The General Situation

Age Appropriateness

Yesterday afternoon, while on my way to see Olivier Assayas's Non-Fiction at the Riviera Theatre, I had the realization—yet again—that almost everyone in Montecito is old. (I'm not prepared to blame all the poor driving on age, but it's likely a factor.) This time, however, it also hit me that Adam and I have many of the behaviors and routines of old people, so perhaps our living here isn't all that weird. We hardly need to be near nightclubs.

Then I got to the movie, and I was at least 15 years younger than every other person in the audience—not unexpected at a 5 p.m. screening of a French art-house film, but still. Non-Fiction, if you care, is not as satisfying as Clouds of Sils Maria, but I enjoyed it anyway. The characters talk about the future of publishing, eat, and have affairs, in that order. There may be no Frencher film.

Adam was experiencing the opposite sitch in San Francisco. "Having an Oban in the 'garden' of the hotel," he emailed. "Too cold for most everyone else. I love SF. But I know we aren’t moving here!" Damn straight. "But the energy. And relative youth. (Although they are all incessantly talking about rounds of financing....)" I used to dislike how Tribeca was dominated by people age 35 to 50, and how you'd have to go to Brooklyn to see people in their 20s. But I don't know that we're ever likely to find a place that's both comfortable and accommodating to young people.

This morning at the pool, age came up again. The president of the swim club board and the Masters coach were talking about the private changing stall within the locker room. "I had never seen one till I got here," said the coach. "I figured it was an East Coast thing." He looked at me, and I just shrugged. I guess the stall is for guys who don't even feel comfortable with a "deck change," which (I subsequently learned) is when you change in or out of your swimsuit with a towel around your waist. 

I may have mentioned this before, but I find it bizarre how so many men—and young men, in particular—do a deck change while in the men's locker room. One of the great liberations of aging, in my experience, has been not giving a crap who sees my body. I don't swan around the locker room naked; I just change my clothes and move on. Ultimately, we all more or less look the same. It reminds me of that great Legally Blonde line, from a different context: "What's this Vivian got that you don't have? Three tits?" 

It turns out the president and the coach were talking about how there have been some issues—or concerns?—about adults and minors sharing a locker room, so they're going to have to come up with a solution that better not involve me waiting out on the deck, cold and wet, while two tweens yap about Minecraft (which is what I had to listen to today). Not that anyone asked, but in my opinion, isolating people from potential problems is not the best way to ensure they'll be able to cope.

P.S. The quote of the day comes from cookbook author Diana Kennedy.

Out, Damn'd Spot!

My real-estate website takes one small step forward every week, and it should be ready by mid-June (when we'll be in Scandinavia, but whatever). Increasingly, I think the site will cover real estate rather broadly, including the openings and closings of businesses, and perhaps have advice for travelers and transplants. As such, I've been trying to frequent noteworthy restaurants that are new to me—and since Adam is out of town, I took the opportunity to visit two that he would've resisted going to.

The first was Taqueria El Bajio. I had asada and abodaba tacos and a cheese tamale, and I didn't need to eat again for hours, which doesn't mean I didn't eat again for hours. It was all excellent, and El Bajio is a worthy option when La Super-Rica Taqueria (famously blessed by Julia Child, with whom I once spoke on the phone, but that's a story for another day) is closed or too busy.

The second was Brophy Bros., a seafood joint on the second floor of a building at the Santa Barbara harbor. The location is superb—no cars anywhere nearby, and views over the boats bobbing on the water, with the mountains in the background. The menu touts the sustainability and freshness of the seafood, but the preparations are uninspired, so I ordered defensively: fish and chips. The fish was nicely fried and the fries were good enough, and it was a rare opportunity to eat cocktail sauce. I don't think I'll go back, but I'm glad it's there.

The server was great, but mid-meal, she put a moist towelette on my table. Was she trying to tell me something?

After lunch, I took a walk out on the breakwater, which was pleasant until a cloud passed over the sun, the wind picked up, and raindrops started to fall.

I got the hint. In the parking lot, two sightings gave me joy: "Stop" signage that appears to have been drunkenly hand-painted, and a truck touting a cleaning company's expertise with red stains. (They are annoying, but are they that annoying?) It reminded me of the year Adam gave me red-wine stain remover as a birthday gift.

