The General Situation

Lotusland That I Love

"Madame Ganna Walska, a well-known Polish opera singer and socialite, purchased the estate in 1941 and spent the next 43 years creating Lotusland, which is now recognized as one of the ten best gardens in the world. 'Madame' was a woman of truly unique character and referred to herself as an 'Enemy of the Average.' In addition to being an accomplished opera singer, she was an avid supporter of women's rights, a generous philanthropist, a seeker of truth, and a bride to six husbands," presumably not all at once.

The first time I visited Lotusland, I thought it was neat; the second time, I found it spectacular. Has the garden changed or have I changed? Dunno, maybe both. I'm definitely far more interested in the botanical than I used to be, and the garden, thanks to the abundant rain, was in fine form.

Adam and I are members of Lotusland for the sole reason that we get to explore the garden on our own rather than on a guided tour. The joy of any garden is wandering it, not being led around and yapped at. So while he picked up his dad and stepmom at the airport, I took his aunt there. We weren't five minutes in before I said the word phallic.

Those are cycads, "an ancient group of seed plants with a crown of large compound leaves and a stout trunk. They are a minor component of the flora in tropical and subtropical regions today, but during the Jurassic Period, they were a common sight in many parts of the world." The story goes that Madame would give sailors a place to stay if they brought her a plant from their travels. Hence the garden is famous for its exotic plants.

That includes an extraordinary amount of cacti.

Look closely at this next photo and you'll see one cactus is reaching over the path and into another cactus's business.

Many of the cacti and succulents were in flower, turning the strange even stranger.

It wasn't all extraterrestrial in style. There are also exquisite traditional moments, such as the lemon pergola, a topiary garden, and, in the last photo below, an espaliered magnolia tree, which I don't think I've ever seen before.

I'd very much like to get inside the buildings, beyond the one small gallery (currently dedicated to a show of origami). I suspect there's a distinct sense of place inside. Look at the brickwork around the Moroccan star fountain....

And the fantastic planter painted with scenes of bullfights....

And what has to be the campiest fountain in all of Santa Barbara....

All hail Madame! I couldn't resist installing this postcard of her—the other photos on display in the gift shop confirm that she liked an outfit—in our fruit bowl.

P.S. When I posted the photo below on Instagram, I captioned it "magnetic rock." But it must be the paper clips that are magnetized, because they have the push-pull polar reaction to the rock, which must simply have a lot of iron in it. Either way, it's one more marvel at Lotusland.

There's a Place in France...

I hate when people say they don't want to hear other people's dreams, especially mine. Can it really be more boring than discussing which TV shows we're watching?

I'm fortunate in that celebrities frequently star in my dreams; moreover, it's not unusual for my subconscious to create an entire song, book, or movie. Last night, I dreamed that I was making a film about World War II. It had three narrative threads, rather like Dunkirk, and if you had asked right after I woke up what they were about and how they intertwined, I could've recounted the plot in detail. Alas, that moment has passed. What I do remember is someone asking what the title was.

"Bunkirk," I said.

"Dunkirk?"

"No, Bunkirk."

As if this wasn't bad enough, my subconscious made me relive the moment ad nauseum, serving up one skeptic after another to ask about the title of my movie, Bunkirk.

"Did you make it up?"

"No. Many people don't realize that there's actually a town in France named Bunkirk."

What it sounds like, of course, is a weak pornographic parody. Best one of those I ever saw was in Times Square, back in the day: Malcolm XXX.

P.P.S. Things are about to get mighty real with Snap, Crackle and Pop.

The Stud Ring: Chapter One

As explained yesterday, The Stud Ring was an intentionally trashy novel that my friend Rebecca and I started—back in 2001—and then quickly gave up on. Here's Chapter One.

