The General Situation

T-Minus Five Months

Our housing situation is in flux. The owner of the house we're renting wants to list it immediately, but our lease runs through 2019, with no showings allowed till December 1. Given that we have nowhere else to go, we'd prefer to stay here beyond December—and the house might sit on the market for months, as it has in the past—but only with an agreement that gives us substantial notice. While we try to come up with a mutually beneficial solution, to whatever degree one exists, we keep looking. Over the past six months, houses in Montecito have not sold quickly. That may have lulled us into a false sense of the sitch; two houses in Santa Barbara that recently piqued our interest went pending (an offer was accepted) after a day or two. Perhaps Santa Barbara is just different.

"I hope we find a house with some charm," Adam said the other day. Well, the price on the house pictured below was cut today... Can you imagine what went through the stager's mind when he/she saw this room? (The throw draped across the bed is a giveaway that the house was staged.)

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Breakfast at the delightful Ett Hem hotel in Stockholm featured an addictive housemade brown bread. I asked for the recipe, but it's in metric and includes ingredients not easily found here. I did my best, kind of, and the flavor was there—molasses, rye flower, and caraway, anise, and fennel seeds.... Even after baking it for 30 minutes longer than the (vague) recipe called for, however, the inside was gummy. I'm going to try again at a hotter temperature, unless anyone has another suggestion. (The bread did rise during baking, so I don't think it's a matter of leavening.)

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My nephew's wedding invitation included something I hadn't come across before. Has anyone seen my asymmetrical crop top?

Old New York

Most people come to New York City for the novelty and excitement; for us, it's a nostalgia trip. We stay at our old apartment, dine at favorite restaurants, walk down familiar streets, and hang out with friends. (That's an observation, not a complaint. And I assume the sitch will change over time.) This visit, only two restaurants we've never been to before made the cut: Crown Shy in FiDi and Joe's Steam Rice Roll at Canal Street Market.

You can't get that in Santa Barbara. Otherwise, however, we've been eating at places we've been pining for: Pasquale Jones, La Mercerie, Café Altro Paradiso, and, pictured below, Upland (that cheeseburger!), I Sodi, Atla (those shrimp tacos!), Court Street Grocers, and Arcade Bakery.






Along with pleasant surprises—we saw Jay-Z at Pasquale Jones—were unpleasant ones. The hosts at Café Altro Paradiso and I Sodi both did that extremely annoying thing of refusing to seat an incomplete party, even though our table was available. At Café Altro Paradiso, after she told us we could wait at the bar, I pointed out that there was no space there, seating or standing. "You can wait outside then," she said. I love so much about that restaurant, but the welcome was one of the least gracious I've experienced in a while. Speaking of poor hospitality, when I looked online to see if Pasquale Jones had any tables, I found that there was indeed one available for 7:30 p.m.—if you have a bank account at Capital One. That kind of promotion alienates far more people than it can ever attract, and it left me with bad feelings toward the restaurant, the bank, and the reservation service. And it made me glad I had moved out of New York.

The least pleasant surprise of all was that Arcade Bakery is closing. I walked in all excited to see the owner, but he quickly broke the news. Arcade Bakery has been a place of such joy for me, and it has been everything I loved about New York. I will miss it dearly.

Other highlights: Rooftop drinks and dinner; a class with my favorite yoga instructor, Jeffrey; stocking up on Li-Lac chocolate bars; Ragnar Kjartansson's "Death Is Elsewhere" installation at the Met; and walking as much as I could in the oppressive July weather (and chancing upon a billboard by Felix Gonzales-Torres, one of my favorite artists).

Last but far from least, it was fun to see so many friends—most we met up with intentionally, but others we just ran into. (Particular thanks go to Claudine, who agreed to let Adam canoodle her year-old pugs, Duck and Goose.) Everyone asks if we've missed the city, and I always say no. But I do miss my people.