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Adam likes to buy lilies at the farmers' market—they're really beautiful—but this week he inadvertently bought the ones that smell. The fragrance is intense any time of year, but in allergy season, it's kryptonite. I went through two-thirds of a box of Kleenex yesterday before getting over feeling sorry for the flowers and throwing them out. They got their revenge.

This was tragic, because my Morgenstern's sweatshirt reliably gets comments from people. (Socialization!) I went online to investigate how to get rid of lily pollen. The first suggestion was to use tape to lift it off, which helped a little. The second was to leave it out in the sun, because occasionally the pollen will fade away. And that's what happened! It was magical. I tell this story because it's all I've got sometimes we all need reminding that the internet can be a force for good.

A Stroll Through Riven Rock

"The food!" says Adam when people ask what we miss about New York (and they do, reliably). But I miss the walking even more. I loved being able to get almost anywhere by foot, and I loved heading out whenever I grew antsy. Here, it's tougher. We're in a part of town where you can walk, but there are no sidewalks, and I've already explained that the driving is erratic. Also, you first have to walk 10 minutes down our street just to reach the development's front gate. 

Sometimes, I tag along if Adam is going to the gym in Santa Barbara, and I walk around there. Or I might drive myself somewhere and explore. But having to drive in order to walk drains away some of the pleasure. 

Yesterday, I couldn't take being in the house anymore, so I walked from our house to an area called Riven Rock. It's an old estate, created by the McCormick family (which founded International Harvester), that has been carved up over the years. The history is fascinating. From an article in the Independent:

The family hired the eminent behavioral scientist Dr. Gilbert Van Tassel Hamilton, who operated a primate laboratory at Riven Rock in the hope that this work would result in a cure for Stanley’s problems [with schizophrenia]. Unfortunately, help for Stanley was not forthcoming; periods of lucidity alternated with bouts of dementia, even violence.

Everything was done to see to Stanley’s comfort and happiness. A nine-hole golf course was constructed, a musical director hired, a theater built for live performances and movies, a large art collection developed. Periodically, Stanley was driven in one of the Rolls-Royces to the family’s beach cottage at Sandyland. Yet such was his condition, Katharine was basically forbidden to see her husband. She spent much of the year in Boston and usually stayed at a hotel when here. Stanley’s mother took to viewing her son from afar with binoculars.

While the main house didn't survive, "many of its out-buildings now [serve] as residences." Evidence of the old grounds—gates, walls, and vestigial stairs—is visible here and there.

The third photo above is at a house we tried to buy a few years ago. We put in an offer, and the counter was within range, but we had reservations about the neoclassical style, so we backed out. It probably didn't help that I would refer to the house as "the shoppes at Caesars Palace"; moreover, even if the bars on the front windows were architecturally appropriate, they felt wrong at the price point. (Riven Rock took it on the chin during the debris flow of 2018. The house we considered was OK, but others nearby were damaged or even destroyed.) 

On my recent walk, I noticed this funky curbstone. I wonder what its story is.

There are many extraordinary trees—no surprise given that the estate was built in the late 19th century.

Most of the houses aren't visible from the street, but they seem to be a mix of fancy and relatively modest. Here's a mailbox that appears to date from when the area was more rustic.

But my favorite thing about Riven Rock might be the signage. Montecito is known for its carved-wood street signs, which are indeed terrific, but the ones at Riven Rock have a funkier font, like something out of a fairy tale. They're even more charming when they're embedded within hedges.

Ergo the Bat

We went to our Newcomers potluck last night. The most exciting moment, for me, came on the way there. I checked Google Maps to see when we'd arrive, and I saw this.

Obviously, I told everyone at the dinner party about the discovery. Our hosts thought I was talking about the pole-dancing fitness studio on the other side of their building—who knew?—so I got to point out that they're actually the filling in a stripper sandwich.

The second most exciting moment occurred after we arrived, having checked our pride at the Newcomers sign by the door. (It's like having "student driver" emblazoned on your car.) "We didn't expect you to come!" said the hosts, freezing us in place. We untangled what happened.... Last week, Adam signed us up for next month's dinner party, and soon after, he emailed Newcomers to cancel that reservation because we decided to go to Stockholm and Copenhagen. Someone at the organization got confused and told this month's hosts we were dropping out. Lucky for everyone, no one on the waiting list was assigned to our spots. Less fortunately, the hosts had only set the table for six, and our two stools were stored up on a very high shelf. They went and got the apartment complex's ladder and I climbed up to retrieve the chairs.

