Ojai, California

I didn’t wake up feeling great. My throat hurt, my sinuses were clogged, and I had that internal conversation: go, or don’t go? I felt better after my morning routine, so I got in the car. I was already grateful that I’d cancelled a reservation earlier in the week, because immediately I realized this wasn’t going to be the trip I’d mapped out. Not feeling well gave me permission to be loose.

Highly Likely. Photo by Jessica Nichole.

The drive into town made me nervous for a moment — that old small-town fear, wondering if I was somewhere safe — but the feeling passed. I stopped at Highly Likely for brunch, ordered avocado toast, and didn’t feel the need to stay long. It felt like a pitstop. A warm-up lap.

A few blocks up the street, everything clicked into place. Pinyon, The Nest, Fig — all in a row. I found parking immediately, windows down, and I noticed something that shocked me: silence. There was a moment, before I even stepped out of the car, when I realized how unnaturally quiet it was. I rolled down my windows and expected to hear traffic or conversation or music from a nearby shop — something, anything — but there was nothing. Just air. Just stillness. A town full of people moving slowly, unrushed. It reminded me of Wisteria Lane in Desperate Housewives, minus the chaos. I sat there longer than necessary, not moving, not rushing, just listening to the absence of noise. It felt like stepping into a paused scene, like the town was holding its breath. That silence set the tone instantly.

I grabbed my video camera — I came to work on my cinematic style — and started walking. The architecture reminded me of a smaller Santa Barbara: white walls, terracotta, outdoor patios, greenery tucked into corners. Every shop had its own personality: handmade glassware, sculpted ceramics, wood charcuterie boards, embroidered pillows, quirky objects that made me smile even when I didn’t know why. The street felt curated but not staged. Intentional but human.

Then my body dipped again. Fatigue. Heat. Congestion. I told myself to go back to the car — walk slow, take photos if I wanted — and on my way, I saw a wall of stones and a sign that said TACOS. I turned left. Then I saw a wine shop, turned again, and ended up buying a solstice wine that I opened early but still plan to honor on solstice night.

I went back to the car for my journal and The Artist’s Way, and ended up at Majestic Oak — a tasting room built below street level. Cobblestone patio, red umbrellas, vines everywhere, soft Christmas music. Nobody else there. Twenty dollars for a flight. It felt like a secret.

Walking down those stairs into Majestic Oak felt like descending into another temperature, another pace, another mood entirely. Street-level warmth shifted into patio shade; stone underfoot, red umbrellas overhead, vines curling around everything. Christmas music floated through the air — soft, warm, familiar — and the whole space felt suspended in time. I set out my journal, opened The Artist’s Way, and realized how rare it is to sit alone in a beautiful place without needing to perform or document. The wine was good, but the quiet was better. I could hear footsteps and voices above me — people peeking in, reacting to the scene the way I had — and it made me smile. It felt like I had discovered something that wasn’t trying to be discovered. I ended up staying longer than I intended, longer than I usually allow myself to sit anywhere. That hour settled me.

But I was hungry, so I stopped at Pinyon for pizza. It was perfect — enough to eat, enough to take home.

On the way out of town, my GPS took me along Highway 150 — down through the Ojai Valley and into wide stretches of rolling farmland I didn’t expect. Citrus groves lined both sides of the road, rows and rows of lemon and orange trees lit up by the afternoon sun, the kind of color that feels rich and full and alive. Every so often I’d pass an avocado orchard — endless, deep green — and it hit me how lush this part of California really is when you’re not surrounded by pavement. I kept catching these little peekaboo ranches along the way, small properties with one or two horses grazing quietly near the fence line, and it made the entire drive feel intimate, lived-in. Towns came and went — Santa Paula, then Fillmore — quiet streets, open sky, old signs, a different kind of pace. It took twice as long to get home as it did to arrive, but the drive was calm and steady and beautiful. The perfect last chapter to the day.

Four hours total. Short. Simple. Beautiful.

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If you’re thinking about Ojai…

Ojai is a place for people who want to slow down without losing interest. It’s a small valley town framed by mountains, with Spanish architecture, whitewashed walls, terracotta steps, fresh air, and the smell of citrus everywhere. It has the charm of Santa Barbara, but smaller, quieter, closer.

This is a town built on simple pleasures:

fresh, seasonal food;

wine tastings tucked into patios and courtyards;

local art;

independent shops;

mountain views at golden hour.

Downtown isn’t flashy — it’s textured. Handmade ceramics stacked next to embroidered pillows. Bowls and glasses that feel like one-offs. Bookstores with real personality. Little market shelves. Small-batch goods. Local olive oil, wine, honey, lavender, and produce. Everything looks touched by human hands, not retail machines.

Food is its own story here — fresh greens, herbs, olive oil, crusty bread, seasonal vegetables, wood-fired pizza, bright flavors. You can taste the land. You can see the farms that grew it on the drive in and out.

Majestic Oak Winery. Photo by Jessica Nichole.

And if you’re a wine lover — Ojai is built for you. Tasting rooms are everywhere, all within walking distance. Some are sleek; some are rustic; some are literally underground patios

with vines overhead and music floating through the air. There’s no rush, no sales pitch — just good wine, good air, and time to sit still.

If you’re coming from Los Angeles, Highway 33 gets you there fast — just under ninety minutes. But the drive home on Highway 150 is something different: long stretches of farmland, orange and lemon groves, avocado orchards, horses grazing along wood fences, and small agricultural towns like Santa Paula and Fillmore. It’s the kind of drive that lives in your mind longer than the trip itself.

Ojai works if you want a place that feels gentle but alive — quiet but not empty. A day trip that gives you good food, good wine, and space to breathe. A town that feels made for walking, wandering, and noticing.

If you love:

• sun-warmed patios

• mountain air

• wine tastings

• local shops

• handmade goods

• outdoor meals

• farm-to-table flavors

• quiet streets

• and beautiful light —

  
  

— Ojai fits.

And if you’re wired for curiosity, detail, photography, journaling, food, wine, or solo wandering?

It more than fits — it feels right. 💛

— Jessica Nichole, PhD