Siteline | Still Funky After All These Years

In an uncharacteristic move, my husband, Adam, and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to continue on to Pismo Beach after a dinner reservation at Na Na Thai. It was just 45 minutes beyond Buellton, and the weather forecast promised temperatures lower than what was happening around here. Plus, I was intrigued by Pacific Point Resort, which I had read about in Travel + Leisure. It opened last summer, combining two old hotels (Pismo Lighthouse Suites and Shore Cliff Hotel) on either side of a ravine into one 170-room oceanfront property, linked by a bridge. I was shocked to see that an oceanfront room, midweek, was just $330 (including taxes and fees, but excluding $15 per day for parking, surely a way to skirt laws banning hidden surcharges because it’s theoretically optional). Given how expensive hotels have become, the rate is unheard of… and maybe a little worrisome. If we were ever going to go, I told Adam, we should go soon, because I just couldn’t imagine how the owners will be afford to maintain the place. The fact that they haven’t pulled together a new sign was not a great omen.

I had booked an oceanfront room but the clerk assigned us to a ground-floor one that looked out on lawn more than water, so we requested another, and she gave us a one-bedroom suite on the second floor. Waking up to this view was pretty cool. And we had two bathrooms, which was an unexpected treat.

The hotel is more of a motel on steroids, with creepy duplex-style hallways, but the location is impressive (if sometimes smelly, due to the seabirds roosting on the bluff below).

Was Pacific Point for us? No. But it felt like a decent value, with welcome touches like daily housekeeping, pickleball and cornhole, and water-bottle fillers by the elevators. Families would find it a better fit. As a kid, I would’ve loved running wild around the area—the bluff-front resorts are all connected on the ocean side, with stairs to the beach and people hanging out around fire pits.

First thing in the morning we took a walk along the bluff, where I marveled at the bizarre way that buildings rub up against each other.

At some point, to reach downtown Pismo Beach, you have to go back toward the street. Even so, there was plenty to look at. Am I the only one who thinks this girl is teasing her playmate for his effeminate manner? Or deeply amused by a German shepherd wearing ski goggles?

Downtown Pismo displays a lot of civic pride. I stopped taking photos after two murals.

The spirit reminded me of Huntington Beach—or more aptly, Seal Beach—when I was growing up there a hundred years ago. Pismo still has a lot of funk, including some terrific vintage signage. Did Esquire magazine (that’s its logo) used to have retail stores?

Even in New York City, it was rare to see an elevator that opens to the street. (Does it go up? Down? Somewhere else?) The Pismo Beach Psychic, meanwhile, has a sign you can spot from the freeway.

Adam, who hadn’t heard of artist Thomas Kinkade, couldn’t understand why I was so amazed by the idea of a gallery devoted to his work.

There are signs of newness, too. Had I been aware of Bare Bones, which chef Jared Hurst and manager/sommelier Rachel Hurst opened in August, we probably would’ve had dinner there. And Pismo Beach Club might’ve been a contender for lodging, but I’m wary of accommodations with no staff on premises; I find it comforting to know there’s someone to complain to. Also, it’s not on the beach.

Along with Scorpion Bay Coffee Co., the Cacti Coffee Roasters counter inside Esteem Surf Co. seemed like the best coffee in town. Esteem has a line called Not L.A. [and] not the Bay, with a lineup of Central Coast towns listed on the apparel. Santa Barbarans might be surprised to learn that we don’t make the cut.

Adam and I took our coffees over to the pier and watched the surfers, something we would never do at home.

Between sets, I decided that we needed to go explore the hillside.

St. Jude’s Tunnel under the 101 has dramatic lighting—and we exited to an extremely fruitful tomato plant. Someone needs to get harvesting.

We wandered around and looked at houses.

Many animal figurines live in this grotto.

And they aren’t the only ones in the neighborhood. A life-size (?) metal Sasquatch outside your home requires real commitment. The little dog looked so real we did a double-take. And the mermaid holding a dolphin was once a fountain, if the dolphin’s mouth is any indication.

These folks take Halloween very seriously.

Check out this fabulous patchwork fence fence and industrial mailbox.

At Boosinger Park, we partook in the swing set. It felt so good. I’ve asked it before—in my mind, anyway—but how come adults don’t get to swing (like that)?

Before the trip, I had told Adam that Pismo was famous for clams and fog. (And the Pismo Beach disaster relief, if you’re of a certain age.) When the fog rolled in, which would normally be a drag, we loved the shift from hot, sunny weather.

I was up for lunch at Pismo Fish & Chips, but the carpet spooked Adam, so drove 10 minutes north to Blue Moon Over Avila, a French restaurant right on the boardwalk in Avila Beach. (Pictured: a combo dish of French onion soup, croque monsieur, and salad.)

The town is much nicer than Pismo, with a stunning swath of sand, but it’s also far less interesting without the Bakersfield-by-the-Sea energy of Pismo.

On the way back to the hotel, I noticed a trailhead for The Bluffs Trail on Google Maps. We happened to get one of the handful of parking spaces and embarked on a drop-dead gorgeous walk with the ocean on one side…

…and some ridiculous houses on the other.

We didn’t get as far as Pirate’s Cove Beach, quite pretty from a distance (and apparently a nude beach up close). We later discovered that there’s also a little cove called STP Beach you can reach by climbing over the fence and descending a ladder. Maybe next time.

With the possible exception of Bare Bones, the restaurant scene in Pismo is not a main reason to visit. That’s why we drove 10 minutes to Arroyo Grande for dinner at Ember. We sat at the bar, where the bartender showered us with attention. The food was good and the place was packed on a Wednesday; we were surprised to learn it has been open for 12 years, because it doesn’t feel like it’s cruising. And the toasted marshmallow ice cream cocoa cake was an apt finish to a sweet little 36-hour getaway.