The General Situation

Cool You Can Carry

Overheard in the locker room today (September 17): "I need to start taking vitamin D. I have terrible seasonal affective disorder."

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Adam was helping his mom with something this afternoon, so I had to go alone to the farmer's market. The sun was blazing, and I was having a difficult time negotiating the crowds, selecting and paying for produce, and carrying my purchases—including crushable items like tomatoes and strawberries. All of which is to say I was relieved to get back to my car, where I found a parking ticket.

I am what's known as a "rules person," in that I respect rules at almost all costs, so this was upsetting. And baffling, because the block allowed for 75 minutes of parking, and I was there for less than an hour. My defense:

• I parked at 3:40 p.m. I walked the one block to the market, tried to buy avocados at 3:45 p.m., and was rebuffed because the market bell hadn't run. I killed the 15 minutes by strolling a bit.

• Could I have been in a loading zone? No. After I parallel-parked—flawlessly—I opened the passenger door to make sure I was near the curb. That's only relevant because I also noticed that the curb wasn't painted green or yellow, signifying a much smaller parking limit.

• I finished loading up my car at 4:28 p.m. Unfortunately, it only occurred to me to photograph the ticket alongside my clock while I was driving on the 101 freeway. 

I tried to contest it as soon as I got home, of course, but my citation wasn't in the system yet. How do you prove you weren't somewhere?

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You know you're somewhere rural when....

Yosemite Slam

We're just back from a week up north: Yosemite National Park, San Francisco, and Livermore for my nephew's wedding. The wedding was perfect, and it was a delight to see my nephew so happy. San Francisco is still not my favorite city, but I enjoyed the food. (I can recommend Cala, Rintaro, and Cotogna restaurants.) 

As for Yosemite, I know I went there as a child, because I remember the T-shirts that said "Go climb a rock," which I thought were brilliant. (Still do, and I wish the gift shops sold them.) But I didn't recall much else about it. So entering the valley was a gorgeous shock.

The valley is astounding, with sheer cliffs everywhere you look. It's also a bit park-like, rather than nature-like: There are a ton of people, and many paths are paved. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what I think of as hiking. That's not to say the scenery was anything other than spectacular. On our first of two days, we hiked up to the top of Vernal Falls....

And then we hiked to get the view of the valley I posted above, followed by a short walk to see Bridal Veil Falls. When the wind picks up, the water gets blown to the right.

We stayed at the famous Ahwahnee Lodge. I can't say I was disappointed, because expectations were low: From my experience at the Furnace Creek Inn (which now has a new name) at Death Valley, I knew that Aramark, the concessionaire that runs the National Parks property, is simply not up to the task. The building is stunning, the location impeccable; everything else is Motel 6, but at much higher prices. I'm not proud to admit I've become the kind of person who answers the surveys that hotels send after the stay, and this one got an earful. The food and beverage manager even called to follow up, but what else was there to say? The food is awful and extremely overpriced, and the service is generally awkward at best. Plus, the bar area stank so bad I had to hold my breath every time I got three steps in.

Our room was one of the 1920s cottages behind the lodge. The exterior was cute, but for two days I had to hear about the pea under the mattress poor quality of the sheets.

On our second day, on the advice of an engaging young woman working in the bar (where the cheaper breakfast is available), we went outside the valley for a hike to and above May Lake. There were a handful of other hikers, which was actually helpful, because the trail wasn't particularly marked. The views were insane, although the high altitude made for slow going.

Two last thoughts: 1) I need to rethink that shirt. And 2) The website Yosemite Hikes is really, really good—so good that I sent a fan letter. (Unrequited, alas.) If you're going to the park, you should absolutely use it.

Sticky Situations

The other night, Adam and I were at Bettina, the restaurant here that we love. (We're having the owners over for dinner tomorrow, an exciting social leap for us.) There were a dozen people at the table next to ours; I think they were Italians, but Italians after a day at the beach—a little fried and sloppy. And there were at least three very young children, one of whom which was rolling his toy car back and forth on the banquette, inches from Adam's leg. Adam was sitting like Queen Elizabeth; kids in restaurants do not bring out his fun, tolerant side. I looked over at the mother, who was busy breastfeeding an infant, hoping I could make productive eye contact, but she seemed to be giving a dirty look to Adam, as if he was somehow at fault. (The father was MIA.) Before we knew it, the kid was playing under our table.

"They'll be gone soon," whispered our server.

Sure enough, they got up to leave in a matter of minutes. And then the mother came over. "We understand," said Adam, convinced that she must be about to apologize for her inability to control her child, and he waved her and the matter off with his hand. The woman started to speak—I think she was searching for the right words in English—and Adam kept going: "Really, it's not a big deal. We're fine." But what she really wanted was permission to retrieve a toy from under our table.