“You’re the first to arrive, Ms. Abrams,” said the concierge.
        Chloe rolled her eyes and looked at her watch. Lord knows she should have known by now that no one in Manhattan is ever on time-were more babies born late in New York than anywhere else? As the concierge led her to the elevator, she made a mental note to have Andrew look it up. It would be a cute item for her column, something to balance out all the nasty gossip that it was her job to share.
        The concierge pushed the button for the 15th floor. What was she doing here?
        She’d been to the Carlyle countless times-in fact, it was the Carlyle where she got her first scoop, staking out then-Princess Fergie after the tabloids had caught her having her toes sucked by that Texas oilman. In hindsight, it was a lucky break that Fergie had gone to the workout room; Chloe had waited there for hours certain that she’d come. The princess was no smart cookie, she knew that, everyone knew that, but why on earth she would have left her suite at all was anyone’s guess. She probably wanted the publicity.
        Chloe and the concierge walked down the hall. She was hungry.... Whoever had invited her here, she hoped they were going to get to lunch quickly. The invitation did say lunch, didn’t it? That was about all it said, actually:

You are invited to lunch at the Carlyle, 12:30 p.m., Thursday, September 23.

It is in your best interest to come.

Upon arrival, tell the concierge you are here to see R.J.

The concierge showed her into a suite, a very nice suite actually—she didn’t recall ever being in this one before, and she had interviewed countless celebrities in the hotel. The marble-floored foyer opened onto a pleasantly sunny sitting room; to the right was a shut door and to the left, a dining room. The table was set, thank God.
        “Would you like something to drink, Ms. Abrams? A glass of wine?” He had the most gorgeous hair, she noticed—dark, thick, slicked down.
        “Thanks, I’m fine.”
        He started to walk toward the door. “Actually, I have a question. Who’s hosting this lunch?” Neither was surprised by the question: They had each seen stranger things than this.
        “I’m afraid I’ve been instructed not to say, Ms. Abrams. I’m sorry.”
        “You can’t blame a gossip columnist for prying,” she replied. “And anyway, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
        “Indeed, Ms. Abrams.”
The first thing Chloe did after he left was poke her head into the dining room to see how many places had been set: six. If this was a silly press junket some hyperactive publicist had dreamed up to sell a mystery movie or something, she was going to be pissed. She would have sent Andrew—he was still young enough to find eating with Sylvester Stallone a thrill. But it wasn’t, she was sure of it. The paper the invitation was printed on was way too creamy; publicists didn’t understand that sort of thing.

Joan loved the Carlyle. She had always thought it was so romantic. So romantic that she had mentally planned on having her second honeymoon there; too bad Bill had never suggested one.
        It was the perfect place for this assignation, or whatever it was. The whole thing reeked of drama—when she’d opened the envelope, she’d had to sit down. It was too strange. If Josie was playing a trick on her.... But no, the paper was too expensive, even for Josie. She hadn’t shown the invitation to anyone. She was sure to be disappointed, she thought now. Especially since she’d made such a big deal of it. She got highlights for the first time in, oh, a decade, and bought new stockings. Anyway, she could rationalize buying a new trenchcoat. It had been years since she’d had a new one, and even she knew that Burberry was fashionable again. Perhaps the coat and the sunglasses were too much. She took the glasses off.
        “May I help you?” My, what an attractive man, she thought. Could he be R.J.?
        She blinked the question away. He was the concierge.
        “I’m Mrs. William Adams,” she said. “I’m here to see R.J.”
        “Welcome, Mrs. Adams. Please come with me.”
        She put her glasses back on. If someone saw her she’d have a hard time plaining why she was being led up to a room.
        In the elevator, she looked at the back of the concierge’s neck. The hairline was impeccably tapered. She thought about how she had to take clippers to the back of Bill’s neck once a week or he began to look like a monkey.
        Breathe, she told herself. Act like you know what you’re doing.
        He let her out of the elevator first, but she didn’t know which direction they were going, so she dithered. Stop dithering, she told herself. Angelina Jolie doesn’t dither.
        They walked to the right. He stopped in front of room 1517. She stared at his neck. Her heart was racing.
        He opened the door. “Finally,” she heard a woman mutter. The concierge moved to the side, so the two women could see each other. What Chloe saw was a woman she had seen before but whose name she could never recall—the woman was average in so many ways: shoulder-length blondish hair, typical Mayflower looks, fiddling with a pair of sunglasses. What Joan saw was Chloe Abrams, and her heart did a somersault. A gossip columnist! And not just any gossip columnist, but Chloe in the Knowie! Maybe she wouldn’t be disappointed after all.
        Chloe had realized early on that every major media personality had an easily recognizable physical characteristic: Anna Wintour had her sunglasses, Andre Leon Talley dressed like a clown, Liz Tilberis had short silver hair. Make it so they can’t forget you, she decided, and started growing her hair out. That it was down to the middle of her back was not remarkable; that it fanned out in curls was. It had occurred to her more than once that if she cut her hair no one would know who she was, which was a source of both relief and anxiety. If there were times when she felt like Gilda Radner, may she rest in peace, there were many more times when she walked into a room and physically felt people recognize her. Like now.
        If only she could remember this woman’s name. She wasn’t a major player, of that she was sure. But she’d seen her around, usually at dinner dances benefiting some children’s disease. She was the kind of woman who would stuff all the envelopes but never get her picture in the society pages. Chloe rifled through her memory, trying to remember the name....
        “Mrs. Adams, may I pour you a glass of wine?”
        God bless the concierge! thought Chloe. Joan Adams—no wonder she couldn’t remember it; even the woman’s name was average.
        “Hello, Joan,” she said, standing up and holding out her hand. “Chloe Abrams. It’s been a while. Three months, to be exact. You were on the committee of the Diabetes Ball, right?”
        “Juvenile,” Joan said, pleased beyond belief that someone had noticed.

