Irvine, California

Based on Wikipedia: Irvine, California

The City That Was Drawn Before It Was Built

In 1959, an architect named William Pereira sat down with a blank piece of paper and designed an entire city from scratch. Not a neighborhood. Not a shopping center. A city—complete with where people would live, work, shop, and play, all planned before a single foundation was poured. The result was Irvine, California, one of the largest planned communities ever built in the United States.

Pereira's original vision was elegant in its simplicity: the city would be shaped like a necklace. Residential villages would be strung along two parallel main streets, and at the bottom would hang a pendant—the newly planned campus of the University of California. It was urban planning as jewelry design.

Today, Irvine is home to more than 318,000 people, making it the second most populous city in Orange County and one of the 65 largest cities in America. But what makes it fascinating isn't its size. It's the fact that nearly every tree, every road curve, every shopping plaza exists because someone decided it should be there decades before anyone moved in.

Before the Architects: Ten Thousand Years of History

The land that became Irvine wasn't empty when the planners arrived. The Kizh people, also known as the Tongva or Gabrieleño, had called this place home for thousands of years. They built villages, developed trade networks, and created a rich cultural life long before anyone from Europe knew this coast existed.

That changed in 1769 when Gaspar de Portolá, a Spanish explorer, arrived. His expedition led to the establishment of missions, military forts, and vast cattle herds that transformed the landscape. The King of Spain began parceling out the land—some for religious missions, some for private ranches.

Then came Mexican independence in 1821, which reshuffled the deck entirely. The new Mexican government passed the Secularization Act of 1833, stripping the Catholic missions of their lands and redistributing them to Mexican citizens who applied for grants. Three of these massive land grants—called ranchos—would eventually merge to become the Irvine Ranch: Rancho Santiago de Santa Ana, Rancho San Joaquín, and Rancho Lomas de Santiago.

How a Drought Created an Empire

The story of how one family came to own 110,000 acres of Southern California begins with a climate disaster.

In 1864, California was suffering through what became known as the Great Drought. Cattle were dying by the thousands. José Andrés Sepúlveda, who owned Rancho San Joaquín, was drowning in debt. Desperate for cash, he sold 50,000 acres to a group of four businessmen for just $18,000. To put that in perspective, that works out to about 36 cents per acre for some of the most valuable real estate on Earth.

The buyers were Benjamin Flint, Thomas Flint, Llewellyn Bixby, and a man named James Irvine. Two years later, the same group picked up another 47,000 acres—Rancho Lomas de Santiago—for a mere $7,000.

Initially, these men were sheep ranchers. The landscape of Southern California in the 1860s wasn't the suburban paradise we know today. It was dry, dusty, and covered with grazing animals. But James Irvine had larger ambitions.

In 1878, Irvine bought out his partners for $150,000—about $4.9 million in today's dollars. He now controlled a private domain stretching 23 miles from the Pacific Ocean to the Santa Ana River. When he died in 1886, his son James Irvine II inherited everything and incorporated it as the Irvine Company.

The younger Irvine transformed the ranch's operations. Out went the sheep. In came field crops, olive groves, and citrus orchards. By 1918, the Irvine Ranch was growing 60,000 acres of lima beans alone—making it one of the largest agricultural operations in California.

A Railroad, a Name Mix-Up, and World War II

The name "Irvine" almost didn't stick to this place at all.

When the Santa Fe Railroad extended its line through the ranch in 1888, it established a station and named it after James Irvine. But there was a problem: another post office in Calaveras County already had the name Irvine. Postal regulations prevented duplicates. So the town that grew around the station was called Myford instead, named after James Irvine II's son.

It took until 1914 for the naming conflict to be resolved and the town to officially become Irvine.

The ranch continued as agricultural land through the early 20th century, but World War II changed everything. The federal government needed land for military bases, and the Irvine family sold parcels for two Marine Corps air stations: MCAS El Toro and MCAS Tustin. These bases would shape the region's development for decades—and their eventual closure would spark one of the most contentious land-use battles in Orange County history.

