Santa Barbara

So, the fates gave me a wonderful reprieve this week. Slated to go back to work Monday, my new supervisor called me Sunday night, telling me that this week is no good, and would I mind taking an extra week off? Um....no, I would not mind. It was like getting 5 snow days all at once. Every kid knows that that's the greatest feeling in the world. But since it's a little too warm and dry for snow angels and sledding, Bubba and I decided to take another road trip.

At the suggestion of my big sis, who used to live out here, we drove on up to Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara is about 90 miles or so from Hollywood, right on the coast. So, we skip out Tuesday afternoon, down our now trusty, Santa Monica Blvd. This time though, before we get to the coast, I come across Bundy drive. Now, I'm no afficianado about the O.J. trial, but I certainly paid attention. Enough to recognize Bundy drive, anyway. We drive up the street that Nicole was killed on, and lo' and behold, we come up on Rockingham Drive: O.J's old street. Holy moley. BEA-UTIFUL houses, lacking only moats to complete the effect. Now I know how the other half lives. Now I know why O.J. was just scraping by on his $30k/month football pension. I didn't see his house per se (it's been razed), but it didn't matter. I got it. This would be the proverbial, "RIGHT side of the tracks." (Actually, you NEVER hear about the right side, only the wrong side).

So, after our little side-trip, we got back on the PCH, heading North towards Santa Barbara. We've made the Malibu drive a few times by now, so it's almost old hat. Still, with the sun presiding over a cloudless sky, it doesn't get tired. Virtually the entire ride up the coast is, Pacific Ocean to your immediate left, mountains to your right. There's a brief interlude of the splendor in Oxnard, when the PCH ends, and you have to transfer to the 101, but basically, it's a coastal trip. I also discovered that that area could be considered the avocado district. Who knew? It's like some of the random pockets one would come up on back in NYC. Like, for real, we used to live in the fancy carpet district. Or, I used to work in the upscale women's lingerie district.

Anyway, once we passed guacamole central, the spectacular scenery resumed. I couldn't even say why, but somehow, the ocean and the mountains as you get closer to Santa Barbara seem even prettier than they do earlier in the trip. So we finally get to Santa Barbara proper, and it's just a wonderful town. I guess you'd say it's a small city more than a town, because there's like 90,000 residents, but it feels like a town. We park the car, and make our way to State Street, which is where all of the shops, restaurants, and requistie Scientology Center are. There's all kinds of clothing stores, new age spirituality shops, and a great farmers market filled with organic veggies and stuff. There's also a large contingent of street musicians and apparent homeless actually. Like, Vietnam vets and young folks reeking of patchouli. I enjoyed taking it all in, but I also kept flashing to Reggie Hammond in "48 Hours," when he went to the redneck bar and quipped, "Not a very popular spot with the Brothas." This was punctuated by the fact that there was a restaurant called Sambos, right there on the main ocean drive. South Central, this ain't.

After a lovely dinner, we opted to crash at a motel for the night. We got up the next day and figured we'd tool around for a few more hours. After a late breakfast, we hit the beach for a bit. Bubba has a soft spot for all of God's creatures, so she procured the leftover complementary muffins from breakfast to bestow upon the beach bird denizens. All she had to do was pull a muffin out of the bag, and a flock of seagulls was upon us like Hitchcock's "Birds." Unbelievable. Determined to complete her mission of food mercy, we retreated to base camp to figure out Plan B. Spotting a sole seagull, as opposed to the swarm, perhaps a seagull outcast like Jonathan Livingston Seagull, she figured she could safely dispense the goodies upon him. Wrong. They swooped down like the flying monkeys in "The Wizard of Oz," seeking chocolate chip muffins instead of Toto.

While enamored with this paradise, I couldn't get past a few thoughts. At 1 o'clock on Wednesday, literally the middle of the work week, there's all these folks rollerblading, biking, playing volleyball, and just having a grand old time. I kept thinking, "What do you people DO? How are you able to live like this?" Then I got all philosophical on myself. I asked myself, "if most people work their whole lives to be able to live in a paradise like this, once there, THEN what? Where can you go from paradise? What's your motivation in the morning? How much beach volleyball can you play? Does one need a perpetual carrot dangling in front of them to force perpetual motion, or does the peace and tranquility in itself provide the inspiration for greatness?" For now, my status in life dictates I'll have to pursue the "Dangling Carrot" theory for a while.