Isabella was late. Of course she was; Isabella was late the way some people are short. But so was everyone else, so what did it matter? Besides, she’d had a fight with her publisher, an important fight. He wanted to mess with the cover of the December issue, making it so that there was a slit right down the middle, with both sides flapping open to reveal a perfume ad.
        “Jesus, John,” she said. “I like to make money as much as anyone else, but we’ll be a laughingstock, and readers will hate it. The cover is responsible for the image of the magazine. Slice it open and you might as well pencil a mustache on the model’s face.”
        She made to leave. “Forget I said that: I’m sure you’d see that as an opportunity to sell hair-removal cream.”
        She left with the matter unresolved. What was the industry coming to? When she’d started out it had been so glamorous—the covers were like art. She used to marvel at them for hours. Now the magazines were all rags, selling sex like it was face cream. It had been a point of personal pride that she’d been able to keep Beauté from seeming as crass as the others. But for what? Just so that when the magazine finally caved in, the fall would be that much more dramatic? A split cover! “Hideous,” she said.
        “Pardon me?” Her driver, Jack, hadn’t seen her this worked up in a long time. “Nothing, Jack. Just the usual stuff... times ten.”
        “Well, the Carlyle can make everything better, right?”
        She followed another woman into the hotel. The woman’s suit was boxy and ill­-fitting, the skirt too long. And navy: Why on earth would any woman buy a navy suit and not a black one? It wouldn’t have saved the poor cut, but it would have hid it a bit.
        Isabella couldn’t help herself, couldn’t turn it off: She critiqued every piece of clothing she saw; it was how she honed her taste, or at least that’s what she told herself. If she didn’t, she was sure it would get dull. Of course, over the years, working at the crossroads of media and fashion, she’d long lost touch with the reality of the working woman’s wardrobe.
        The woman walked to the concierge desk. “I’m here to see R.J.,” she said. The man behind the desk smiled.
        “Welcome, Ms... “
        “Doctor Kristen Adler.”
        “Doctor Adler. If you’ll follow me.”
        Isabella cut in. “I’m here to see the mysterious R.J., too. Isabella Banks.” “Doctor Adler, Ms. Banks.... Please follow me.”
        They walked across the lobby. Kristen turned to Isabella and stuck out her hand. “Kristen Adler. Nice to meet you, Ms. Banks.”
        “Please, call me Isabella.”
        “And call me Kristen.” She lowered her voice: “I’m not sure why I did that ‘doctor’ thing with him. Sometimes you just have to, just because you can.”
        Isabella smiled. Dr. Kristen Adler was pretty, the suit notwithstanding. She’d be good for the March makeover issue: Fabien and George could do wonders with her hair and makeup, but they’d have to get her growing her hair immediately.
        “What kind of doctor are you?”
        “Cardiovascular surgery.”
        “Interesting.”
        “And you?”
        “I’m the editor of Beauté.” Isabella prepared herself for the usual response: Wow, that must be so exciting, I love your magazine, what a glamorous job....
        “Never read it,” said Kristen. She saw Isabella’s face freeze. “But I’ve seen it, of course.”
        “Of course.”

