Santa Monica Sun and Fun at Palisades Park and Weekly Farmers Market

I’m perched 100-feet high atop an eroding and landslide-prone sandstone bluff in Santa Monica, CA. As I begin my fitness walk on this late summer morning, I’m less concerned about the possibility of the ground collapsing and sending me tumbling downward head over heels than I am transfixed by this postcard-perfect tableau.

Before me stretches a long (1.6 miles), narrow, and storied strip of greenery called Palisades Park. This linear, 26-acre park is the largest and oldest in Santa Monica. As a multitude of activity begins unfolding in the park, it occurs to me I’m undoubtedly at the epicenter of daily life in this singular coastal city.

Santa Monica’s landmark is unlike any park I’ve ever seen. Seemingly European-inspired with meandering packed dirt and paved pedestrian paths and buzz-cut grass, it nevertheless flaunts its unrivaled local origins and individuality: a breathtakingly gorgeous, spectacularly dramatic and diverse setting; native and exotic plantings; historic features and structures; outdoor art; and commemorative markers and monuments.

Urban respite and recreation in Palisades Park

Palisades Park begins where I’m standing on Colorado Avenue at the entrance to Santa Monica Pier, famous for its iconic Ferris wheel and roller coaster. It extends north about 14 blocks to Adelaide Drive, the boundary marked by a painted, wooden Native American totem pole from 1925. My vantage point is closer to the bustling business district and directly beneath the famous Santa Monica Pier sign.

To my right is Ocean Avenue with luxury condominiums and hotels, modern office buildings, and celebrated restaurants.

At my left is the panoramic money shot of Santa Monica – the idealized, yet oh-so-real, picture of Los Angeles that probably figures in most peoples’ imaginings. Sweeping, unobstructed vistas of the broad and sandy Santa Monica State Beach, made famous in the “Baywatch” TV series. Santa Monica Bay and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Rugged Santa Monica Mountains hugging the shoreline in the distance towards Malibu.

The sky, initially shrouded by fog, now blazes a brilliant blue as the California sun burns through and casts a dazzling, sunglasses-demanding radiance.

Popular legend claims the founders of Santa Monica – Colonel Robert S. Baker, his wife, Arcadia Bandini de Baker, and Senator John P. Jones – presented this land as a gift to the city in 1892. The ground was too unstable to support houses. They desired it to become a public space in perpetuity, and public use is in full swing with spirited crowds of tourists and locals alike enjoying both sedentary and active pursuits.

I step jauntily, alternating my gaze between the park’s meticulously groomed landscape and the extraordinary beach and bay. Gently caressed by warm ocean breezes, I’m extra happy just to be.

I pass a canon, unarmed and inexplicably aimed at the end of the pier, the Camera Obscura Art Lab, and several people competitively tossing small steel balls at the pétanque court. A sign at the Santa Monica visitor information kiosk marks the nearby end of the romanticized Route 66. The American flag furls above five stone markers honoring each branch of the Armed Forces.

At Wilshire Boulevard, a stately concrete statue of Santa Monica, namesake of the city, marks a change in the park’s ambiance. It feels more spacious and tranquil, probably owing to the higher number of residences nearby. Views to the water, too, are more open.

For me, the most distinctive feature of Palisades Park is its trees. Some 30 species line the way. Half are palms, and many are situated in tall, orderly colonnades. The diverse vegetation has a practical function as well as aesthetic, for it helps to protect the bluffs from erosion.

Continuing on, I spot a woman using the lawn as her own private yoga studio. I admire the ease with which she transitions from a downward dog pose to a low lunge. Beyond her, a fitness instructor leads a group of will-be and new mothers through some stretches. A formation of baby carriages encircles them like covered wagons protecting settlers from Indian attacks in the Old West.

Onward I stride, past picnickers, fellow walkers and runners, chess players, book readers parked on benches, and, sadly, a few homeless people in makeshift shelters. I huff and puff and sweat down and then back up the wooden staircase leading to the beach. There’s the angular beacon overlook which evokes a wooden sailing ship and mast, the redwood pergola, and the rose garden, full of sweet scent. A curved wood sculpture titled Gestation III has an opening that allows me to peer through from on high at sparkling Santa Monica Bay.

Food shopping at Santa Monica Farmers Market

It’s a Wednesday morning, I remind myself. This means Santa Monica’s midweek outdoor farmers market is underway along the city’s downtown retail district, which begins just a block eastward from Palisades Park and Ocean Drive.

Established in 1981 and open year-round, rain or shine, the market began with modest goals – offer high quality, reasonably priced, seasonal produce while also bringing in foot traffic. Now, the Wednesday Market is one of the largest and most diverse grower-only certified farmers markets in Southern California.

I find the dichotomy of an open-air farmers market positioned a mere block from the city’s holy trinity of Palisades Park, Santa Monica Beach, and Santa Monica Bay, to be tantalizing. That I can shop this showcase of the state’s earth-born treasures while also glimpsing an endless view of water is irresistible.

I retrace most of my steps, exit Palisades Park, and enter the market at Arizona Ave. and 2nd Street. The throng of farm stands is 75 strong, so I stop at the information tent to scan a map of the layout for some guidance. According to the staffer at the table, 9,000 patrons shop here weekly, including many of the best chefs and restaurateurs in Los Angeles. Celebrities, too, he winks. I’m keeping my eyes peeled, but, so far, everyone looks decidedly un-Hollywood.

What does grab my attention, though, is the lively give-and-take conversations between shoppers and farmers, and the richly colorful array of foodstuffs, some comfortably commonplace and some intriguingly exotic. Lobster mushrooms? Red basil? Pinkerton avocados? All new to me.

A woman from Flora Bella Farms thrusts a bouquet of the leafiest, deepest green arugula in my face. “This is what arugula is supposed to taste like,” she declares.

At her invitation, I break off a few leaves and chew. Mildly arugula-like, then an intense jolt of peppery flavor that forever condemns the anemic greens I can get at home in Charlotte to vegetable shame.

“We’re farming like it’s 1899,” she nods at my stunned reaction. “Our water is snow melt off the Sierra Nevadas, and we’re the first to use it when it comes down the mountain, right out of the river. They say it’s the cleanest water on the planet.”

Windrose Farm is featuring apples, carrots, parsnips, herbs, peppers, and new age wisdom with its handwritten message on a small blackboard: “Quiet dreams can grow and inspire. Animals speak, spirits guide, and angels can find you. Taste what earth offers into your hand. Your sweet birthright here…HEAR.”

For the first time, I try kefir, sweetened with strawberries, and a Portuguese cheese called broncha from Achadinha Cheese Company in Petaluma.

Peads and Barnetts from San Diego sells an incongruous combination of Berkshire heritage pork along with Australian and African flowers. “Everybody says what the hell? Is this on purpose?” laughs the farmer.

A woman from Coastal Farms urges me to choose mini heirloom tomatoes from a bright array that includes cherry, Italian, and new girls. “Like regular heirlooms, but cuter,” she grins.

At the Scott Farms fruit stand I buy a summer fire yellow nectarine. The man beside me asks if the grapes have seeds, for he prefers seedless. Instead, he gets an unsolicited medical opinion from the farmer. “Grape seeds are good for you,” he claims. “They’re a preventative for prostate cancer.”

I bite into my nectarine, the juice flowing onto my hand from flesh as rosy orange as yesterday’s technicolor sunset that painted Santa Monica Bay.

I could get used to this Santa Monica lifestyle.