The Pacific Palisades neighborhood of Los Angeles, once a charming and serene corner of the city where properties demanded a $5 million price, found itself in a state of turmoil. As a realtor, I had the privilege of touring a luxurious $6.5 million dwelling in mid-February. Upon arrival, I gazed at the gentle sprawling hills holding this grand edifice: a subtle gray estate complemented by eight bathrooms, panoramic ocean views, exquisite walnut flooring and an imposing gourmet kitchen.
Simon Beardmore, the real estate agent, joined me soon along with an unnamed family interested in purchasing this dream domicile. Consisting of a husband, wife and their teenage daughter, they opted for anonymity due to the high value and the somewhat controversial location of the property.
Displaying an ideal view of the shimmering Pacific Ocean, this mighty abode was among the handful of residences that remained standing in the wake of the most devastating urban wildfire in the history of the United States – a calamity that had almost entirely wiped out the admired neighborhood of Pacific Palisades.
The family had originally intended to finalize the purchase on January 7, but the sudden eruption of the fire suspended their plans. Instead, they found themselves helplessly watching the terrifying progress of the wildfire.
Looking seaward, we could spot the remnants of consumed properties: sole chimneys protruding among the scorched plots and occasional surviving staircases. Paradoxically, houses on the opposite side of the road seemed untouched. The patchy destruction was one of the many disconcerting outcomes of the wildfires. The contrast was striking.
In the Palisades’ streets, workers decked in hazmat suits carefully extracted batteries from charred Tesla frames, and National Guard Soldiers kept close watch from heavy-duty tactical vehicles. Yet, just around the corner, the reality appeared undisturbed. Postal workers regularly delivered mail to the surviving addresses, and gardeners went about their usual watering routines.
Upon stepping inside the gray mansion, Beardmore unlocked the entrance and we found ourselves in the foyer. A faint fragrance of smoke hung in the air, prompting the husband to comment, ‘Seems to have a smoky smell in here.’
My query regarding his impressions solicited an uneasy reply. The interior resemblance to its former state, coupled with the knowledge of the disaster, unsettled him. The atmosphere was fraught with a grim history. He inspected a pile of ash that had gathered on the floor, a silent testament to the wildfire.
The couple then disappeared downstairs to inspect the basement, while Beardmore and I enjoyed the open-air lawn. A mid-50s Australian by origin, Beardmore remarked about the considerable renovation the house would require.
He specifically mentioned the smoke and ash that had permeated every corner. It would entail considerable expense and effort to cleanse and restore. Rebuilding would involve top-to-bottom stripping, given the pervasive toxic ash issue. The renovation would be so extensive, it would be akin to reconfiguring the building starting from its basic structures or ‘studs’, as Beardmore put it.
The ash had crept inside even the most insidious places – nestled within the ceiling vents, lodged in the walls. Agents dealing real estate in the area had coined an appropriate term for dwellings in such condition. They referred to them informally as ‘smokers.’