P.S. As you may have heard, there was a ticker-tape parade for the U.S. women's World Cup team. Our apartment is on the parade route, which generally sucks. ("How's the parade?" my sister texted. "Loud and slow," I replied.) This was better than most, in that it was fun to see so many girls amped up; also, the spectators didn't get drunk first, the way hockey and baseball fans do. And it's hard not to be proud of Megan Rapinoe for sticking it to the clown.

Sausage Party

I've been remiss. Busy preparing for a trip to New York City, traveling to New York City, and running around New York City. More on the city later. First, there's a bunch of stuff I meant to write about. Such as: The mango nectarines were delectable. I wouldn't say they tasted mango-y, but the color of the flesh was definitely reminiscent of a mango. I'll do more research if I find them at the farmer's market on Saturday.

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I went to a running store in Montecito to buy sneakers to walk in, because my old sneakers have lost their bounce, and my feet have been killing me. The proprietor was friendly and helpful, listening to me talk about my feet and offering suggestions as to which models to try. The ones that fit best were black, and as a pale person, I've never liked black sneakers. "Is there any chance they come in another color?" I asked. "Anything would be better than black!" He went to the stockroom to check.

They were arguably worse than black. Why are all sneakers so hideous? Is designing them so hard? I have such a soft spot for mom-and-pop businesses that I felt like I had to buy them anyway. One benefit of not knowing anyone in Montecito, I figured, was that no one knows me, either. Of course, when I went for a walk later that day, I ran into a guy who I often chat with at the local café. I took comfort in the fact that he's a serious cyclist, with the requisite outfits; maybe he thought my shoes were cool.

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At the pool the other day, the coach announced that one of the swimmers had just moved from New York City. In the showers after the practice, four or five of the swimmers were asking the new arrival about New York. I don't really like having conversations in the shower, but I'm trying to be proactively social, so I told him I had also recently moved from the city. "Which part?" has asked, and I said Tribeca. "Me too!" he said. I never liked to mention Tribeca Citizen when I ran it, because the anonymity—such as it was by the end—was precious to me. Also, I suspected that people felt they had to say they liked it; or maybe I had written something snarky about something they cared about. Anyway, various reasons. This time, however, I decided I should get over it. As everyone lathered away, I told him I had a website about the neighborhood, Tribeca Citizen, for 10 years.

"Never heard of it," he said.

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For July 4, we went to a Newcomers gathering at someone's house with a lovely, if distant, view of the fireworks. The food theme was hot dogs—brats, Chicago-style, Italian, etc. (During the run-up, I liked to refer to it as the "sausage party.") Unlike at most Newcomers events, not everyone was nice. I was chatting with someone when I realized that Adam, on my other side, was with two men. This was a major development: We had yet to see a same-sex couple at a Newcomers event. I turned an ear toward their conversation, and it didn't exactly seem to be sparking to life. A few minutes later, I whispered to Adam, "Were they unfriendly to you?" Yep, he said. We couldn't believe it! Only later did we realize that they were a father and son.

The Salt Mines

Swim coach: Jim is heading to Santa Cruz Island! Danielle needs to go teach the children! And Erik is off to the salt mines!

Me: I guess.

Swim coach: You're the only one adding to the GNP!

Me: Me?!

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On the other hand, I was walking to the mailbox—they're down by the start of the street—when I approached the spot where I found $6 the other day. Pay attention, I told myself. There might be more cash. Lo and behold....

It's as if I had read The Secret. Now I just need to conjure up larger denominations.

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Anyone driving a Rolls-Royce shouldn't be pumping his own gas (and, yes, there is a full-service station in town). To his credit, he did sit in the car while the gas flowed as if he wasn't actively involved.

Go West!

As I said before, when the weather's nice, I'm much more likely to haul my butt out of the house. Today, when Adam went to the gym, I took a walk. The only downtown-adjacent area I had yet to explore was the Westside, which isn't the nicest part, but who cares?

