Destruction and Memories: A Journey Through My Vanished Pacific Palisades

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It transpires that during an exceptional wildfire, it’s not only the smoky haze blocking the sun or the embers scorching your skin that pose a threat. Perhaps most unsettling is the sound – a continuous, static-like drone similar to a damaged Radio Shack speaker. This hum is occasionally interrupted by the crackle of flames and the creaking of timber, as well as the occasional explosion of gas lines in the distance. The volume increases as the fire approaches. I can vouch for this, as on January 7th, I found myself on the roof of my parents’ house in Pacific Palisades, holding a hose in one hand and my phone in the other, and the situation quickly deteriorated from bad to truly terrifying.

Los Angeles, a city steeped in tales, turns significant happenings into narratives, marketing them globally. One perk of growing up here is learning to cope with the constant threat of disaster. My childhood was marked by fires, floods, earthquakes, and riots, yet Gen X Angelenos like myself survived and shared our experiences. The night when both the Palisades and Eaton fires ignited, I knew the story I wished to share. I had previously reported on the Woolsey Fire for this same publication and interviewed Malibu residents who chose not to evacuate. Many of those individuals managed to save their homes. I wanted to recount a similar tale; that I had attempted (at the very least) to safeguard the home where I was raised, a place my parents resided in for close to 50 years.

At 1 PM, I pedaled my cargo bike there to gather the cats and pick up some cherished family items. By approximately 3:30 PM, a fierce wildfire was swiftly moving down Temescal Canyon, reaching and consuming the first homes at the top of Rimmer Avenue in the northeast corner of the Alphabet Streets. My neighbor and I reassured each other that the fire department would prevent these houses from burning.

We were wrong.

For several hours, I drenched the gutters, canopies, the rooftop, and the trees that bordered our property. At approximately 4:30 PM, as I watched the inferno engulfing our neighbor’s house, my 82-year-old father joined me on the roof. The thought of his bravery brings tears to my eyes, but in truth, he wasn’t the reinforcement I had anticipated. Thirty years ago, we fought off a fire together, staying awake all night with hoses on the same roof during a blaze in Malibu. That night, in 1993, we were successful. However, against today’s climate catastrophe, we were no match. Overwhelmed by the smoke and unable to see, we slid down from the roof and in darkness searched the house for a few more items before fleeing.

For the following several hours, nearly all of the Alphabet Streets, including my parents’ house, were engulfed in flames and destroyed.

Many people wonder about life in Pacific Palisades during their childhood years. Similar to many parts of the city, this coastal village characterized by its sprawling canyons and line of bluffs has undergone significant changes in recent times, hardly resembling the way it was back in the ’80s and ’90s. The influx of wealth over the past few decades has significantly altered people’s perception of what life here was like then. While it was always a unique place, it wasn’t as glamorous or opulent as it is today. Yes, there was wealth and affluence back then, but even the upper-class residents – lawyers, doctors, and real estate developers from the Reagan era – seem quite humble when compared to the hedge fund managers and tech billionaires who have set a new standard for what being “rich” in Southern California means.

Throughout much of its past, the Palisades provided a living for people from various income brackets, including upper-middle class, middle class, and even those in blue-collar jobs. I recall tearing through the neighborhood after school on four-wheel ATVs that had been converted into makeshift racetracks in our neighbor’s backyards. Our block was home to homicide detectives and elementary school teachers – my parents were both educators – and my best friend’s family ran the local gas station, where we would spend weekends with the mechanics. The community was quite economically diverse, a sort of Mayberry with all the typical characteristics: a local deli (Mort’s), a small-town newspaper (Palisadian Post), and unique customs (I’m still amazed by the chaos that occurred during Halloween in the 1990s).

The historical intellectual significance of the Palisades is often underestimated. During the 1930s and 40s, it served as a cultural sanctuary for a number of European emigrés, particularly artists and intellectuals who had escaped Nazi Germany. Notable residents included Thomas Mann, Bertolt Brecht, Fritz Lang, and Arnold Schoenberg. As a child, I observed that celebrities were an integral part of the town’s character, yet they seemed content to live inconspicuously. It wasn’t unusual to spot Adam West filling up gas at the Chevron station or Billy Crystal shopping at the men’s clothing store. Chevy Chase could often be found watching his daughter play AYSO soccer, and Walter Matthau, with his well-known hangdog expression, walking his dog. In the 90s, the fame of the movie stars who resided there grew even greater. I still recall the awe I felt when I saw Tom Hanks visiting the elementary school I attended, wondering to myself, “Why would such a renowned global star like Tom Hanks choose to live here?

By the mid-2000s, as real estate prices kept climbing, the neighborhood underwent further changes. One by one, the traditional single-story ranch-style homes in the Palisades were torn down to make way for grand mansions. In 2018, developer Rick Caruso unveiled the luxurious Palisades Village shopping center, located right in town. This new addition gave the village a distinctly upscale feel, offering attractions such as Blue Ribbon Sushi, a juice bar, a vegan bakery, and boutiques run by names like Jennifer Meyer, Rachel Zoe, and Lauren Conrad. Although longtime residents I knew eventually came to terms with this new, sleek version of the Palisades (interestingly, Caruso’s mall was one of the few things that survived a fire).

On the 8th of January, with the Palisades still ablaze, my childhood friend and I stealthily navigated our way into the village using an off-the-beaten-path route. Our mission was to check on a few homes of friends who were frantically seeking updates about their status. We stopped by my parents’ house, which had been transformed into a sickening concoction of cherished memories and hazardous substances. Incidentally, I stumbled upon CNN’s Erin Burnett and her team preparing some sort of coverage. With a mask and ski goggles shielding my face, I introduced myself, expressing my outrage. In all the hours I spent trying to save my parents’ home, I didn’t see a single fire engine. How was it possible that an entire town could have been consumed by flames? Where were the fire trucks? Where was the water? I demanded accountability and shared my story with her. She listened attentively, showing understanding.

We continued our journey, passing by empty grocery stores hollowed out, gymnasiums that had smoldered, and homes with scars and skeletal remains visible – too many to count. It was all a bit of a haze. I recall wind chimes next to a house still ablaze, a firefighter taking a cigarette break, and looters jumping fences on the block where Vin Scully once resided and where I’ve heard the creator of Grand Theft Auto now lives, which seems both tragic and ironic. We inspected every home on our list, but not one remained standing.

On my way home, I unexpectedly bumped into an old childhood friend who used to own the local gas station back in our days. It had been three decades since we last saw each other. Amazingly, his entire block appeared exactly as it was, left untouched by time. We reminisced about past fires and caught up on life, discussing my job and his children. We parted with a warm embrace, and before I left, he called out, “Wasn’t it a magical place to grow up?”

As I made my way home, I stumbled upon an old childhood friend from when we were kids, who once ran the local gas station. We hadn’t crossed paths in 30 years. To my surprise, his family home and the entire block remained unchanged. We shared stories about our memories of the fires and talked about current events like my job and his kids. He inquired about my life, and I asked about theirs. We bid farewell with a warm hug, and just before I left, he said, “Wasn’t it an enchanting place to grow up?

You can find this article in the January 29th edition of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. Consider subscribing for more updates.

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2025-01-31 20:26