The Art of Traveling North
By Svetlana Talabolina

This past summer, my son and I packed our car in Los Angeles and began a two-month road trip that took us all the way up the western edge of the country — from the golden heat of Paso Robles to the quiet tip of Hansville, Washington. It wasn’t just a journey across states; it was a journey through time, textures, and color — each stop offering its own palette, its own rhythm.

Our first stay was in Nevada City, at the National Exchange Hotel, a beautifully restored 19th-century landmark that still hums with the echoes of gold rush stories. Velvet walls, antique brass, and tall windows made us feel as if we’d slipped into another century. Kai and I explored the creaky hallways, fascinated by the old portraits that seemed to watch us with gentle curiosity. Evenings there had a golden stillness — the kind that makes you whisper without knowing why. Nevada City itself felt like a scene out of a fairytale — a small mountain town where art galleries, antique shops, and coffee houses live inside storybook Victorian buildings. Every corner seemed touched by a kind of quiet magic, as if time itself had decided to slow down here.



From there, we crossed into Oregon and found ourselves high among the branches at Out’n’About Treehouse Treesort in Cave Junction. Sleeping in a treehouse — complete with a queen-size bed and every necessity you’d expect on the ground — felt like stepping into a dream where childhood and adulthood finally agree to share the same sky. Most of the treehouses stood thirty feet above the earth, connected by rope bridges straight out of Jumanji. There were horse rides, a self-filtered pool fed by a natural creek, and a zipline that sent laughter echoing through the forest. The air smelled of cedar, and the light that filtered through the leaves painted our mornings in shifting shades of green. Kai called it “the house that breathes,” and I think he was right.



As we continued north, each stop revealed a different side of the journey — Ashland, with its lively street performers, open-air theaters, and a river that shimmered like brushed silver; West Linn, calm and sunlit, framed by tall pines and gentle hills; and Portland, with its murals, bridges, and coffee shops that felt like hidden art studios waiting to be found.

Then came Hansville, the very tip of our adventure. The view stretched toward Hood Canal and Hood Island, where the water changed color two or three times a day — as if the tides were painting for me. One morning, we watched a submarine pass between the island and the peninsula, disappearing into the blue. If I swam far enough, I thought, maybe I’d reach Canada. There’s a lighthouse nearby, berry bushes everywhere you turn, and air so clean it almost startles you. Maybe we were lucky with the weather, but even if we weren’t, Hansville has a stillness that feels sacred — the kind that holds you still, like a breath before a brushstroke.

We stayed at The Darling Hotel in Visalia — a 1930s Art Deco treasure where history and modern comfort meet in perfect balance. David Ahern, the manager, left an unforgettable impression with his outstanding hospitality — thoughtful, graceful, and sincere. Every space in this hotel feels beautifully composed: the soft geometry of the architecture, the play of light through tall windows, and the quiet sophistication that lingers in each room. It’s the kind of place you’d want to film — where every corner seems to hold a story, and every frame feels cinematic. The rooftop restaurant, Elderwood, offers panoramic views of the city and distant mountains, while below, the atmosphere carries a sense of calm confidence — as if the building itself understands elegance.



Our final stop was the River Lodge in Paso Robles, a mid-century lodge reborn with modern California soul. The design was impeccable — every detail, inside and out, felt intentional. A soft blend of modern style and cozy charm came together so effortlessly that you forget it’s called a motel at all. There was a fireplace in our room and a hammock right outside the door, where evenings carried the scent of lavender and oak. The hospitality matched the design — effortless, kind, and genuine. Kai said he wants to come back here to celebrate his twenty-first birthday — and I can’t think of a better place for it.



Two months on the road taught me something I couldn’t have found in a studio: that art isn’t only made with paint — sometimes it’s made by the road itself, by the laughter of your child echoing between the trees, by the light that changes as you drive north, and by the stories whispered through old walls that still remember who passed before you.