The image of cleric women wandering the streets of the Balboa
peninsula seems strange to those who think of the area as a hub of
revelry.
On any given summer day, you can find half-naked 20, 30 and
40-somethings running, roller-blading, skateboarding, drinking and
laughing along the streets and patios of the beachfront community.
Quite a contrast to the reserved, full-length, black and white habits
donned by nuns, who were rumored to once own a vacation home on the
peninsula.
Tucked away on the beach side of 39th Street -- lovingly referred
to by its most, um, social, residents as "dirty-ninth street" -- is
an unassuming rust-colored house that was allegedly built as a
retreat for nuns. Calls to the Orange County Diocese and city and
county historical societies cannot confirm that fact, but the
residents of the street are convinced.
It is the only house in the area devoid of street-facing windows,
as the casements are instead hidden around the eastern corner, where
they frame the main entrance to the house. All that is visible from
the street is series of wooden panels, which give the home an eerie
and isolated look. The stilted slate is bordered by a simple patio,
where perhaps the nuns sat and watched the sunset.
Of course, today the nuns are gone and the house has been rented
out by two bachelors, who have brought the home into current
compliance with the infamy of the party street. Nick, a 30-year-old
engineer, was kind enough to give me a tour of the distinctive house
that he now calls home.
Once inside, the design of the house epitomizes the humility in
which holy women vow to live their lives. The living room is minimal,
free of decorative molding, extravagant light fixtures or carpet. The
cold slab floor is only slightly warmed by the wood-burning
fireplace, decorated by stones.
The kitchen follows suit and holds only the basics. No dishwasher,
convection oven or island. Only a stove, sink and ample room to store
supplies. The bathroom is smaller than a walk-in closet, with barely
enough room for a tiny shower, toilet and sink.
Even the bedroom is smaller than most walk-in closets and squeezes
Nick's desk and futon -- which he has no room to fold out -- to the
middle of the room. One of the home's two windows sits in the
southern wall of the humble room and offers no direct light. The
view: a duplicate window, just across the entry way, that looks into
identically miniature quarters.
"Is that it?" I asked at the end of the three-minute tour.