The four women sat and looked at each other. Chloe and Isabella knew each other, but only in a favor-trading way; it was a relationship built on mutual distrust. Joan wished she’d taken the handsome man’s offer of wine. She was about to say something about the weather when Kristen spoke up.
        “Does anyone know why we’re here?”
        The women continued to look at each other, but now each shook her head. “Does anyone know who R.J. is?” asked Isabella.
        A round of nos.
        “There are six places set at the table,” said Chloe, still wondering if they were ever going to eat. “So we’re missing two.”
        Isabella: “I assume R.J. is one of them.”
        Again, silence. Each was certainly capable of making small talk, but why bother when no one could answer the one question on everyone’s mind.

The concierge’s phone rang. Sheikh Abdullah Mohammed Azmir, in the presidential suite, wanted to know where to take his mistress to dinner, but as usual, he made the mistress make the call. The concierge went into the office to find the number of the manager of Les Invisibles, a new restaurant prized for discretion.
        His assistant poked her head in. “R.J., there’s a, um, girl here to see you.”
        “I’ll be right out.” He asked the mistress if he could call her right back and stepped out into the lobby.
        India Brooks was blowing a bubble with her gum. He waited for it to pop, which it eventually did.
        “May I help you?”
        “You’re R.J.?”
        “Yes.” She pulled the invitation out of her jeans pocket; he was surprised there had been room for it. “You must be Miss Brooks.” He had heard about India Brooks—or read about her, to be precise—but he didn’t believe she could possibly be as outrageous as she had been made out to be. And yet: here she was, in jeans so tight her circulation was in jeopardy, pink high heels—to match the gum?—and a tube top the color of good butter. Thank heaven this lunch was in a suite and not the restaurant—the dress code didn’t mention tube tops, per se, but only because one had never crossed the threshold. Leading her to the elevator, he felt like the general manager in Pretty Woman, except instead of a hooker he was having to deal with a billion-dollar heiress dressed like a hooker.
        As he opened the door to the suite, Joan’s mouth dropped and her face visibly paled. Chloe’s, on the other hand, turned red: She’d written disparagingly of lndia’s antics more than once, though she’d never gotten close enough to meet her. Kristen looked confused, while Isabella stood up and exchanged three air kisses with India. She had been trying to get India to agree to a profile for months.
        Isabella introduced India to the others, which culminated with India barely hiding a large yawn. It was then explained to India that no one knew why they were here. India, Joan couldn’t help noticing, didn’t seem surprised. She supposed this kind of thing happened to a certain kind of heiress all the time.
        As soon as they settled back into silence, the other door opened. In came a woman they had each, save Joan, met once.
        “Alex!” cried India.
        “Hello, ladies,” said Alexandra. “Thank you for coming. I apologize for the mystery, but I’m sure you understand.”
        She sat down on the remaining chair and kicked one leg over the other.
        “Isabella, Kristen, Chloe, India, Joan—I’m sorry, I’ve been rude. I’m Alexandra Guidry. Ladies we are in a shitload of trouble.”

Advice from Cary Grant

This morning, I swam at dawn, the sun casting the entire pool in gauzy, golden light. Then I had a macchiato outside at the Lucky Llama, where the staffer recognized me. (She doesn't necessarily know my name, but she knows my order—a step in the right direction.) Back at home, I discovered we didn't have any fruit in the kitchen, so I picked a tangerine from the tree in the backyard.

That paragraph was a little gift to everyone on the East Coast. Although it does remind me of this anecdote from New York magazine's new Q&A with film director Peter Bogdanovich:

Sometime in the mid-’70s, when [actress Cybill Shepherd and I] were getting terrible press, Cary Grant called me. He says, “Peter, will you for Christ’s sake stop telling people you’re happy. And stop telling them you’re in love.” I said, “Why, Cary?” “Because they’re not happy and they’re not in love.”

New York magazine used to run these long, annotated Q&As by David Marchese, but then he moved to the New York Times, so Andrew Goldman did this one. That's good news for everyone, if you ask me, because now we get twice as many. (Marchese's Michael J. Fox interview for the Times was also terrific.)

While in New York City, it was a relief to walk around Tribeca without having to keep tabs on it. I did send a few tips in to the new owner of Tribeca Citizen—like any reader might—but mainly I felt like I had let go. Unfortunately, there's one advertiser from my tenure who still hasn't paid for his ad, and it's causing me agitation. In the nearly 10 years I ran the site, only one advertiser welched. (It was a kosher conveyor-belt sushi bar that closed right after the ad ran. Some businesses you just knew were doomed from the start.) When I mentioned this to other folks who have run hyperlocal publications, they were amazed. I'll never know whether to credit the ethics of the people who advertised with me, my persistence, or the implicit threat that I could ruin their businesses.