The University That Changed Everything

James Irvine II died in 1947 at age 80, and his son Myford took over the company. Myford began cautiously opening small sections of the ranch to development, but he died just twelve years later, in 1959. That same year, the University of California came calling with a request that would reshape Southern California.

The university wanted 1,000 acres for a new campus.

This was the catalyst. William Pereira, hired as the university's consulting architect, didn't just design a campus—he designed an entire city to surround it. The Irvine Company planners joined in, creating master plans for a community of 50,000 people with industrial zones, residential neighborhoods, recreational areas, commercial centers, and greenbelts.

There was some corporate politics involved. Pereira originally wanted to place the university at the northern end of the ranch, where the land was flat and easy to build on. But that was the Irvine Company's most valuable farmland. The company refused to give it up, so the university got pushed to the base of the southern coastal hills instead. This accident of corporate negotiation actually improved the design—the university became the "pendant" at the bottom of the necklace, with villages strung along the two main streets leading to it.

The old agricultural town of Irvine, where the original railroad station stood, was renamed East Irvine to avoid confusion with the new planned city taking shape nearby.

Villages, Not Neighborhoods

What makes Irvine unusual isn't just that it was planned—many suburbs were planned. It's how it was planned.

The city is divided into what are officially called "villages," not neighborhoods. Each village was designed with its own distinct architectural theme, separated from other villages by six-lane arterial roads. Within each village, you'll find houses of similar design clustered together with their own commercial centers, schools, and religious institutions.

This creates a strange uniformity. Drive through one village and every house might have Spanish tile roofs. Cross an arterial road into another village and suddenly everything is Cape Cod-style. The effect can be disorienting, like moving between different theme parks.

The homeowners' associations that govern these villages exercise varying degrees of control. In the more restrictive areas—and some are very restrictive—the HOA regulates not just what color you can paint your house, but what plants you can put in your yard and what materials can cover your roof. In exchange for this control, residents get amenities like members-only swimming pools, tennis courts, and parks.

There's an interesting exception: the older parts of the Village of Northwood, developed in the early 1970s independently of the Irvine Company, have no homeowners' association at all. They're the closest thing to a "normal" neighborhood in the entire city.

The Car Is King

Here's the uncomfortable truth about Irvine's careful planning: it was designed entirely around the automobile. Other forms of transportation—walking, biking, public transit—were essentially ignored.

The result is a city that, despite its greenbelts and bike paths, is extremely car-dependent. The village structure actually makes this worse. Because each village is self-contained and separated by major roads, traveling between villages almost requires a car. You might live a quarter mile from a grocery store as the crow flies, but getting there on foot could mean crossing a six-lane highway.

The planners did include some forward-thinking features. Rights-of-way for power lines double as bicycle corridors and greenbelts. The city irrigates all its public landscaping with reclaimed water. But these environmental touches don't change the fundamental reality that Irvine was built for driving.

The Airport That Wasn't

When the Cold War ended, the military no longer needed MCAS El Toro. The base closed, leaving 7.3 square miles of prime real estate up for grabs. What happened next consumed Orange County politics for over a decade.

Newport Beach, the wealthy coastal city to the southwest, had a problem. John Wayne Airport was surrounded by development and couldn't expand. Many Newport Beach residents championed converting El Toro into a new commercial airport—bigger, better, and crucially, not in their backyards.

Irvine residents, who would be under the flight paths of any El Toro airport, fought back fiercely. The legal battle lasted ten years. In late 2003, Irvine won. The city annexed the former Marine base, blocking the airport initiative.

What rose in place of fighter jets and runways? The Orange County Great Park—a massive public space still being developed on the former military land. It's a reminder that even in a planned city, some of the most important decisions are made through political combat, not architectural drawing.

A Climate of Microclimates

Irvine sits in what climatologists call a Mediterranean climate zone: mild, wet winters and warm, dry summers. But that simple description hides a more interesting reality.