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I've become friendly with a guy I occasionally see at the café I frequent after swimming. But we're not so close that I haven't told him to stop asking if Adam and I have bought a house yet. As my family members know, I'd rather wait till I have news to discuss the matter, because what is there to say at this point? We looked at a nice house that was more expensive than we'd like, and a charming old house that needs more work than we want to do, and a small house on a suburban street—any of them could work. And maybe one day we'll decide to move forward on one of them. Maybe not.

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Today, my café friend told me that he's been reading my Santa Barbara real estate blog, which was helpful: If I think a local is reading it, I find myself wanting to write more. Tomorrow, I email area brokers about it, which I guess is really the official start of this project....

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If you like Renée Zellweger, and maybe even if you don't, I recommend Jonathan Van Meter's profile of her in New York magazine. The combination of a smart celebrity and a good writer whom she trusts can lead to a very interesting article. I do wish it had mentioned Down With Love, an appealing riff on the Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies.

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Adam recently discovered Renegade Wines, a store here that I told him about years ago. The other day, I spotted this note there—it reminded me of when we were in Australia, and a couple from Sydney asked us if we wanted to join them for a sticky after dinner.

Contact Sport

My friend Amy posted one of the best photos ever on Instagram yesterday:

I thought it was so funny—still do!—that I made it the little photo that shows up whenever she texts (or theoretically) calls me. I sent her a screenshot to show her, and she told me that this is the photo she has with my contact:

I couldn't believe it.

She couldn't remember why she had done it, but I did. Years ago, I received a spam email with a subject line about how Anjelica Huston enjoys, or maybe insists on, a large penis. I thought it was so funny—still do!—that I sent it to Amy. None of this makes it better that she associates the photo with me, of course.

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We saw a hawk feasting on a chipmunk the other day. It's proof that not all of the nature around here is unnerving.

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I have a large, ugly birthday coming up, so my mom is sending me a series of birthday cards—which would be nice, if they avoided certain phrases.

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Future generations will wonder why on earth we were made to write a capital Q like that.

Geronimo!

Well, this is not something you want to find outside your front door. Apparently, the owner of the house we're renting neglected to pay the water bill.

Everyone who comes here wonders who the owner is, and we have precious few answers. Around seven years ago, he built this house and another one as investments; the other one sold quickly, but this one didn't. So he rented it for a while, until the big fire destroyed the landscaping around the house and everything soft (i.e., fabric) inside had to be replaced. Which is why we were subsequently able to rent it for a relative deal.

The man himself, however, remains a mystery. He once worked for Goldman Sachs, but no one knows where he lives—not us, not the brokers who have represented the house for sale (and who are helping us look for a house), and not the broker who represents the house for rent. (In fact, she has never even spoken to him on the phone.) He has a Japanese name, but while some of his emails can read awkwardly, the brokers who have spoken to him say that he's most definitely fluent. I like to picture him in a sky-high penthouse, stroking a hairless cat.

Anyway, he apologized for the water sitch; the credit card on file had expired. And Adam got to go down to the Montecito Water District—once his nemesis, but that's a story for another day—to pay the bill in person, as directed, before we got shut off.

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Adam has been pestering me to do an Instagram ad for Siteline, and it would indeed be nice if someone would read the site. To say the process has been an exercise in frustration is a massive understatement. 

First, I was told that I either had to link my Siteline Instagram page to an existing Facebook page or to create a new Facebook page—but there was no link to do the former. Doing the latter created a duplicate page, which I tried to merge with the real page, but Facebook said I was forbidden to do such a thing.

Then, after I chose the parameters for ad, it was rejected because Facebook (which owns Instagram) requires extra scrutiny for ads relating to "social issues, elections, or politics." The ad was about "the grooviest house in greater Santa Barbara," but of course there was no way for me to explain their mistake to them. Instead, I was directed to "confirm my ID," so they could be comfortable that I wasn't a foreign agent. This entailed turning on the dreaded two-factor authentication; uploading a copy—front and back—of my driver's license; and submitting a non-P.O.-box mailing address so the company can snail-mail me a postcard with a code that I'll have to enter.

This rant isn't just to whine about Facebook, a company I despise. It's to show that while Facebook may, in many ways, be as evil as the media likes to portray it, it's also fantastically inept.

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This photo stopped me cold when I was looking at listings. You rarely see diving boards anymore, presumably because they make insurance companies nervous. What's the fun of being a kid if you can't do an upside-down cannonball every now and then? Related: "Why do we scream 'Geronimo' when leaping from things?"

Snake, Rattle, and Roll

Exciting times on the hiking trail yesterday! Adam and I were minutes from the house when we came upon a very large snake—much larger than the one that was in our kitchen. It turned its head toward us and rattled its tail. Message received! We waited as it slithered into the bushes, and then we waited a few minutes more. They shake their rattles to let others know they're there; it's a warning not to disturb them, and not a warning that they plan to attack. We slowly walked forward, taking enough so the snake would know we were approaching but not so much that we wouldn't be able to hear its rattle again. P.S. I took a video, but I was too far away (and I shot it in portrait mode).

