PASADENA’S LASTING LANDMARKS
by Scott Aronowitz

(Published: The Pasadena Weekly, June 24, 1994)

I have a friend named Ray. Ray is not too bright. Ray once asked me whether they ever had bargain matinees at the drive-in movie.

Ray has a girlfriend named Judy. Judy is bright, attractive, charming and perfect. I have no idea why she prefers Ray to me.

Anyway, Judy thought Ray was a little – uh – unsophisticated, and she was interested in getting him some culture. She shared this interest with me and asked for my help. My initial thought was that Ray’s idea of culture was putting Grey Poupon on his pork rinds. But when I looked into Judy’s deep blue eyes, my only thought was, “Yes, my darling, anything for you.” What eventually came out of my mouth sort of split the difference.

“Sounds cool,” I said. “How about starting with something simple, like landmarks?” Judy thought this was a great idea, and while I was thinking of an even better idea that didn’t include Ray, she began to make a list.

The next morning I met Ray in Old Town and asked him if he had Judy’s list. “It was too complicated, so I made it simpler.” I turned, pulled a few gray hairs out of my head, and turned back. Ray was my closest friend, and Judy was the girl I hoped to steal away from him, so for the sake of both of them, I was determined to endure Ray’s “simpler” list.

“The first thing she wanted me to see was the casino. I didn’t even know that was legal here.”

Lucky for Ray I’m as clever and insightful as he is dense, and after a few seconds of puzzlement I figured out he was talking about the Gamble House.

“It’s not a casino, Ray. It’s this wild old piece of Craftsman architecture, an 86-year-old house built entirely without nails.”

We toured the huge rooms, halls and stairwells, all held together by wooden pegs and metal brackets, and Ray actually seemed impressed. We inspected a few of the tongues and grooves and shot a few pictures of the grounds (Judy wanted proof that we didn’t go bowling), and Ray wondered aloud about his old Lego bricks and Lincoln Logs. Then he remembered an innate fear of giant beavers he had acquired from a ‘70s horror flick, and we left.

Our trip back into town called for a stop at a place where two speed-loving studs such as ourselves would be unlikely to go voluntarily: City Hall.

Most people are used to heading there only to contest a speeding ticket or complain about roadkill, and they usually ignore the majestic display of architecture from the Renaissance of 16th-Century Italy. A courtyard featuring a stone fountain surrounded by park benches and trees offers an ideal setting for picnicking or dancing under the moonlight (just don’t do anything illegal; police headquarters is right next door).

Ray sounded a bit disappointed about the next stop. “The next place sounds cool, but it’s not much of a day for golf.”

This one was a little tougher. He said something about another big building and grass and putting, and after adding two and two and getting 96, I contained my frustration and replied, “It’s not a golf course, Ray. It’s a fantastic renovated castle that they turned into an apartment building.” We headed to get a glimpse of Castle Green.

Even Ray was impressed as we stood across Raymond in front of Stat’s Floral Warehouse and admired Colonel Green’s personal shrine. It was an authentic castle, topped by turrets in the center and a covered lookout post on the south end. A long corridor extended through a garden adorned by several varieties of trees, from palm to evergreen. The imposing structure was undercut a little by its less flashy tan stucco exterior and amber-red awnings, but the overall effect kept the building from looking too garish.

“Judy wants me stop at another house for chewing gum,” he said, glancing at the list.

“The Wrigley Mansion?” I sighed inquisitively.

As home to the Tournament of Roses, the Wrigley Mansion follows the tradition with grounds laden with over 100 varieties of roses, many grouped and labeled in a garden at the north end, probably the best smelling spot in Pasadena. There is also a virtual tree museum (with apologies to Joni Mitchell) in the front, and a fountain rose garden to the south.

Were lucky to hit it on a Thursday, the one day of the week they give house tours. The downstairs is a collection of polished wood living rooms, drawing rooms and parlors decorated with tasteful, if unauthentic, furniture and pictures.

Upstairs, the tour guide took us through each specialty room: the President’s Room, the Grand Marshalls’ Room, the Queen and Court Room. When we got to the last one, I noticed a dangerous twinkle in Ray’s eyes.

“This room,” said the guide, as Ray’s mouth began to water, “is the Rose Bowl Room. It is filled with paraphernalia from every Rose Bowl since the first one in 1902.”

“Well, Ray, what do you....” But it was too late. He was off, flipping through every poster, examining and memorizing every name and statistic on every trophy, plaque and uniform. Ray does have a brain. This is just what he uses it for.

Three hours later, after the cops told us what we’d be charged with if we didn’t leave the premises immediately, I suggested we head towards Cal Tech, Pasadena’s haven of the Spanish Renaissance.

“That’s that place where everyone’s smarter than me!” Ray noted with a resounding “Harrumph!”

“You want to narrow that down,” I thought to myself, but just nodded as we zipped (within the legal speed limit) to Hill Avenue.

The campus of The California Institute of Technology is actually a unique mix of old Spanish architecture and modern, more progressive-looking buildings of the kind one might expect from one of the country’s top engineering schools.

The Bechtel Mall, towards the south end of the campus, emulates an old mission, but near the center stands a 20th-century high-rise. With the juxtaposition of history and technology, we felt like we were traveling back and forth through time. Ray, of course, got dizzy.

The final stop on our intrepid mission to find Ray’s inner esthete was the incomparable Ritz-Carlton Pasadena. If Castle Green was a palace, this place was a fortress. The acres of lush, fine-trimmed lawns were a red carpet rolling to the enormous stone edifice marked by ramparts and even a couple gargoyles, a sight to make a Plantagenet cower.

As we sat sipping single-malts (the only thing even connoisseurs of cheap beer can really order in a place like this) in the regally appointed pub on the north end, adjacent a restaurant where I’d feel uncomfortable taking my first bite prior to a nod from the king, Ray looked around at the ornate finery that surrounded us on all sides.

“This,” he remarked, “would be a fantastic place for a cage match.”

Pained, I countered, “Or a medieval joust.”

“Joust? Joust what?”

“Joust finish your drink.”