P.S. While having dinner with friends in New York, it came up that I had written a book. "I've published five books," I said, always believing in the importance of accuracy. First was a novel, Bite, co-authored with my friend Rebecca. Then there were three compilations from my years at Budget Travel magazine: The Smart Traveler's Passport (also published in a South Korean edition), Secret Hotels, and A Stingray Bit My Nipple! Legendary title, that. And then the second novel, Nutmegger, which I self-published to no acclaim.

"Don't forget The Stud Ring," Adam said. Ah, yes. Way back when, my friend Tracy and I came up with the idea for a novel/miniseries inspired by the oeuvres of Judith Krantz, Sidney Sheldon, Jackie Collins, and Shirley Conran. Neither of us can remember much about it now, except Tracy says we imagined Judith Light (!) and Lorenzo Lamas in prominent roles. Eventually, I told Rebecca about it, and she and I each wrote a chapter. (I guess Tracy was too busy becoming a doctor.) We aborted the project after 9/11 happened. Probably just as well. Here's the foreword.

She popped the cork herself. Sure, she knew that she should let him do it, but it was her apartment, her kitchen, her Veuve Clicquot. The widow Clicquot.... Why would a Champagne be named after a widow? Then again, she knew several women who’d celebrate the untimely death of a husband.

Shit! Champagne was everywhere; her hands were covered with it. “Is something wrong?” he called from the other room. Shit! She thought. Did I say “Shit” out loud?

“Just a little overflow,” she answered, but before she had even gotten to “flow” he was in the kitchen door. Dark hair and blue eyes, she thought for the nineteenth time that evening, and I’m down for the count.

“I promise not to say it’s a man’s job,” he said, taking the bottle from her. He set the bottle on the counter. “Though I do believe there are some things that call for a man’s touch.” He took her left hand, looked into her eyes, and rubbed her pinkie along his lower lip. She had forgotten what it was like to be seduced.

We’re in the bedroom was her next conscious thought. How did that happen? He kissed her, slowly to start. When it occurred to her to kiss back, he had already moved south, kissing her neck, the base of her throat. He surprised her by skipping her breasts—that’s where men always used to go first. His breath was hot on her thighs. Then he stopped.

“Do these stockings mean a lot to you?” he asked.

She had special-ordered the Fogal fishnets from Paris, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “No, why?”

He tore them off with his teeth.

"I Am Very Normal"

While talking with my friend Lisa today, I came to a realization about this visit to New York that's more apt than anything I wrote yesterday: Most vacations are about getting out of your rut/groove, but this has been the opposite; we left a place where everything is new to return to the patterns and places that are entirely comfortable, for better and for worse.

I've been going through old stuff, and I've come across some delightful mementos. During my career in magazines, I saw no shortage of kooky letters to the editor, often from prisoners asking to be put in touch with whichever pretty woman graced the latest cover. We received one letter at Budget Travel that went far beyond that hopeless romanticism, although I suspect it was also from someone incarcerated. And the writer is definitely male. I can't see a woman describing any part of herself flatteringly as "puffy."

I'll spare you the details of page 2, but you'll want to know that Jill, impressed by Steve's "size, width, roundness"—we don't see the word "jumbo" enough—joins him for satisfying intercourse: "I almost tore out my hair and bit off my nipples." (If ever a sentence called for an exclamation point....) The letter concludes with "Eternal fuck!", which, if you squint, is sort of like E.M. Forster's famous epigraph, "Only connect."

Anyway, for all of the humor in the letter, the most priceless part is that the writer sent it to Budget Travel magazine—and even gave it a travel angle.

P.S. The letter was a submission to the "True Stories" section; years later, a collection of the most memorable entries was published with the title A Stingray Bit My Nipple! Jill Stowe didn't make the cut—one bitten nipple was enough. But here's another book idea: the craziest letters that magazines received over the years.

P.P.S. The plastic liner inside a box of Grape-Nuts is a booby trap, pure and simple.

