About 70 years ago, a Santa Fe railroad baron got an idea to create a 6,000-acre worker settlement in the gentle hills of north San Diego County, just far enough from the ocean to avoid morning fog and chill. His second idea was to plant thousands of fast-growing eucalyptus trees for later use as railroad ties, but it was to be the automobile and not the train that defined California. The railroad languished, but the eucalyptus--as hard and brittle as a tycoon's heart--thrived, and soon there was enough to feed half the koalas in Australia. Those towering trees came to shelter the secluded bedroom community of Rancho Santa Fe, the oldest of its kind in California and one of the wealthiest in the nation.
The Ranch, as homeowners call their community of 5,000, is about as private as a residential enclave can be without guarded kiosks. In fact, residents have their own private police force, hired to augment the county sheriffs, who cannot provide enough visible patrol to satisfy property owners.
The business district, called the Village, comprises a gas station so pricey it might as well charge by the liter, a post office where folks meet because there is no mail delivery to intrude on privacy, an antiques shop, banks, brokerage houses and real estate offices. To the east is Chino's Farms, where the produce has more Mercedes-Benz queued up than a tollgate on the Autobahn.
As a wateringhole, the Village features Mille Fleurs, the best restaurant in the San Diego area, and during the Del Mar horse-racing season the wagering crowd flocks to the Village for dinner. A surprising number of visiting celebrities are Washington politicians, no doubt following the money. In Rancho Santa Fe nobody would ever think of asking for their autographs or disrupting their privacy, which probably disappoints them, truth be told.
Since the terrible mass suicide, the media have been referring to the Heaven's Gate residence as a mansion. But around these parts they call it affordable housing. An average homesite in the Ranch consists of about three acres of land, and many homes are far grander than the one in which the cybercultists shed their earthly containers. A lot of Rancho Santa Fe's estates are large enough to provide pasture for quarter horses, polo ponies, jumpers and Thoroughbreds. Streets are without curbing, and there are no lights on the winding lanes, trails and roads. At night, other than the occasional cries of coyotes, it is quiet.
Now, alas, the world's media have descended in swarms. They have come in vans, trucks and helicopters. They have demolished the tranquillity and lit up the sky. The media hordes are interviewing everyone. Diners are being harassed and interrogated. Golfers are being interrupted midswing by clicking Nikons and questions. Soccer moms are forced to scoop up their kids and run for their Volvos. They are interrogating non-English speaking gardeners. They have questioned equestrians at the Polo Club. They have questioned horses at the Polo Club. A German journalist was seen interviewing a pot of geraniums at the local library. Finally, they have even resorted to interviewing each other! The geraniums were probably more informative.