The whole event was more socially fulfilling that the cocktail-party-style gatherings where you talk to someone for maybe 10 minutes, hoping a fire will spark from damp tinder. Everyone was nice, which is all you'll get from me (in writing) about the other guests, because this blog is far too easy to find. I did restrain myself when, early on, one of the guests extolled the virtues of the bus system.

P.S. I feel such sympathy for people who meet us, learn that we're gay and from New York City, and offer up how much they love Broadway. I read enough about what's playing to keep a conversation going—which is more than Adam can do—but I can't fake enthusiasm for it.

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I think I successfully talked my mom off the ledge.

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One of our recent houseguests was a teenager who'll be moving from the East Coast to a boarding school near us. She sent us a sweet note thanking us for our hospitality, and then threw in one of the saddest lines I've heard in a while: "I hope I can invite you guys to come see me at school sometime, maybe for a parent event, as I’ll likely be alone."

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Still madly in love with the farmer's market.

When Angels Play Xylophones

People in Montecito are awful drivers: They drift across the center line or way into the shoulder for long stretches; they wait until the last second—beyond that, actually—to pull out in front of you; they regularly go 10 miles below the speed limit; and don't get me started about their inability to commit to a method for navigating four-way stops. (Or the traffic circle, always a fraught situation.) And then there's parking. This morning, I pulled in behind this car, then waited a few seconds, because I figured the driver was going to keep going, and I wouldn't have minded continuing through to her spot. Instead, she stopped and got out. She did look back at the car as she walked away, but I guess she decided it was good enough.

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Adam and I are going to another Newcomers event this weekend. It's a potluck. That's one of those words—bus is another, and webinar—that give me the chills. I offered to pick this magazine up at the supermarket for Adam. (When I was at Budget Travel, the publisher insisted, twice, that our holiday party be a potluck lunch inside the office.... Why even bother?) Taste of Home's Church Potluck magazine is both amusing and sad: The audience for print publications is clearly only getting older and more rural. P.S. I bet the editors worried that the "74 divine dishes" cover line would be controversial. P.P.S. I was going to suggest a bunch of other possible cover lines, but I was having trouble coming up with food/religion overlaps, so I looked online. One of the words in a glossary I found was xylophones: "Instruments played by angels when their harps are in for repair." Is that a joke?

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The death of Doris Day got me thinking about Pillow Talk, Lover Come Back, and all the other movies of hers I remember so fondly. When I was a kid, and we had maybe a dozen TV channels to choose from, we ended up watching programming—geared to adults, or strange subject matter—that we wouldn't have chosen. It's like when you're staying at a beach house or ski condo and you have to read whatever book someone else has left behind. Nowadays, of course, kids can watch and read whatever they want, whenever they want. (It's similar, if less worrisome, to the way people get their news from sources that share their worldview.) Will there be some effect to all of this? Delayed maturation? There has to be some explanation for people's continued interest in superheroes....

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Another bug—same kind as the last one, but smaller—has taken up residence in our mailbox. Good thing I'm not expecting any mail for a while.

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At every yoga class I've taken, the teacher waits till most of the class is settled in before announcing which props will be used—and then we all get up and rush over, in a not-at-all-zen moment. But when I walked into Yoga Soup today, this sign was posted near the equipment. I love little innovations!

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Never seen this before: construction credits, on a house near ours. A very sweet idea. Of course, the workers have to gain access to a gated community to see it....

The Age of Unaccountability

We saw another snake yesterday; thankfully, this one was at the end of our driveway and not in our kitchen. We couldn't tell if it was alive or not—it just lay there, not moving even as the car approached. (The good news: no rattle.) When we got back from dinner, it was gone.

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From Adam: "Please pass along that comments are the only way to ensure some accountability and I think this is a very Trumpian action."

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This is what I was talking about. It's not as if the line moved forward while she was checking her phone, either.

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We don't support pugs in costumes. But still, Fantasy Pugs!

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Doris Day was a total delight, and underrated as an actress. Pillow Talk is one of my very favorite movies.

P.S. I have this shirt!

A Slow Kick

Me: I thought we might watch First Man tonight. It's the story of Neil Armstrong and the mission to the moon. It got decent reviews but it fizzled at the box office—I don't know why. The director is the guy who did La La Land, and it stars Ryan Gosling and Claire Foy. She's the actress who—

Adam: I know who she is. I'd sleep with her.