First, I snapped a photo of the Maurice Sendak–inspired mural on the former Church of Skatan building near the gym. Cute as it is, what amused me more was Adam seeing it on my Instagram and only then realizing he parks in front of it five days a week and has never noticed it. 

At the State Street underpass below Highway 101, I paused for the photo I shoot every time I'm there.

Then I crossed the literal and proverbial train tracks.

Wouldn't you know, things immediately got edgier.

Below is the majestic Moreton Bay Fig, "believed to be the largest Ficus macrophylla in the United States. A seaman visiting Santa Barbara in 1876 presented a seedling of an Australian Moreton Bay fig tree to a local girl who planted it at 201 State Street. After the girl moved away a year later, her girlfriend, Adeline Crabb, transplanted the tree to the corner of Montecito and Chapala streets, just a few blocks from the ocean, on land then owned by the Southern Pacific Transportation Company. The tree was officially designated as a historic landmark in 1970, and the property was deeded to the City of Santa Barbara in 1976. The tree has since been placed on the California Register of Big Trees." I should think it has.

While far from fancy, the Westside was more charming than I had imagined, with many old houses. (But then places almost always feel their most welcoming on a beautiful Sunday morning.) I couldn't resist the pedestrian overpass, which crosses the train tracks and freeway. I'm always reminded of when I was a kid, and my mom, my sister, and I were flying to Phoenix to see some friends. On the way to LAX, I said how much I wanted to walk over an overpass like this. After picking us up a few days later, my dad excitedly told us that he was going to take us to one, and I wasn't mature enough not to mention that we had been on one in Phoenix.

Back on the downtown side of the 101, this made me laugh.

One of the magical things about Santa Barbara—to me, anyway—is the preponderance of little corner stores like the Little Corner Store. Delis/bodegas are dying all across New York City, but here, in a place where people tend to drive rather than walk, they seem to do just fine. I almost wish I drank more beer, ate more chips, or played the lottery so I could help support them. Actually, I do wish I ate more chips....

P.S. Google Maps says I never even made it to the Westside. I'm not sure what the area I explored is called. It abuts Lower State and West Beach, so maybe it's LoStWeBe?

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Check out the tail on this lizard!

A Man and His Castle

We went for a hike with Newcomers yesterday. Some of the folks were more interesting than others, as is typically the case; I enjoyed more talking with someone we had met a couple of times before. It's refreshing to get past the same questions everyone (including me) asks in the first round: Where are you from? When did you move here? Where are you living? What do you do?

The hike was serious enough: 6.6 miles out and back, with an elevation gain of 2,200 feet. The joy of a hike is usually in the journey rather than in the destination, but this time, the payoff was substantial: "Knapp's Castle is the ruins of a sandstone hilltop lodge built by the found of Union Carbide around 1920," wrote our organizer. "It burned in the 1940s and was never rebuilt." We learned that it's in the process of getting rebuilt. We were standing there, admiring the views, when a man with a long beard approached. He came right at me, so I said hello. It turns out he's the owner: He bought the 160-acre property some 15 years ago, and it took him 14 years to get the county to agree to his construction plans. Maybe it was because he was my height—there's a funny connection that happens—but I liked him immediately. He told us about his plans and answered our questions; unfortunately, no one asked about the boat parked far away from any water.

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The farmer's market continues to astound. Tomatoes are in abundance, for one thing. For another, macadamia nuts!

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I wanted to take a post-market bike ride, but my front tire has gone flat, and it's not responding to the pump. (Also, it smells foul. Could something have crawled inside and died?) This is confusing because I rode it just a week ago, after pumping up the tires, and dispiriting because now I have to go to the bike store, where I always feel like an idiot, no matter how nice the staffers are.

Having already applied sunblock, I went for a walk to the post office instead. Almost immediately, I came upon $6.

And a snake. Not sure if it was alive or dead. It didn't move, but maybe that's its defense mechanism?