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Just as exciting, but in a different way: I had the best chocolate chip cookie of my life—it was both crispy and chewy—at Bossie's Kitchen. (You have to take a bite before you know whether it's photo-worthy.)

Minding My Beeswax

My website is live: It's called Siteline, and the URL is sitelinesb.com. Please bear in mind that it's still very much a work in progress (which explains all the spaces marked "advertisement." And don't bother signing up for the email newsletter, because I can't get the developer to confirm that emails are even being stored at this point.

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A recent houseguest gave me a bit of stink eye when I covered a bowl of leftovers in plastic wrap. What else was I supposed to do? Use Bee's Wrap, it turns out. From the about page on the website:  "By infusing organic cotton with beeswax, organic jojoba oil, and tree resin, [founder Sarah Kaeck] created a washable, reusable, and compostable alternative to plastic wrap." You use the heat in your hands to press them into shape. A three-pack in various sizes is $18, but they're said to last a year. And they work!

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I forgot to mention that when our neighbor came over the other day, she said that we're just entering tarantula season.

Back to Square One

We had a brief negotiation over a house but it didn't work out; the owner wants more than we think the property is worth. While this development is dispiriting, we were always a bit ambivalent about the house—there was some tweeness to the style and questionable air flow, and we would have had to do significant construction. The search continues! Below: a house that we went back to for a second visit. It's like something out of Clue.

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Last night we hosted a Newcomers dinner party: six fellow members came over for an organized potluck. (As hosts, we got to decide the theme. We went with "farmer's market," because we're big fans of it, which you may not have realized.) I don't know if this is a Santa Barbara thing, a Newcomers thing, or what, but they all arrived early. And they stayed for four and a quarter hours! So I guess everyone had fun.

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And today, we had our pistol of a next-door neighbor over, although "next-door" is relative. After we showed her our house, she showed us hers, including the substantial garden that we can sort of see from our terrace. Among the topics discussed was the fire two years ago that affected both of our properties. Later, she sent a time-lapse video taken by a neighbor's security camera and the photo below.

Melon Man

I've written before about the "soft connections" we've made around here—not friends, nor even acquaintances, just people who recognize us. Our latest conquest is the guy selling melons at the farmer's market. Melon season overlapped with multiple houseguest visits, so we've been buying a lot of melons. And rather than simply grab one and pay, I've been engaging the seller with questions: How ripe is this melon, what does this one taste like, etc. I trust his choices more than my own guesses, even though I suspect his father (who grows the melons but skips the markets) is the real expert. Anyway, he now knows us as a pair, and I think he might even recognize us individually.

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For research purposes, I went to the open house for an 1880s Queen Anne house in the Upper East neighborhood. It got carved into apartments decades ago, and ridden hard. The ghostly glimpses of lives past were moving.

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The other morning, I woke up to an email from the new editor of Tribeca Citizen chiding me for unsubscribing from the site's emails. But I hadn't! But she got a notification that I had! And I didn't receive that day's email.... Then, a couple of hours before dinner, I realized that there had been no text confirmation for the reservation—and when I looked into it, I saw that I hadn't received an email after making the reservation, either. At the restaurant, the owners said that I had made two reservations for that night, including one for 6:15 p.m. (which is early even for me). But I hadn't! At least I don't think I had. And why didn't I get an email for either reservation? I believe that there are good explanations for these situations, although I doubt I'll ever learn them. In the meantime, I'm left feeling like I'm having a weird reaction to Ambien, and I don't even take the stuff. (Please let me know if I send you any weird midnight emails.)

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This guy was standing in the middle of a parking lot—i.e., between me and lunch—and he wouldn't look up, even after I yelled out the window several times. I had to resort to honking, which people rarely do in Santa Barbara. He budged just enough to let me pass, without ever turning away from his phone.

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Last spider-related photos for a while, I promise: a stunning web visible from our master bathroom and the family that lives near the light switch in the garage.

Good Housepeeking

When we started searching for a house to buy—was it last fall?—the hunt was fun. Who doesn't like to look at houses? Over time, however, it has become a drag. Adam and I are wildly ready to put down roots here, but we don't want to settle. So we keep looking.

Today, we saw five houses. Wednesdays are when properties new to market (and occasionally just because) are available for a "broker's open." Civilians are generally welcome, too, and anyway, most of the brokers know us at this point. "You guys are still looking?" asked one at the first house we visited. At least he remembered us.

The good news is that we might be ready to move forward, but that's all you'll get from me unless it works out. (Don't call/text/@ me, because I won't break.) The other good news is that all five properties were ones I could see myself writing about with enthusiasm, which got me excited again about my real-estate website. The launch should happen any day now.

Here are a few photos from four of the houses. The first one was straight out of a Wes Anderson movie. I'm not convinced we're interesting enough to live there.

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An upside to spider season: The webs are stunning, especially when bedazzled with dew.