Standing in the frontyard of Greg Gill in Altadena is to span two worlds: the Eton Fire Burn Zone. And normal – or at least, the appearance of it.
Looking east of Crosby Street, you will find the home of his neighbor, Tina Kaldos. It’s still standing. All the houses are also located on the block. Across the street is the location of Mariya Mazarati. Unharmed.
However, looking west, Gil’s neighbor’s house is located in the ruins. So I’ll do half a dozen next to it.
Their home survived the flames, but Gill, Kaldos and Mazarati are still unable to live in them. The smoke, soot and heat on January 7th caused too much damage.
So, as the number of fire casualties tired of bouncing between hotel rooms and vacation rentals is increasing, they stay in recreational vehicles parked next to their homes. The RV is far from the formaldehyde-containing FEMA trailer that pissed off Hurricane Katrina victims 20 years ago. One was carried by Tesla Cybertruck. It’s a stuffed animal. Everything is a bluff.
And they are part of the way this traumatized neighbourhood around the fire zone of western Altadena is trying to survive together and move on.
“Two years at Motel 6? No, baby, I’m in the RV,” said Gill, who lives with his partner in a 27-foot Puma trailer next to the 3,100-square-foot historic artisan house.
Gill is a crowd-optimistic Southernner whose decision to move into RV made others do the same on his block. But the weight of the tragedy, and the strange juxtaposition of life within it, often catches him off guard.
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“It’s still surreal,” he said. “It’s okay to get out of the trailer several times a day, open the door and look at the house.
“And I’m watching this,” he said. “And well, it’s like being here.”
His neighbor on the other side, Caldos lives with her two teenage sons in five 35-foot cougars that barely fit the grass in front of her small fenced. They moved to the trailer in early March.
Kardos attempts to advance north at least a block or two. In the distance, the neighborhood is very completely wiped out and looks like a war zone.
“This is a crazy situation,” she said. “But from a bad situation, I think this is the best situation.”
The Eton Fire has destroyed more than 9,400 structures, including more than 6,000 homes, over approximately 22 square miles. There are still many things cleared. Also, most characteristic soils have not been tested for hazardous materials.
Images of drones in western Altadena following the Eton fire in January 2025.
(Brian van der Bragg/Los Angeles Times)
At the boundary of fire zones lined with burns and untouched facilities, the return of residents, visitors and commercial transactions prompted mixed emotions and difficult questions. Is it safe?
Good Neighbor Bar – Located near Crosby Street and Lincoln Avenue, around the corner from Gill’s home, it opened 21 days after the fire. According to owner Randy Clement, many of the customers were locals who longed for before Time and wanted to be close to those experiencing the same sadness. His bartender became a sounding board, sharing tears, frustration, hope and story.
“It’s both scary and beautiful and beautiful,” said Clement, who survived the Altadena home.
“Being inside a Good Neighbor Bar is like taking the subway a month after 9/11,” he said. “Because of proximity, there’s a great possibility that the person next to you is experiencing what you’re going through.”
Clement said Altadena’s still-established small businesses are struggling to stay open, not only because tens of thousands of local customers have been evacuated, but also because they are reluctant to visit even the surviving portion of Atadena.
Around the corner of Crossbee Street, people with RVs were happy if they were initially a little surprised to see the bustle of nearby restaurants, supermarkets and gyms.
“We are actually very fortunate and there’s a sense of semi-normality around us,” Mazarati said. “I have to pass some devastation, but you turn the corner and you’re, OK, this is normal. There are people getting tacos, and then someone gets cute coffee from a cute coffee shop. That’s odd. You certainly have survivor guilt.”
January, Gov. GavinNewsom has issued an executive order temporarily suspending local laws restricting the use of RVs and mobile homes as temporary housing in private lots.
Mazarati has a brown Heartland wilderness RV parked on her frontide.
For days after the fire broke out, Mazarati’s husband stayed on Crosby Street, behind the evacuation zone line. Neighbors such as Kardos, Gill, Rob Bruce and Gill’s partners also fought for the flames with garden hoses and rakes. They called themselves Crosby Command.
Last month, Mazarati and her husband borrowed an RV from a friend. She is a hybrid employee at a Burbank salary company and she works from home in a trailer. She wants to be close to her home, but repairs are being made, including replacing the smoke-damaged insulation.
Mazarati’s garden RV is too cramped for her energetic 2-year-old and 6-year-old son, so her family is staying at Airbnb in North Hollywood.
But when she was in the RV, she said, “I feel like there’s a strange normality near my house.” And she enjoys a trailer pal lunch at the RV of Kaldos across the street.
Greg Gill, left, Rob Bruce lives in the RV next to their home.
