July 24, 2025—When I called Los Angeles my home for the better part of a decade, an unsolicited opinion would surface when others learned where I lived.
It went like this: “Oh, I hate L.A.”
Which, to me, meant they were telling on themselves.
Hating something so massive, so complex and so wildly varied en totality = bad math.
My reply doubled as my attempted diagnosis: “Which part of L.A. are you talking about?”
Far-ranging flavors await, from the Fashion District to Grand Central Marketplace to Little Tokyo and El Pueblo, and that’s only within a few blocks downtown.
Put differently: Beverly Hills and Boyle Heights present dramatically different experiences.
Koreatown and Compton are not the same.
Silver Lake and San Pedro…you get it.
City of Angels heaven for me was Venice Beach, land of roller skates and low riders, Muscle Beach and drum circles, pickup basketball and paddle tennis.
Last time I went looking for my old rental there, I couldn’t find it, partly because I figured I’d recognize it on sight.
Nope. I biked right past it.
What was a ghetto fabulous bungalow set behind a scrappy lawn and cement driveway is now a three-story post-modern triplex shoved right to the last three inches of the property line.
That’s the long way of saying Los Angeles has changed, and that was before wildfires tore away whole communities.
But one small sliver of the sprawling city has not.
Between its vintage signage and throwback sunroom, faded photographs and classic fry baskets, pitcher tip jar and sweetheart cashier, The Shack lives up—and down—to its name, unapologetically so, as it has since 1972.
It’s a fitting mascot plopped in the beating heart of Playa Del Rey, a beautiful outlier of lasting inelasticity in L.A.
When I asked one longtime local about the inevitable avalanche of change she’s witnessed given her decades in town, she shook her head, “Not much.”
A friend of mine from Hermosa Beach has been popping north for 20 years, often for the mellow vibes and seafood values at Playa Provisions, and the occasional hang at textbook dive bar Prince O’ Whales.
“It’s an L.A. beach town in a time capsule,” David Pinsel, a verified Found Treasurer-traveler, says, “and people are protective of it.”
Playa Del Rey’s population 10,000 neighborhood sits 10 minutes by car from Venice and—for savvy travelers—about the same from LAX international.
The magic word there is “car.”
In Playa Del Rey—particularly if you drop anchor at The Inn at Playa Del Rey—you don’t need one.
Sometimes I get heartsick for my old city, then I go back and get smacked in the windshield by 405 traffic, and I don’t miss it so much.
So I went into this two-part trip aiming not to drive at all.
The Inn at Playa Del Rey fits into the Four Sisters Inn portfolio like a surfer in a Bodyglove.
The Pacific Grove-based boutique lodging pros prioritize homey bed-and-breakfasts situated in singular spots like Sonoma, Mendocino and Santa Cruz. (Full disclosure: EMB partners with Pacific Grove-based Four Sisters Inns to help make this trip and others like it possible, exchanging fresh photos and content consulting for room nights.)
The inn here represents a destination unto itself, courtesy of comfy lounges, large suites and the expansive marshlands it overlooks.
Meanwhile The Inn at Playa Del Rey lingers less than 10 minutes from the Pacific, down Culver Boulevard, itself populated with spots that resemble character actors in an indie production perfect for Found Treasure types.
Bring on the flower shops and the psychic who knows you need to come in, plus the hipster-but-funky coffee shops and the rooftop bar-restaurant.
And, if you are so emboldened, city bike rentals to take the oceanside Marvin Braude Bike Trail north or south.
And, if you insist, you can brave traffic and embark on any number of excursions, from the Old L.A. Zoo to Hollywood to Santa Monica Pier.
Those are all lovingly compiled in an in-house Bible-of-sorts built out by Inn at Playa Del Rey managers, and nestled in the mini library by the lobby, next to the guest book and its heartfelt tales of anniversaries, adventures and gratitude.
But I’d encourage visitors to dawdle as much as possible on premises, maximizing enjoyment of the loaded breakfast—with to-order eggs, soufflés-of-the-day, house-baked muffins/cupcakes/cakes, fresh fruit, juice, coffee and more.
And the wine hour too, another Four Sisters signature, which plies guests with defensible wines and above-average snacks every evening from 5-6pm.
Also in keeping with Four Sisters’ flow, the place keeps a limited amount of rooms (21), features fireplaces and jacuzzi tubs in a number of suites, and prioritizes service.
It has its shortcomings—the carpet and paint could use an update—but that’s wildly outweighted by its charms, chief among them property character and location.
That attention includes enthusiastic recommendations on where to play, eat and drink.
On this trip the most urgent suggestion was Caffé Pinguini, which proves as timeless and tasty as wider PDR.
People have a lot of thoughts on Los Angeles.
Two in particular feel relevant here.
The first one comes courtesy of poet-author-literary critic Dorothy Parker.
“Los Angeles is 72 suburbs in search of a city,” she said.
The other one arrives from Big Sur blazing sun Henry Miller himself, who decided, “Los Angeles gives one the feeling of the future more strongly than any city I know of.
“A bad future, too, like something out of Fritz Lang’s feeble imagination.”
(Photos: Mark C. Anderson)
Well, Ms. Dorothy, there’s all sorts of identity dripping from this non-suburb.
And Mr. Henry, I appreciate the perspective.
But it doesn’t seem like you hung out enough at time-warp beach.
More at foursisters.com.
About the author
Mark C. Anderson, Edible Monterey Bay's managing editor, appears on "Friday Found Treasures" via KRML 94.7 every week, a little after 12pm noon. Reach him via mark@ediblemontereybay.com.
