"Los Angeles is surrounded by valleys, but there's only one Valley..."
Hush Money, by Peter Israel
Phillip John Gioe writes with an intriguing mystery.
The road trip, in Ed's Packard (to be immortalized later in Cannery Row and Sweet Thursday), began in Monterey, followed the Coast Route (mainly) south, eventually arriving at San Antonio del Mar, in Baja California. After several days of collecting marine organisms there and along the way, they returned--mostly nonstop now--to Monterey. Bruce later published a description of the southward portion of this trip, and I've been able to expand on much of it, including locking down the actual days when it happened. But there is one place--apparently in the San Fernando Valley--that I've not been able to locate, or to find any other references to it. I send this note in the hope that you will either recognize the place, from Bruce's description, or point me toward some other source that might help me.
Here's the relevant passage. Gioe says he doesn't know if the travelers entered the Valley via Calabasas or Santa Susana Pass:
Everything about it seemed to be made of a garish pink stucco. So garish, in fact, that the inhabitants must have suffered attacks of nausea and fled the place. All the large, pink-walled pink-tiled houses had faded For Sale signs on them. Even the sidewalks and curbs were pink cement. Only the asphalt streets were black, probably because they'd yet to find a way to dye asphalt paving pink.
The poles of the street lights were also pink and, as we drove through, the lights came on suddenly against the pink of the sunset sky. No lights in the silent mansions came on. We conjectured this was some sort of wealthy confectioner's pink frosted housing project that had been finished just before the Crash, some six years earlier, and none of the expensive looking homes had ever sold in the shrivelling Depression economy.
John rapped on the chauffeur's window and pointed to his dog. Ed nodded and pulled over to a pink curb and stopped the car. We all got out to stretch our legs while the dog stained the pink lamp post pinker. Even the air seemed thick and pink from the sunset glow. Ed turned off the engine and there wasn't a sound.
"Isn't this weird?" Ed asked. "It's like the end of the world."
"Gabriel's horn should sound any second now," Jean agreed. "Wouldn't this make a great sunset backdrop for the Second Coming?"
"Enter the Messiah, stage left," I said.
"Talk about your Pipe City!" John chuckled. "This is Pipe Dream City. A pink ghost town! What's the name of this place?"
"San or Santa something or other," Ed said. "There was a sign on an abandoned real estate office back there."
"How about Santa Cerise?" I suggested.
"Or San Fiasco," John added.
We climbed back into the car and Ed threaded his way through the darkening streets of Los Angeles. He parked on Olvera Street, in the Mexican section, and we dined on tacos in an open air makeshift street booth.
Sound like a real 1930s place? Santa Susana, perhaps?
