The Lovably Disheveled Motels of Beachtown Bohemia

Locals, Valleys, and the Architecture of Carelessness

My polaroid from atop Beach Hill looking to Main Beach c. 2000. Old Santa Cruz motels are like a surf town heartthrob: beat up from the sea spray, unfazed, with unkempt sun-bleached extremities.

Locals vs. Valleys

All beach towns are by nature geared to tourists. Despite the economic necessity for tourism in the Santa Cruz that raised me, locals would gleefully relish in chastising all visiting outsiders. This snobbery was done in the same manner that proper New Yorkers refer to the weekend “bridge and tunnel” invasion from the outer boroughs — with deep knowledge of their home turf and a disdain for the tourists choking the streets in search of a cliche experience. This posture — of locals looking down upon tourists — was raised in Santa Cruz into a high art. The hierarchy was always this: a local is superior to anyone from an inland area. Only denizens of other surf towns were given equal status: San Clemente, Bondi Beach in Australia, and all of Hawaii, for example, were given a hall pass. In Santa Cruz we typically called tourists “Valleys” – a reference to the throngs of San Jose-area people who drove “over the Hill” (a reference to Highway 17, the only way into our town, via a treacherous redwood mountain highway that separated the coastal communities of the Monterey Bay from the inland area that was becoming, in the 1980s, Silicon Valley. These tourists were coming from what we Santa Cruzans perceived to be glossy places with big shopping malls, tidy city planning, megaplex movie theatres and a much more ethnically diverse population than we had. These folks wore Oakley sunglasses and opened doors to shiny cars with sparkling rims. They spoke differently and used hairspray. When the valleys invaded Santa Cruz on a hot summer weekend, two things would happen: the locals would complain and the motels would fill up.

The Motels of Beach Hill

The Santa Cruz coast of my youth was dotted with motels. Bigger ones and little ones with only 5 rooms— all relatively cheap — geared toward working and middle class families in search of a beach weekend, a tan, and an afternoon at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Surprisingly, there wasn’t one fancy hotel in our town at the time, despite our world-class surfing, the magnetic pull of the Boardwalk, a University of California campus, and the perfect Mediterranean climate. Beach Hill, one of the older areas of town near the wharf and Boardwalk, was where earlier Santa Cruz elites had built grand Victorian homes at the turn of the 20^th Century. Beach Hill, which rises just off the sand from Main Beach, boasted many villas that survived both the wrath of earthquakes and of redevelopment. From the Great Depression and onward, however, the Beach Hill neighborhood grew into a motel quarter, proximate to the Boardwalk, the cliffs, the biggest beaches in town, and the almighty amusement park.

The Appeal of the Undone

I never thought twice about these motels and their signage growing up. But after college, and having returned from studying urban design abroad, my affection grew more and more pronounced toward the old signs of these motels and this non-corporate low-brow lodging that made up the majority of Beach Hill. I took my 35mm camera around and tried to capture the mood of these buildings. As the old 1940s neon signs grew rusty and faded, they contributed to a bric-a-brac collage on Beach Hill. The existing neighborhood’s patchiness, betwixt the barrio (Beach Flats) and the Boardwalk, rendered it uniquely unkempt and un-gentrified. What I appreciate about these motels was their unstudied quality. They were not trying to be “retro cute.” I hold a particular tenderness for the California motor court motel typology — of tiny houses surrounding a courtyard or narrow driveway. Several of these have survived in Beach Hill. They still charm me with their modest proportions, art deco maritime details, and shabbiness. Old Santa Cruz motels are like a beach town surfer heartthrob: beat up from the sea spray, with sun-bleached/unkempt extremities. The bones are good, and there are likely weeds in the forecourt. Being spent from the elements, I would argue, offers a certain sex appeal that only a Beachtown Bohemian will gladly acknowledge the power of.

Bonus points for a motel with a camper truck. Watercolor, pen & ink by me.

Beachtown Bohemia is paywall free. You can support me by liking this post (heart button at the top) and sharing it with anyone you feel would appreciate it.

---