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I had a long, vivid dream last night about how a reader of Tribeca Citizen—whom I know only by name—had become the president of Brazil. When I checked Instagram this morning, I had one new "like," and it was from him. (I didn't even know he was following me.) Only a coincidence, but a strange one.

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I'm not sure why I didn't include this clown in the post about Santa Monica and Venice. If I'd known we could see it kick, we might've had to extend our trip. From Roadside America:

Clown in a Dress, nicknamed "Ballerina Clown" or just "Clownerina." [...] Sculptor Jonathan Borofsky's creation, unveiled in its current spot in 1989, is 30 feet tall, standing on a large crate above the entrance to a CVS Pharmacy. [...] The clown was originally built in 1988 as a gallery piece for a local art museum, with aluminum, steel, and painted fiberglass. Borofsky's intent was to capture a festive street performer mashed up with a "formal classical ballet dancer." An electric motor makes the right leg execute a slow kick. It was turned off in 1990 (the building tenants complained that it was noisy), but restored in 2014. Clownerina now kicks daily between 1 and 6 p.m., at least until her motor shorts out or the neighbors complain again.

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Adam's mother Barbara came over for lunch today, and after eating, we went for a walk. We came upon a man, a woman, and two children. "Happy Mother's Day!" said the man to Barbara, which I thought was presumptuous. (I wish she had replied that she was our nanny.) But then I think the only person you should wish Happy Mother's Day to is your mother, and Happy Valentine's Day to your lover, and so on.

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I turned off the comments on the blog. It's not because I don't want to hear from you. On the contrary! I love when people email, text, or (theoretically) call about something I've written. While I'm not sure how entertaining all of this is—I'm not fishing, seriously—I find it useful because it approximates conversation (one-sided as it may be) enough to help satisfy some social need. I get to say the things that I think about and might normally chat about with to colleagues or neighbors. That said, and perhaps this is a result of having to read every comment on Tribeca Citizen for ten years, I've never liked the dynamic of commenting, and when I see one pop up here, even though they're never annoying, I find myself cringe just a little. So off with its head! If you want to chat, you can email me (including by replying the to emailed blasts), and if you want me to pass something along to everyone else out there, just let me know.

Escape to Santa Monica

This area has had a gray few months, and it's worse up the hill, where our house is. Often, we have awakened to find ourselves inside the clouds. So when the weekend forecast called for rain, I suggested to Adam that I pick up him at LAX and we spend a night in L.A. 

Adam arrived in the early afternoon, and not surprisingly, he was exhausted after the long flight. I managed to get him out for a short walk, and then we chilled in the room for a bit. Shutters on the Beach is a treat, even if the lobby smells like someone hoses it down with perfume. I chose the hotel—in Santa Monica, not far from the airport—because I didn't want to spend the whole time in traffic; same goes for the restaurant I reserved at, Tallula's. Technically, it's in Santa Monica, but over by Pacific Palisades. Adam agreed to the 45-minute walk—we were able to take the beach path the whole way, which was lovely. I don't think we had ever walked far that direction, and relatively few people were around.

In the morning, it was mutually agreed that I should go for a stroll while Adam worked up energy to leave the room. I had always been iffy on Santa Monica, but in the calm of the early morning, I could see its charm. I'm drawn to places that are equal parts rough and upscale—too much either direction spoils the soup.

That said, the homeless situation in Santa Monica and Venice is dire. People were living midway up the bluffs above Pacific Coast Highway; they had pitched tents on the sidewalks. After 25 years in New York City, I didn't think I could get any further depressed by homelessness. And the possibility of a tense encounter loomed over every outing. I love a camera obscura, but I wasn't about to go inside at 7 a.m. on a Saturday (if it was open) because I feared someone would be ensconced inside. 

The other thing that had changed since my last visit was the rise of scooter-sharing—the kind where users can drop them wherever they want. They're littered everywhere, often blocking sidewalks. How lazy do you have to be not to move it out of the way?

But then there were grass flip-flops, the best use yet for fake sod.

I met Adam at the hotel, where he was grudgingly ready to venture out. We headed toward Venice, on streets I hadn't walked before. The "stockboy" parking space is at a company that distributes (distributed?) cigarettes, cigars, and candy, according to the signage. And the binoculars are at ad agency Chiat/Day's headquarters. Cars drive through them to enter the garage.

