DOES he or doesn't he live here? I searched in vain for some sign of human occupation in the library, living room, game room, garden room, powder room, dining room, breakfast room and courtyard terrace, and all I came up with was a framed photo on an antique secretary of Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa flashing his radiant white smile.
For several encouraging seconds, I was sure I'd found one more piece of evidence: two dozen or so very plump, very yellow lemons set out in a wooden bowl on the kitchen countertop, looking ripe to be paired with a nice, thick meringue. How homey. I picked one up and sniffed. Not a hint of an aroma. I squeezed. Not a hint of give. Ah, I get it: lemon decoys. Like the lovely little decoy books so artfully stacked and angled on a side table, all written in Danish.
To be fair, I was allowed access to only the downstairs spaces of Getty House -- the official L.A. mayor's residence -- and not to the upstairs bedrooms and sitting room. Still, that's a lot of square footage even in a 10,000-square-foot house for revealing nothing more than the combined efforts of 17 interior decorators recruited by Nancy Daly Riordan 10 years ago to refurbish all 14 rooms and seven baths.
I can't say that I blame former Mayors Richard Riordan and James K. Hahn for never moving in. And I wouldn't have blamed Mayor Villaraigosa if he'd mostly stayed put in his Mount Washington home, as he vowed to do after his election in May because his two youngest children liked their neighborhood. Soon after his inauguration, however, he had a change of mind. He, his wife Corina, their 16-year-old son Antonio Jr. and 12-year-old daughter Natalia would reside full time in Getty House after all. The children saw it, liked it, and wanted those bigger bedrooms that would be theirs, according to a spokesperson in his press office.
Whatever the reason, the populist in me thought it a worthy and gracious decision. The Villaraigosas are the first family of Los Angeles and as such were showing true public-servant spirit by assuming the role wholeheartedly, becoming residents of the rent-free dwelling provided by the citizens of the city.
The cinema-swayed dreamer in me loved the Horatio Alger ending: poor Eastside boy makes good, then makes grand. Antonio Villaraigosa, who once stuffed his shoes with cardboard, lands in a majestic mansion with a one-acre garden and tennis court, on a palm-lined boulevard of Windsor Square -- a neighborhood with a pedigree as thoroughbred as it gets in L.A. This was straight out of a Frank Capra or Preston Sturges movie.