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
The fire burned to the house of Kaldos. When the house was cold, the walls broke. Her wooden floors are melted and warped glue together. The air conditioner has become toxic. The furniture had to be removed for smoke and was removed for cleaning.
For two months, she and her teenage son carry some clothes and personal items in Trader Joe’s bags – constantly travelled, allowing them to book several days at a time at various hotels and vacation rentals in a sudden squeezed market. They moved three times over a week.
Bouncing around Pasadena and Glendale, I felt that logistics at school drop-offs were impossible. Kardos’ eldest son attends classes near their home. Her younger son goes to Duarte’s school. Caldos was part of a carpooling group with other families taking turns commuting.
The carpool fell apart after the fire. She drove to Duarte every day. She then hired a taxi to take her to school from where her family was staying every night.
During her shuffle, Gill and Bruce got an RV.
“I said, ‘Oh my god, this is just fine. You have something like steel fixtures!” she laughed.
Kardos called her homeowner’s insurance company. This said they paid the rental room as a temporary home and wanted an RV instead.
A few days later, she had to laugh when a man wearing a silver Tesla cyber truck rolled up a huge trailer hooked behind her. He had borrowed a truck to tow it, but he had to recharge frequently because the RV was so heavy, without knowing he would get an electric car.
Freddy Sayegh stands in the ruins of the house where he grew up, wearing an “Altadena Not Sale” T-shirt. Etonfire has destroyed more than 6,000 homes in and around the city.
(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)
It is parked behind a hedge in a green front yard – and a yard sign with the words “Altadena not for sale.”
Kaldos is nervous about the health effects of living near a burned house. But her children said they needed stability. And they are pleased to see progress on their blocks – many clearings, tree chopping, house repairs, neighbors have returned.
“For now, it helps kids see all the activity, all the fuss and busts, forward movements,” she said. “There’s something soothing about seeing change. We’re not just raising our hands and saying, ‘Oh crap.’ ”
Gill and Bruce leased their RV through the homeowner’s insurance, as they didn’t want to live in the hotel for several months.
The RV has a small, functional kitchen. LED fake fireplace. A desk turned to a small table where couples handle disaster recovery documents contact.
Their view is a view of the fire fragments next to it. Washer and dryer shells. A brick chimney still standing. Not a wall block.
Greg Gill opens a window in his house. It follows the boundary of the Eton Fireburn Zone.
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
“I didn’t leave,” said Bruce, a self-style handyman and retired city planner who worked in Simi Valley and Palmdale. “There’s too much to try to do this from the hotel. Here’s the grounds I maintain. If you’re in the hotel you can’t maintain. If you’re in the hotel you can’t rebuild the fencing. If you’re in the hotel you can’t rebuild the electricity.
Gill, a Bruce and Louisiana transplant from San Gabriel Mountains Foothills, parks his RV next to a single story artisan wrapping around an outdoor courtyard. Built in 1915, the architecture is an architectural gem with stained glass windows, original wooden floors and an underground wine cellar.
Bruce and Gill bought the location in 1999 for $305,000. It was in devastation, so they spent years painstakingly doing it. According to Zillow, it was worth $1.4 million before the fire.
The couple were in the middle of a modification when the fire came. The exterior walls, made from Douglas fur, were freshly oiled and flammable. The burnt palm leaves were pressed against the house, leaving stripes behind.
“It makes no sense to have us here yet,” Gill said. “The wind pattern – it was like a fire cyclone that was completely at the back of the house.”
Smoke and embers were blown underground through attic vents through cracks around doors and windows. Thick soot – then cleaning chemicals – damaged wallpaper from 100 years ago.
Before the fire, Gill said, it was a “party house” and big and loud.
“You can have a disco at Porte Cochere. You can have a drum circle on the back. … So many people have put such a good vibe in this property for many years. We also include.”
Tina Renato leads yoga sessions at the homes of Rob Bruce and Greg Gill in Altadena.
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
On a Friday morning in March, the couple held a blues yoga class. This usually met in Pasadena Park and held sessions on the grass.
Bruce and Gill hold their annual classes in the spring. Spring vines bloom with purple flowers. They decided to go through class after cleaning the garden, Bruce said.
Some regular participants were emotionally unprepared to visit Altadena. Others had health concerns.
Twelve participants, including an 82-year-old woman who lost her home in the fire, stretched out the mats on the green grass under the sung eucalyptus tree. The bird squealed. Down the street, the chain gets caught up in hiking.
Yoga instructor Tina Renato, a professional magician, urged attendees to stretch their shoulders.
She stood against the house of Bruce and Gill, the shard behind her.
“My feelings are very mixed in this oasis,” Renato told the class.
Bruce said: “Don’t turn around.”
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