And then there was this amazing wall/tree moment.

But the highlight was an interaction with our postal carrier, Kathleen. I had met her once before, but that was more memorable for me, I guess.

Kathleen: Do you want me to take that letter for you?

Me: Thanks, but it's OK. The post office is my destination!

Kathleen: Are you in 880?

Me: No, we're up on Oak Creek Canyon.

Kathleen: You're with Adam! Your name is.... Wait, I know it.... Jake?

Me: No, it's Erik. But Jake is an excellent name and I'll respond to it.

Kathleen: Are you moving back to New York?

Me: Not that I know of!

Kathleen: Are you still looking for a house? Have you checked out 1514 E. Mountain? 

Me: The modern one way up the hill? I saw the listing online. It looks fantastic, but I don't think I want to be in the outermost row of houses. I can just see the firefighters saying, "Sorry, but we managed to save the rest of the town."

Kathleen: The pool is nice, though. It's in a courtyard. I always love that.

Me: Totally. The problem is that insurance companies really aren't writing new policies for Montecito. And they're not renewing existing ones.

Kathleen: Try Geico! I hear they're still willing to write here.

The Famous One

Blue skies and a beta version of my website arrived today, so things are looking up.

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I love this Men's Fitness cover line for several reasons: 1) "Special report," as if there's news; 2)  "You and Your Penis," as if it's about the relationship between the two of you; 3) That exclamation point! The only things that would've been made the line better: italicizing "Your" and placing "penis" to look like Joe Manganiello is holding it.

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Mom: I think I'm going to go see that Beatles movie.

Me: Do you like the Beatles?

Mom: Sure.

Me: I'd like to know the names of three Beatles songs.

Mom: Easy! "Yellow Submarine," "Penny Lane," and the famous one.

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I was at the hardware store buying mouse traps—they were pooping everywhere, including on our dining room table, it was like Grey Gardens in here—when I saw the Bug-A-Salt 2.0, which shoots table salt as ammunition. ("Will not splatter fly," the box says, but do you end up with salt everywhere? I already have Adam the Exuberant Chef to deal with.) I don't like killing, except mosquitos and poop-happy mice; in fact, if a fly is in our house, I trap it and let it outside. But I have to admit this looks like fun. 

Six Months In

It's been six months since we moved to Santa Barbara. In certain key ways, it's as if we're just vacationing. ("That's Santa Barbara for you!" said a resident recently.) We're renting a furnished house, so it doesn't feel like it's our home; we don't know many people well; I'm not working yet. Goddamn website.

I may not feel like an insider yet, but I no longer feel like an outsider. While we haven't made what I would call friends, we have many more soft connections—people who recognize us and chat with us. As much as I've blogged about it, I don't feel a desperate need to make friends quickly; I don't think it works like that, and whether it's a stage-of-life thing or a result of the Internet, I'm not sure that people hang out together to the degree we did back in, say, the 90s. The last few years in New York, we tended to see friends every two or three months....

When we moved here, I thought Adam and I wouldn't have to discuss the weather so much. Alas, the opposite has happened: We talk about it constantly (by which I mean Adam talks about it and I try not to snap at him to get over it). The weather is all anyone talks about. The first few months were rainy, which the area needed. But "June gloom" started in early May, and unlike in past years, it hardly ever burns off in the afternoon, despite the weather apps' promises. Mornings tend to be especially wet, with mist so heavy you have to use your windshield wipers. It's not great for our state of mind, of course, but what's worse is that it stops us from doing outdoor activities—one of the main reasons we left New York.

Perhaps as a result, the city is starting to feel small. Some of that is because we're settling into certain routines. I try to push us elsewhere now and then, such as a recent visit to La Super-Rica, a Mexican joint famous for being praised by Julia Child. The rajas pictured below look like dog vomit, but they were fantastic.

