Today's quest for the novel started at the car wash. I don't think I've ever been to an automatic car wash by myself, and I was putting it off in part because every time Adam and I have gone together, he reminds me of what I have to do when I'm the one driving. (Bring in the side mirrors, turn off the automatic wipers, disengage the annoying parking thingamajig....) I like my car, but it's too complex; my goal is to touch as little of the dashboard as possible. Anyway, it worked out. One must find accomplishments where one can.
Then I was off to explore Stearns Wharf. For someone prone to rhapsodizing about Santa Barbara, I'm rather ignorant about huge swaths of the city. Only recently did I realize the wharf is different from Santa Barbara Harbor, to the southwest.
As you can see in the map, the wharf is funky-shaped, kind of like a bird impaled on a stick. "The Wharf has endured since 1872," says the website, "making it the oldest working wooden wharf in California. It is 2,300 feet long and has an area of 3.8 acres supported by 2,307 pilings." Various storms and fires have damaged it over the decades. That the buildings house tourist traps was no surprise; that much of the acreage is given over to parking is a travesty. If I were mayor, the first thing I'd do is ban cars.
The views back toward Santa Barbara are exquisite.
And there are vestiges of charm here and there. I'm always delighted when a tourist attraction has potentially dangerous bits.
P.S. I had parked a few blocks away on Cabrillo Street, too close for comfort to the original—and sole remaining—Sambo's restaurant. The appalling history of the place is worth a read.
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