Back in the Big City

It's day three in New York, my first visit back since we moved two months ago. That's not long enough to feel substantially different about the city; the things that excited before still excite, and the things that grated still grate. But I have enjoyed walking again—not just a little, but everywhere, at a pace that would startle people in Santa Barbara. As much as I love that area of California, I've become a bit weary of all the driving: When I grow antsy at home, I'm resistant to getting back in the car, which leads me to stasis, and ennui.

Also, I've had stuff to do here. Not just seeing friends, which is obviously a highlight (even the two who are now on probation for saying I remind them of the guy from the Verizon/Sprint ads), but running errands. The sense of accomplishment, however minor, that comes with crossing something off the to-do list is endlessly satisfying to me. I like taking care of business, and I have very little of that in Santa Barbara right now, because we've settled in, we're renting a furnished house, and I have yet to launch a website.

There's also the lesser type of social interaction—with acquaintances as opposed to friends, I suppose—that we have none of in California. A lot of that relates to being in a groove, which we still haven't achieved out West. Here in New York, however, I can slip back into the groove with no effort at all, swimming at the old pool, going to the old cafés, and chatting with the same employees, business owners, and residents of our apartment building that I used to. I've missed that chatting in Santa Barbara, especially when Adam was away, but it's possible I overvalued it. What I have noticed on this trip is how there isn't much to say to people you don't know well.

Me: Hi!

Acquaintance: You're back! How's California?

Me: It's terrific, especially this time of year. How have you been?

Acquaintance: Great!

And then we sort of look at each other. These interactions can add up to a feeling of belonging, but individually, they're a light lunch.

In any event, the conversion (back) to being a Californian may be further along than I think. Yesterday morning, in the locker room at the pool, I overshot my locker. Oh, that's right, I thought. I parked over there.

P.S. I loved Lucio Fontana's slashed paintings, on view at the Met Breuer.

Walking the Walk

As I mentioned a while back, we've postponed joining the Newcomers group—until after we return from New York and some of Adam's family comes to visit—so we can maximize our time as "newbies," the prime benefit being the ability to jump to the top of a waitlisted event. But we figured we might as well test-ride the concept by taking part in the weekly hike that Newcomers organizes with the local trails group. I confirmed ahead of time with the friendly head of the trails group—whom I met doing trailwork—that you need not be a Newcomers member. "Please come!" she replied.

Warned that parking could be difficult, we arrived at the trailhead 10 minutes early. Two women were there, as well as a man, off by himself. Two other women showed up; they already knew the others. Adam and I stood in limbo. We never discussed it, but I suspect we were thinking the same thing. We could go over and introduce ourselves, since it seemed likely everyone was there for the outing. They were all just older enough than us, however, to have us wavering.

"I guess it makes sense that this is who would be able to hike on a weekday," I said, as more folks approached the main group.

"You're going to hate walking that slow," said Adam. "We could just go."

Once you reach that point, does anyone stay? If our stab at being social began as pathetic, it soon shifted into awkward: As we headed down from the main viewpoint, we had to pull over so the Newcomers group could pass. At the same time, another hiker came up behind us; it turns out that she knew one of the Newcomers hikers—the head of the trails organization, who stopped directly across from me.

"Hi," I said sheepishly.

"Oh, hi! Are you hiking with us?"

"Not exactly. We sort of got off to an early start."

Adam and I continued downhill, and he pointed out the bright side: Now I'd have something to blog about. The hike had been pleasant but not satisfying, so we took a spur that led to a waterfall. That part was great: Using a rope strung up along the trail for support, we clambered down a hillside, then bouldered up along the waterfall, posed for photos, and did it all again the other direction.

Soon after the spur rejoined the main trail, we ran right into the Newcomers group, and in particular, the head of the trails organization. She does not have the socialization issues we do, and she couldn't have been lovelier, chatting with me for a bit as we descended, and then with Adam for quite a while (as I talked about yoga with a Newcomer). Consequently, we can say that our first Newcomers event was a qualified success.

P.S. Love this song. 

Trails and Tribulations

"Who's going to sing 'Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, It's Off to Work We Go'?" asked Tom, one of the other five volunteers as we set off on the Trailwork Tuesday outing organized by the Los Padres Forest Association. Once we got down to work, a different song ran through my head: Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang." There were no ankle chains, of course, but I associate swinging a heavy tool with hard labor done as penance.