P.S. I suspect this entry sounded more down than I meant it to. Things are still very good! The area is gorgeous! We sleep like babies pugs! If anything, I'm just bored. And when you're bored, you have no one to blame but yourself. And your website developers.

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Adam spotted this car and didn't follow it. I admire the owner's enthusiasm, but if you're going to go this far, you might as well pony up for the vanity plate* and the custom purple paint job. *PSLYPRK, BUTIFL1, SXYMF, CRSTRCY, HRNYTOD, SHKDLCA, ADORE, DLIRIUS, INTLLVR....

Development Hell

Inert is how I feel: The developers for my website handed over the first beta version on Friday, and it was a mess. Why bother with the weeks of back-and-forth on static design mockups if you're going to ignore them when you build the site? I sent it back like a plate of overcooked fish.

But that means more waiting.... And the more time I spend not creating content, the more concerned I am that the concept is flawed. Sometimes I like the idea of keeping the site to the topic of real estate, which can also encompass things like new businesses. Other times, I worry that no one will want to read such a site regularly. Or should it be about Santa Barbara in general, with real estate as one topic among many—restaurants, shops, the outdoors, travel...? In short, anything that I think is important, but not everything throughout the city. (Comprehensiveness was overwhelming when I was covering Tribeca; to take on a whole city, even a small one, would be murder.) The problem with that idea is that it sounds like every other media outlet around here. And I swore I wouldn't do it again....

I swing between the two options, occasionally pausing at a dismal mindset where neither looks good. The only way to learn what the site wants to be is to start working on the damn thing. I fear, however, that it won't be ready before the end of July.

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On the other hand, stone fruit! The yellow ones were labeled as mango nectarines, but I didn't buy any (just as well because we seem to have bought everything else). Maybe I'll pick some up at tomorrow's market. "No, this is not a cross between a mango and a nectarine," write Eat Like No One Else. "It’s simply two pale varieties of heirloom nectarines crossbred in California. [...] "The texture had a creamy mouth feel. My taste buds were left with an aftertaste similar to a mango. It was sweet, not as much as white flesh varieties. [...] If you have a chance give them a try, especially if you love mangoes as I think you would appreciate the slight take on the mango."

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Thanks for the postcard, Susan! It's rare for anything delightful to come by mail these days, and I love that we were thought of during the trip (not to mention appreciating the effort of mailing it from France). She wrote there was more snow on the hiking trails than they had expected, but you could "slide down on your bottom." We'll be wanting to see the video....

The Glamorous Life

Some folks we met through Newcomers said they'd be attending the organization's happy hour event yesterday at Oliver's, a restaurant near us that we like, so we figured we should go. Before we headed out, Adam reminded me that we'd have to wear name tags, and I pointed out that a big red Newcomers sign would be out front, too. 

"It's so embarrassing," he said.

"Mortifying."

"And the hosts there know us." That gave me pause. 

We managed to enter without anyone from the restaurant seeing us, and a drink called Little Miss Sunshine, which must've been half gin, numbed the despair. There were more misses than hits, but that's life. Of course, the folks who spurred us to go never showed.

As we were heading toward the door, awash in the euphoria that comes with leaving, the host looked up. "You're not Newcomers," he said, with disbelief.

"This never happened," I hissed. "We were never here."

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I finally had another good celebrity dream: I was attending the Oscars with Tiffany Haddish as my date, and she kept ditching me, even going so far as to switch place cards so that she could be next to someone of higher standing.

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It's not just the jacarandas: Purple flowers are abloom all over town. I like to think they're responding to the release of the new Prince album, Originals. The songs are all the initial versions of ones he gave to other artists—"Nothing Compares 2 U," "Manic Monday," "The Glamorous Life," etc. Hearing his voice gives me such joy! And such sadness. The irony, of course, is that if he hadn't died, we may never have gotten to hear these recordings. I do hope the Prince estate doesn't limit itself to one release per year; he famously had a ton of unreleased music in his vault, and I'm only going to live so long. Bring on Camille!