Вентура: тихий прибрежный курорт с винтажной атмосферой 90-х

Ventura offers a laid-back surf vibe as a quiet alternative to California's famed beach cities. Photo / Unsplash If you’re after laid-back surf vibes just north of Los Angeles, Ventura is the quiet alternative to California’s famed beach cities, Anna Sarjeant writes. There’s cool, and then there’s California cool. Anyone growing up in the ’90s, hooked on Clueless and Saved by the Bell, will appreciate how sucha sentiment has been imprinted on my brain. It’s with great excitement then, that I find myself outside the Crowne Plaza on Ventura Beach, ordering a “Californian latte” from a coffee cart. One which is manned by what my 8-year-old self would call a “Californian surf dude”. This legend of ’90s folklore (classically shaggy, sun-kissed and dripping in irreverence) tells me this Cali-variant of latte is a mix of vanilla, cinnamon, espresso and oat milk. I will him to say “Enjoy maaaaaaan”. He does not. But I bet he partakes in state-legal weed and sea moss smoothies. My family and I arrived in Ventura two days earlier, having driven up the coastline from Los Angeles, passing all the celebrated hangouts like Santa Monica en route. Ventura is 72km further north of Malibu: a laid-back surf town with all the aesthetics of its more famous neighbours, but refreshingly removed from the fanfare. The promenade boasts a pier and golden beach with Baywatch-style lifeguard huts, but there’s nothing brash here; Ventura is quiet, the stillness only periodically punctured by the Pacific Surfliner, an Amtrak train proud to blare its air horn. The veneer of LA hasn’t travelled this far north, with Ventura considered the endpoint of the coastal route. Here, it’s more chill than celebrity-infused. Chatty run clubs congregate on the walkway and mothers rather than muscle men accumulate on the beach - for playground dates, not bench presses. When we arrive, it’s early May and summer is still just a suggestion. We find ourselves among a small smattering of visitors, easily ignorable, if not for our insistence on ticking off every tourist activity in town. Even if we’d wanted to remain inconspicuous, it’s futile while renting pedal bikes on Ventura shorefront, especially as we opt for the contraption that boasts bright paintwork and a campish awning. It’s a little eccentric. Instead of blending in, we’ve landed on Morris dancers at a punk rave. To get us moving, parents pedal from the back row, while a dictatorial 4-year-old barks orders from a basket mounted to the front bracket. It’s a brisk dalliance up and down the boardwalk, successfully navigating dog walkers while admiring the pounding Pacific Ocean. All smooth sailing until a downhill descent accelerates our carriage toward two men walking tandem, sea breeze flapping in their ears, oblivious to our shouting – at speed – as we career towards their ankles. “We don’t have brakes,” I finally scream, now hitting at least 15km/h, before the shorter chap turns, gasps – sees a small child fronting a runaway wagon – and dives into the sand dunes. Only on the return journey do we have the time, and low speed, to apologise. He laughs and we get fist pumps for not killing him. What a relief. If there are two things I don’t want to endure while in The States, it’s a medical emergency or a suing. Sure enough, I’m confronted with the possibility of the former the next day. While taking my son to the bathroom (forgive the overshare), I’m shocked to see he’s expelled something long and alarmingly blue. A Las Vegas shade of electric blue. My stomach flips, what kind of intestinal horror show is this? A second later, I remember the giant “unicorn poop” he devoured a day earlier. A tub of obnoxiously blue ice cream, with googly eyes and a candy-cane horn. Thanks to Coastal Cone, my son’s bowels are simply swimming in food dye, rather than a digestive biohazard. We re-emerge from the bathroom in Ventura’s Harbour Village, the main hub for eating and entertainment, and roughly 10 minutes by car from the promenade. In May, it’s a sleepy, sun-kissed visitor magnet, with cute mermaid galleries and ceramic shops. In order to neutralise my son’s guts, we head to Baja Bay Surf N Taco for a nutritious lunch, pipped as the “World’s Greatest” tacos if the logo is to be believed. Admittedly, two shrimp tacos later, I’m not surprised the recipe is a multi-gen family secret. Seemingly unsatisfied with our near mow-down of local walkers, we head for a post-lunch pedalo rental from Ventura Boat Rentals. By now of course, it’s our prerogative to stick out like a sore thumb, so we allow the boys to pick a giant yellow duck. It’s meant to be an enjoyable, hour-long venture across serene water, but five minutes in, the 1-year-old promptly falls asleep. Three minutes after that, his sibling starts re-enacting scenes from Titanic. There’s screaming and crying, and protests about how incredibly dangerous this all is. We’re seven metres from shore. In a duck. As with most family activities, we cut the experience short and head back to base. We’ve been gone about 12 minutes. I’m so glad I spent the same amount of time slathering his limbs with suncream. Fortunately, there’s a whiff of fish and chips in the air, and the boy who minutes earlier had been crying mayday, trots off to Andria’s Seafood for a piece of fried Alaskan cod the same size as his head. The following day’s agenda sees us back on the harbour for a jaunt to the Visitor Centre at Channel Islands National Park. Conveniently, Harbour Cove Cafe sits right next door: our go-to for coffee, enormous plates of scrambled egg and waterfront dining. Scuttling crabs enthral the boys while locals pull up on bikes and engage in neighbourly chats. It’s all very convivial. Based on the fuss we endured on the plastic duck, a day cruise to the Channel Islands National Park is not going to happen. Instead, we settle on a trove of child-approved activities in the visitor centre. Albeit small, it’s home to a marine display and various exhibits detailing the park’s wildlife. As chief pram-parker, I stroll in a little later to find my husband and two children huddled in a tiny alcove, with a relatively elderly woman wielding a torch. If you’re under the age of 5 – or surprisingly nimble for your years – the resident shark can be spied from a tiny nook carved into the display. We make the most of the centre’s free attractions before hastily departing when the toddler starts manhandling the gift shop. By day three, it’s time to leave Ventura for the next leg of our road trip, but not before ordering a stack of strawberry pancakes from Busy Bee Cafe. This quintessential ’50s-style diner is kitted out to perfection, complete with checked floor and jukebox machines. In fact, the 50s aesthetic is so retina-pleasing, my husband and sons sidle into a red plastic booth and (somewhat presumptively) pose for a photo. I reluctantly take it, telling myself ChatGBT can erase them out later. I’d like to tell you we departed Ventura without drama, but children rarely allow such a luxury. We attempt to zigzag our way to the top of Ventura Botanical Gardens, which is free the day we visit (Friday) and buggy-friendly, albeit hot and sweaty work for pram-pushers. Elevated high above Ventura’s coastline, the views are as glorious as they are far-reaching, but we only get as far as the cacti before someone needs a wee. We descend quickly. Upon re-entering the car park, he’s raised the alert to a code brown. I send his dad to the bathroom. Yesterday’s breakfast involved copious bowls of rainbow-coloured fruit loops. Checklist VENTURA, CALIFORNIA, US GETTING THERE Fly from Auckland to LAX non-stop with Air NZ in about 12 hours. The drive from LAX to Ventura is approx. 1 hour, 20 minutes (117km) depending on traffic. The journalist travelled courtesy of Visit Ventura and Visit Califonia.