I could swear the leaders called it a trailsmith, but Google won't corroborate that. All I know is that the thing was efficient at tearing up earth, stones, plants, and whatever it came into contact with.

We met at 9 a.m. at the trailhead, then hiked for 15-20 minutes, till we got to an area where the trail was rutted by recent rains. The first thing we did was dig a few drains, so water could continue down the hillside rather than the trail. Then Ari from the LPFA decided we should remove the five feet of natural berm, hacking away at the plants and earth until the trail was flattened out from one side to the other. I felt funny about it: When I hike, I go out of my way not to destroy anything, and I don't go off trail for fear of doing damage. Before and after shots below.

We next tackled a major strip of rutted trail. The plan was to create three stone dams (if I remember the phrase correctly), so that the center of the trail would stop eroding. First, we went to get large rocks from the streambed further up the trail. "They should be too large for one person," said Ari. "We call them 'double hernias.'" Stones get heavy fast; while carrying something larger would be manageable, this was like two people trying haul a bowling ball—another volunteer, Liam, and I pressed up against each other as we maneuvered downhill, along a narrow, rutted trail. "I'm like Ginger Rogers," I said when it was my turn to walk backward, but I don't think anyone got the reference. Once we had enough stones, we dug out rectangular pits the width of the trail. "It's like you're digging a grave for a small casket," said Ari, which sent us all into our heads for a while. We hoisted the stones into the little graves, repositioning them until they lay flush with the trail and wouldn't wiggle underfoot, and we filled in the gaps with smaller stones, followed by dirt.

We had been told to bring lunch, and I was anticipating a nice 20-minute break where we ate our sandwiches and chatted. My feelings about lunch are near religious on a normal day; at 12:30 p.m., after swimming two miles and working like a prisoner, for free, with no mention of lunch, I put my foot down. And my trailsmith. The cheese sandwich I had packed was pretty meager, but I don't know if I've tasted anything better. What's the point of working that hard if you're not going to reward yourself? I'm still baffled other people don't feel the same. A couple of people pulled out snacks, and one of the organizers eventually brought out a sandwich.

Tom had left at 10:30 a.m., Liam around noon. The rest of us soldiered on. We moved more large rocks and decimated a patch of wild fennel—it smelled terrific—to make the trail easier to see, and we sawed off a dead tree limb extending over the trail because it posed a threat to horseback riders. There were times during the day when I was sure that we made a positive impact. Occasionally, however, I thought we ran the risk of smoothing the trail out too much. The rationale was often to improve life for mountain-bike riders, but when I hike, I like varied terrain, I like having to clamber a bit, I like the feel of a stone under my foot when I step on it. Trailworkers, it appeared, have a compulsion: If they see a rock that could stand to be moved, they can't let it go. And that extends beyond rocks to anything trail-related. They know that it may all be for naught once the next rain comes, but they can't help themselves. More than once I thought of Sisyphus.

P.S. I will be extremely sore tomorrow, with commensurate moaning.

P.P.S. Afterward, at the parking area, I was talking to Ari about the next Trailwork Tuesday, and how it'd be great if there were ways to find out about it other than going on Facebook (which I'm trying to avoid these days). "You know what's amazing about Facebook, though?" she said. "How long it's been around. It's been around since I was in, like, middle school!"

The Bobo Years

Even my clothing is coming at me with the questions. (That's what I get for shopping at REI.) Am I supposed to mull over this when I'm hiking? Or, more likely, when I'm doing laundry? That's the only time I read a clothing tag.

Slow day today. I went to the supermarket early, because I find it much less stressful than later in the day, although the cashier did serve me attitude for buying Johnnie Walker Black at 7:30 a.m. (It was not the only item I purchased.) Then Adam and I took a hike; I made a salad of snow peas, walnuts, and provolone for lunch; and we dug around the boxes in the garage to see if we could locate the hardware from the house we used to own here, to no avail. Living in a house without much hardware is a pain, but we're sure it must be in the garage somewhere, in a box jammed behind furniture, so we don't buy anything new.

In the afternoon, I baked granola. We go through a lot of it. Adam likes to eat it as a snack, pouring some in a little glass bowl and dabbing at it with his tongue, like a cat drinking water. Because the bowl is glass, I can see the tongue dip into the granola and retract. And I get to see it because he often stands in front of me, blank-faced, as he performs this act. I don't know why that is, but I suspect it's akin to how the pug would sleep with some part of his body on mine, so that he could keep track of me while his attention was elsewhere, in case I did something involving food.

