Life in California is full of vexing questions. Has anyone ever used a highway call box? Why is the Pacific so dang frigid? Do hash browns belong in burritos?
Alta Journal has enlisted two experts to answer all of your questions: Stacey Grenrock Woods and Gustavo Arellano, both of whom bring decades of hard-won knowledge and laser-sharp insights into the Golden State.
Have a question of your own? Ask a Californian!
We have a showy friend who always brings an expensive bottle of wine to dinner parties and makes a big deal about it. My partner wants to fill a Heitz Cellar Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet bottle with Two Buck Chuck and fool him with it. Would that be too mean? Should we just shut up and be grateful?
—UNCORKED IN SAN FRANCISCO
STACEY: Shutting up and being grateful is such an underrated policy. No one ever woke up in the morning and thought, “Man, I sure wish I’d talked more and taken stuff for granted.” But I see that you’re dealing with an adversary who wakes up and thinks, “I’m going to bring expensive wine to a party and make a big deal about it,” which does color things.
Although I’d love to hear the outcome, I hesitate to endorse this plan. I’m not being ethical, just tactical: How will you reseal the bottle? Do San Francisco wine people have some sort of cork gizmo or cap gadget that can facilitate a prank of this magnitude? Because if not, you’ll have to rely on your sleight of hand skills, which almost always fail in the line of fire. You’ll come off as either a couple of smart-asses or, worse, people who’d bring an open bottle to a party. Uncorked, I don’t think you’ve really thought this one through.
Natural criminal that I am, I’ve played out every scenario and concluded there isn’t a big enough reward to justify the risk. It’s enough that you and your partner want to do this—that you are of one mind about it and you agree that it would be really funny is the sign of a solid relationship. But the second-best policy here (because, let’s face it, you’ve already blown “shut up and be grateful”) is just as underrated: It’s the classic “Let’s not and say we did.”
GUSTAVO: I actually see gold in those there mountains with this idea. You pulling off a switcheroo like this would just be replicating one of California’s greatest victories: the Judgment of Paris, the 1976 blind taste test where California cabs and chardonnays beat French bordeaux and burgundies. The subsequent uproar showed the world that California winemakers were legit and ushered in a new era of prosperity for the Golden State, or at least Yountville. Among the participants? Heitz Cellar’s Martha’s Vineyard—it finished 9th out of 10 contestants in the red wine category, which is fine: There always has to be a Nemanja Bjelica for every Steph Curry on a championship squad, you know? So I say, A la fregada with Stacey’s practical concerns: Do the subtle swap, enjoy your dinner, and tell the surprised friend afterward that they’ve been punked—and to bring some mezcal next time.
I recently moved from New York City to San Rafael and love walking through the eucalyptus groves. Why do some people hate these trees so much? Don’t they know that people in Brooklyn will pay $20 or more for a very small branch of these fragrant giants?
—SCENTED IN MARIN
STACEY: If I remember correctly from my last Tree Gripers meeting, it’s because the eucalyptus is a huge disappointment. It was a nice-looking Australian import that everyone hoped would be useful, but it turned out to be weak and hazardous, and now we’re stuck with it. It’s a lot like Mel Gibson. Also, it goes up like Dresden.
But beyond all these valid reasons, Californians hate eucalyptus trees because we think they pulled one over on us—like the time that guy in San Francisco ignored professional advice and showed up at a party with a Heitz Cellar Martha’s Vineyard Cabernet bottle that he’d filled with Two Buck Chuck. Stuff like that really burns—burns like eucalyptus, which is only useful as a shower bundle, where it’s unlikely to do much harm, unless houseguests knowing you’re super into self-care is harmful. Regardless, you have my blessing to gather up as many branches and leaves as you can, tie them with a little ribbon, and sell them on Etsy to as many New Yorkers as you want.
GUSTAVO: I’ve never smelled the eucalyptus in San Rafael, mostly because I’m usually speeding up to Yountville when I’m in the area, but we have plenty of those trees down here in Southern California. For decades starting in the 19th century, farmers planted them to act as windbreaks for orchards. They’re the last remnants of our agricultural days, so a lot of folks want them untouched even though, as Stacey pointed out, they light up like a sparkle stick anytime there’s a fire. And in this era of perpetual fire season, having a combustible plant hanging around your neighborhood like that college friend of yours who always brought mezcal to the frat party is a big no-no.
Driving on 101 in San Jose, I sometimes see a woman on a Vespa wearing a helmet in the colors of the Italian flag. Trouble is, she’s driving, like, 45 miles an hour. What is she thinking? She’s no Monica Vitti.
—STUCK IN THE RIGHT LANE
STACEY: A lot of women have delusions of Vitti, the Italian screen goddess with the perfect sideswept bangs. The condition presents as a desire to put on a cool scarf and smoke on a scooter. In my experience, the Vitti phase comes shortly after the Holly Golightly phase, wherein we want to put on a tiara and smoke and lose our keys. I half suspect most of us just want to smoke. The risk factor for these syndromes is a predisposition toward the Criterion Collections, or The White Lotus, or both. But it’s not all bad news: With proper treatment, patients with fancifulitis can hope to live about 87 years, all of them fabulous.
I’m sorry that this woman living her best life is driving your worst road rage. Have you tried honking and shouting at her that she’s not Monica Vitti? Well, don’t. She’ll probably get the idea sooner or later, and there’s no reason it has to come from you. Just find another route before she hits her Maude phase and starts tearing up the street and crashing into parked cars, with a teenage boy and a stolen municipal tree in tow.
GUSTAVO: If she’s going that slow, then she just might be breaking the law. The DMV says you can drive a scooter on the freeway if its engine has a minimum capacity of 150 cc, which Google tells me usually results in a top speed of 75 miles per hour. A 50 cc Vespa? You’re lucky if you can hit 45 going downhill with one of those Palm Springs wind turbines behind you. So not only is the San Jose signora a faux Vitti; she’s also probably a scofflaw. You can try to call CHP on her, but they have more important things to do, like plan for their next car chase, so I suggest you let the lady be the memento mori you never knew you needed: If you don’t slow down, you’ll get smushed like she eventually will. Eyes on the road!
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Stacey Grenrock Woods is a regular contributor to Esquire and a former correspondent for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. She writes and consults on various TV shows, and has a recurring role as Tricia Thoon on Fox’s Arrested Development. Her first book is I, California.
Gustavo Arellano is the author of Orange County: A Personal History and Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America. In 2025, Arellano was named a Pulitzer Prize finalist for his work as a columnist for the Los Angeles Times. He was formerly editor of OC Weekly, an alternative newspaper in Orange County, California, and penned the award-winning ¡Ask a Mexican!, a nationally syndicated column in which he answered any and all questions about America’s spiciest and largest minority. Arellano is the recipient of awards ranging from the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies Best Columnist to the Los Angeles Press Club President’s Award to an Impact Award from the National Hispanic Media Coalition, and he was recognized by the California Latino Legislative Caucus with a 2008 Spirit Award for his “exceptional vision, creativity, and work ethic.” Arellano is a lifelong resident of Orange County and is the proud son of two Mexican immigrants, one of whom came to this country in the trunk of a Chevy.