Because Irvine spreads across a broad valley between Loma Ridge to the north and the San Joaquin Hills to the south, different parts of the city have noticeably different weather. Southern Irvine, closer to the Pacific Ocean, experiences more of the famous "June Gloom"—the marine layer of fog and low clouds that blankets coastal Southern California in late spring and early summer. Head a few miles north, and the mornings are clearer.

The city can also experience the Santa Ana winds, those hot, dry gusts that blow from the inland deserts toward the coast. When the Santa Anas blow in winter, Irvine can feel like the Mojave rather than a coastal suburb.

Extreme weather is rare but not unknown. In January 1949, Irvine received three inches of snow—an event so unusual it's still talked about. In 1991, a tornado touched down in the city, though Orange County typically sees a tornado only about once every five years.

The Changing Face of a Planned City

When Irvine incorporated as a city on December 28, 1971, it was a small community carved out of ranch land. The 1970 census counted just 7,381 residents. By 1999, that number had grown to 134,000. The 2020 census recorded 307,670 people—a forty-fold increase in fifty years.

The demographics have shifted dramatically as well. In 2010, Irvine was majority white at 50.5%, with Asian residents making up 39.2% of the population. By 2020, those numbers had essentially flipped: Asian residents now comprise 45.4% of the population, while white residents dropped to 37.7%.

Much of this shift reflects Irvine's emergence as a major technology and semiconductor hub. Companies in these industries have attracted workers from around the world, particularly from East Asia and South Asia. The city has become one of the most diverse in Orange County, traditionally a conservative and predominantly white region.

The Economics of Perfection

Living in a carefully planned paradise doesn't come cheap.

As of 2023, Irvine's median household income was nearly $130,000—well above both the California and national averages. In 2007, when census data allowed such rankings, Irvine was the seventh richest city in America among those with populations over 65,000.

But there's a flip side to this wealth. In 2006, Irvine had the highest median gross rent of any American city with more than 100,000 people: $1,660 per month. Housing costs have only accelerated since then, creating intense pressure on working-class residents and sparking ongoing debates about income-subsidized housing.

Many homeowners in villages developed after 1980 pay a special assessment called a Mello-Roos tax. This tax emerged from California's Proposition 13, which limited property taxes. To fund the infrastructure that new developments required—roads, schools, parks—a new financing mechanism was created. Residents of newer Irvine villages essentially pay twice: regular property taxes plus Mello-Roos assessments for community facilities.

A City of Institutions

Beyond its residential villages and corporate campuses, Irvine has become a significant center for higher education. The University of California, Irvine—the pendant on Pereira's necklace—has grown into a major research university. But it's not alone.

Concordia University maintains a campus in the city, as does Irvine Valley College, a community college serving the southern Orange County region. The University of La Verne and Pepperdine University both operate satellite campuses here. For a planned community that began with no institutions at all, Irvine has accumulated an impressive educational infrastructure.

The California Dream, Engineered

There's something both appealing and unsettling about Irvine. It represents an extreme version of the California dream: sunny weather, good schools, safe streets, economic opportunity. The city consistently ranks among America's safest, and its schools are among California's best.

But it's also a place where little is left to chance. The greenbelts are planned. The architectural styles are regulated. The villages are separated by design. Even the street names tell a curated story—Jamboree Road, for instance, commemorates the Boy Scouts' 1953 National Jamboree, held on ranch land years before the city existed.

One of the Boy Scouts who attended that 1953 jamboree was a young man named David Sills from Peoria, Illinois. He liked what he saw. Years later, he moved to Irvine as an adult and went on to serve four terms as the city's mayor. It's a fitting story for a place where the future was designed before the present arrived—a city that drew people in by showing them exactly what it intended to become.

Today, that planned vision continues to evolve. The former Marine air station is becoming a great park. Tech companies have replaced citrus groves. Villages continue to sprout at the city's edges. But the fundamental character remains: this is a city where the map preceded the territory, where someone decided what the California dream should look like and then built it, one carefully regulated village at a time.