Hiking, yoga, homemade granola, athleisure from REI.... This chapter would appear to be "The Bobo Years." It's nothing to complain about, for sure, but I need to accomplish things—more than making granola—on a regular basis, or I feel like I'm treading water. Not coincidentally, tomorrow I'm signed up to help the Montecito Trails Foundation on its Trailwork Tuesday, when volunteers pitch in to repair storm-damaged trails. Our real estate broker's husband said it was the hardest work he had done in his entire life, so that's something to look forward to.

P.S. We now subscribe to the New York Times in print, because we found that we weren't keeping up with the news, and it's been amusing to see how studios try to appeal to the older Academy Awards voters who read the Times in print. For BlacKKKlansman (ugh, that title), there's a photo of Harry Belafonte, along with a quote about how important the movie is. (We gave up on it halfway through. Watching it was like being beaten with a blunt instrument: "Racism is bad" might as well have flashed on the screen the entire time.) And for The Favourite, Fox Searchlight has been running stills for weeks spotlighting the three female stars, but never as a pair. Instead, they're always of one with a man, even though men are the most minor of characters. Is it to assuage fears that potential voters might have about a movie involving lesbianism?

Always Be Learning

On Friday, to celebrate Adam's imminent return from Amsterdam, I was going to bake this blogger's recipe for Pepperidge Farm Bordeaux cookies, but I realized I had baking soda, not baking powder. If I could've walked to a store, I would've gone out right then. But the thought of getting in the car was too much. I waited till later, when I was taking myself out to dinner at a restaurant near the supermarket, to cross the baking powder off the list. In the checkout line, this made me scowl:

I can accept a touch of awkwardness if something actually gets said as a result, but that phrase is entirely meaningless. And "who" should be "whom," because it's the object of the verb. And what's "authentic" about retouching the photo to make your logo pop? And the world doesn't need you at all! Amateurs.

I may have been clabby crabby because while I was standing there, I noticed that the baking powder was "Partially Produced with Genetic Engineering." (Speaking of inauthenticity....) Clabber Girl was the only option, or I would've taken it back.

Clabber, I just learned, is "a type of soured milk [...] produced by allowing unpasteurized milk to turn sour (ferment) at a specific humidity and temperature. Over time, the milk thickens or curdles into a yogurt-like substance with a strong, sour flavor." You know my motto: Always be learning!

(I should point out now that this post is not going to get wrapped up in any elegant way. The bright side is that you can leave whenever you like.)

My dinner alone was fine, although I don't love dining alone at the bar as much as I used to. I did get a chance to ask the young, cool bartender what it means when someone asks if you like to party. "Drugs," she said. "My first guess would be molly," which is what people call ecstasy these days. (How does a name change like that happen?) Then she warned me to be careful: "Anything can happen in Montecito," which has not exactly been my impression.

Saturday morning, I woke up early and set off for a long, beautiful walk through the Upper East neighborhood. I'll spare you the many photos I took of spectacular trees, except this one:

And one of the reasons I'm fond of Santa Barbara is that stuff like this hasn't been smoothed out:

Then I went to the farmer's market. I was buying snow peas from a real crank of a farmer when someone he knew approached him. The farmer brightened as he told the guy how, just that morning, he "clobbered to death" a bunch of rats in their nest. I don't think he and I are going to be friends. The feeling can only be mutual once he learns that, upon returning home from the market, I tried to rescue a tiny snail that stowed away on a bunch of celery. I made it crawl onto a piece of paper and walked it outside, cooing that everything was going to be OK, when a gust of wind blew the paper over and the snail fell four feet onto the terra cotta stairs. Choosing to believe that it survived, I rushed it into the bushes. I had a flashback to the frog incident, and I decided that I should stop meddling with nature. But what was I supposed to do, leave the snail on the kitchen counter? Here it is in happier days:

I baked the cookies, creaming the butter and sugar by hand, like in pioneer days, because we don't have a mixer. After 10 minutes in the oven, the cookies were still floppy, so I left them in much longer, and somehow they grew blander as they got darker. They're not bad, but they're not Bordeaux.

P.S. Let's end with something nice. I got to pick blood oranges from a tree this afternoon.