant as that view was, I was ready to soak, as were the two couples who got momentarily lost with me. (We were all Montecito Hot Springs rookies.) Once we’d retraced our steps to the creek and crossed it, the trail took us quickly past a hand-lettered CLOTHING OPTIONAL sign to a series of spring-fed pools of varying temperatures.
A dozen people were already lazing in and around the uppermost pools (one woman topless, one man bottomless), but several pools remained empty. I took one that was about 2 feet deep and perhaps 90 degrees. In one pool near me sat Ryan Binter, 30, and Kyra Rubinstein, 26, both from Wichita, Kan.
Hikers Ryan Binter and Kyra Rubinstein, visiting from Wichita, Kan., soak at Montecito Hot Springs.
(Christopher Reynolds / Los Angeles Times)
“She found this,” said Binter, praising Rubinstein’s internet search savvy.
At the next pool were Emanuel Leon, 20, of Carpinteria, Calif., and Evelyn Torres, 19, of Santa Barbara. The last time they’d tried this hike, they’d strayed off-track and missed the hot springs, so this time, they were savoring the scene.
“Revenge!” said Leon, settling in.
The soaking was so mellow, quiet and unhurried that I was surprised to learn that the pools were not erected legally. As Madsen of the Los Padres National Forest explained later by phone, they were “created by the trail gnomes” — hikers arranging rocks themselves to adjust water flow and temperature, with no government entities involved.
Legal or not, they made a nice reward after the hike uphill. The downhill hike out was easier and quicker, of course, but still tricky because of the rocks and twisting trail.
On your way out of Montecito, especially if it’s your first time, take a good look at the adobe-style grandeur of the Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Catholic Church building, which looks like it was smuggled into California from Santa Fe. For food and drink, head to Coast Village Road (the community’s main drag) or the Montecito Village Shopping Center on East Valley Road. Those shops and restaurants may not match the wonder and comfort of a natural bath in the woods, but for civilization, they’re not bad.
The French government confirmed this week that it has granted citizenship to George and Amal Clooney — pictured on a London red carpet in October — and their 7-year-old twins.
Henry Nicholls/AFP via Getty Images
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Henry Nicholls/AFP via Getty Images
One of Hollywood’s most recognizable stars is now officially a French citizen.
A French government bulletin published last weekend confirms that the country has granted citizenship to George Clooney, along with his wife, human rights lawyer Amal Clooney, and their 7-year-old twins.
The Clooneys — who hail from Lexington, Ky. and Beirut, Lebanon, respectively — bought an 18th-century estate in Provence, France in 2021. In an Esquire interview this October, the Oscar-winning actor and filmmaker described the French “farm” as their primary residence, a decision he said was made with their kids in mind.
“I was worried about raising our kids in LA, in the culture of Hollywood,” Clooney said. “I felt like they were never going to get a fair shake at life. France — they kind of don’t give a s*** about fame. I don’t want them to be walking around worried about paparazzi. I don’t want them being compared to somebody else’s famous kids.”
In another interview on his recent Jay Kelly press tour, Clooney mentioned that his wife and kids speak perfect French, joking that they use it to insult him to his face while he still struggles to learn the language.
This week, after a French official raised questions of fairness, France’s Foreign Ministry explained that the Clooneys were eligible under a law that permits citizenship for foreign nationals who contribute to the country’s international influence and cultural outreach, The Associated Press reports.
The French government specifically cited the actor’s clout as a global movie star and the lawyer’s work with academic institutions and international organizations in France.
“They maintain strong personal, professional and family ties with our country,” the ministry added, per the AP. “Like many French citizens, we are delighted to welcome Georges and Amal Clooney into the national community.”
They aren’t the only ones celebrating. President Trump, who has a history of trading barbs with Clooney, welcomed the news by taking another dig at the actor.
In a New Year’s Eve Truth Social post, Trump called the couple “two of the worst political prognosticators of all time” and slammed Clooney for throwing his support behind then-Vice President Kamala Harris during the 2024 election.
“Clooney got more publicity for politics than he did for his very few, and totally mediocre, movies,” wrote Trump, who himself has made cameos in several films over the years. “He wasn’t a movie star at all, he was just an average guy who complained, constantly, about common sense in politics. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”
Clooney responded the next day via a statement shared with outlets including Deadline and Variety.
“I totally agree with the current president,” Clooney said, before referencing the midterm elections later this year. “We have to make America great again. We’ll start in November.”
Clooney and Trump — once friendly — have long criticized each other
Clooney, a longtime activist and Democratic Party donor, has remained active in U.S. politics despite his overseas move.
In July 2024, he rocked the political establishment by publishing a New York Times op-ed urging then-President Joe Biden — for whom he had prominently fundraised just weeks prior — to drop his reelection bid to make way for another Democrat with better chances of taking the White House. A growing chorus of calls led to Biden’s withdrawal from the race by the end of that month.
In a December interview with NPR’s Fresh Air, Clooney said his decision to speak out on that and other issues generally comes down to “when I feel like no one else is gonna do it.”
“You’ll lose all of your clout if you fight every fight,” he added. “You have to pick the ones that you know well, that you’re well informed on, and that you have some say and you hope that that has at least some effect.”
Clooney has been a vocal critic of Trump throughout both of his terms, most recently on the topic of press freedoms during the actor’s Broadway portrayal of the late journalist Edward R. Murrow last spring.
And Trump has been similarly outspoken in his dislike of Clooney, including in an insult-laden Truth Social post — calling him a “fake movie actor” — after the publication of his New York Times op-ed.
In December, just days before this latest dust-up, Clooney shared in a Variety interview that he and Trump had been on good terms during the president’s reality television days. He said Trump used to call him often and once tried to help him get into a hospital to see a back surgeon.
“He’s a big goofball. Well, he was,” Clooney added. “That all changed.”
In the same Variety interview, Clooney — the son of longtime television anchor Nick Clooney — slammed CBS and ABC for abandoning their journalistic duty by paying to settle lawsuits with the Trump administration. He expressed concern about the current media landscape, particularly the direction of CBS News under its controversial new editor in chief, Bari Weiss.
Weiss responded by inviting Clooney to visit the CBS Broadcast Center to learn more about their work, in a written statement published in the New York Post on Tuesday. It began with “Bonjour, Mr. Clooney,” in a nod to the actor’s new milestone.
Clooney told NPR last month that he will continue to stand up for what he believes in, even if it means people who disagree with him decide not to see his movies.
“I don’t give up my right to freedom of speech because I have a Screen Actors Guild card,” he added. “The minute that I’m asked to just straight-up lie, then I’ve lost.”
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