Our destination was Gjusta, the bakery/café spun off of Gjelina restaurant. Adam and I liked Gjelina fine, but Roger at Arcade Bakery insisted that Gjusta is remarkable. And it was! I think maybe Roger is also impressed by how much Gjusta does beyond bake: The menu is extensive. I ordered a bacon-and-egg flatbread, while Adam had a croissant, and then I went back for a pain au chocolat, a pistachio croissant, a loaf of pumpernickel bread, six everything bagels, and a jar of strawberry jam. (Most of it was for later.) Also, Lauren Hutton was hanging out at the counter, looking amazing.

We walked back on a residential street, increasingly one of my favorite things to do while traveling (and not just because of the real-estate website I'm working on, may it see the light of day...). 

We drove to Santa Barbara through Malibu, but we didn't see Cher. Once we got home, we sat down to lunch outside, marveling at the beautiful weather. Fifteen minutes later, huge raindrops started to fall.

P.S. Gosford Park is on Netflix, and I highly recommend it, even for a rewatch, and not just because Kristin Scott Thomas is in it. Although a high point is certainly when she barks, "You always complain that people look down on you, but then you act like a peasant!"

Return to Santa Cruz Island

We recently had dinner with a friend of Adam's from middle school and his wife, who live in the area. The friend confirmed something we had noticed on our own: When waiting in a line, people in Santa Barbara stand unnaturally far from each other, and they get agitated if you close the gap. While I was waiting for the boat to Santa Cruz Island to board, this happened:

Color me agitated! Am I becoming a Santa Barbaran? And/or was he simply not from around here? "Just offer to let him go ahead of you," texted Adam, after I apprised him of the sitch.

"You don't know me at all," I replied. 

The man and his wife were from Ft. Myers, Florida, as I learned on the otherwise uneventful boat ride because naturally they sat next to me. Somehow, we didn't get released to explore the island till 10:50 a.m., a half hour later than I expected, so I had to hustle. My goal was to be alone on a beach the way that write-ups about the Channel Islands all go on about—and which Adam and I didn't experience on our visit last week.

First, I took the dirt road over a ridge to Smuggler's Cove. The little island on the horizon is Anacapa. The cloud overhead reminded me of Schleprock from the Flintstones.

When I came upon that crow, it was standing in the middle of the road, pecking away at the eating ground-nesting bees we noticed last week. And here's Modern Hiker on the orchard:

By 3.4 miles, you’ll be on your second big chunk of the descent, passing through a surprisingly large remnant of one of the olive orchards that still stands on the island—a remnant of its ranching and agricultural past. The olive trees were planted in the late 1800s and many of them are still doing fine today, despite many decades of not being tended to by the farmers who used to live here.

The beach and picnic tables at Smuggler's Cove were inviting, but because I was worried about time, I kept on moving, over the second ridge, to Yellowbanks Beach. Here's Modern Hiker on the building below, just inland from Smuggler's Cove:

This building was used while the Island was an agricultural ranch, and it was also used as a makeshift hunting lodge when conservationists were hunting feral pigs and sheep that were wreaking havoc on the island’s ecosystem. It was built in 1889 and you can still see the quarry used to get the stones to build it just to the west of the house. This building is being restored and renovated and is off-limits to the public.

The National Park trail map says that there's an unmaintained trail to Yellowbanks beach, but the AllTrails app has the road just ending. They're both correct: After the road unceremoniously ends (at the edge of a cliff), you take a narrow, steep, extremely slippery (thanks to the dead grass stalks) path to the beach.

I fell once, but I hesitate to use that verb; what I did was less frantic, more like my body chose to sit without letting my mind know. That said, it did occur to me that I would be way up shit creek if I had, say, seriously hurt my knee right then, because I doubt anyone else made the trip to Yellowbanks that day. (Or makes it very often.) I had visions of being stranded, à la Island of the Blue Dolphins..., which I only just now learned is based on a true story, making it even more terrifying.

As for the beach, it was striking, but I don't know that a beach without sand is a beach. The hamburger-size rocks moved underfoot—not enough to feel dangerous, but enough to make getting around difficult. I came very close to taking the driftwood shaped like a crab, but park rules prohibit removing anything.

On the return to Smuggler's Cove, I spotted some wild fennel that had been sprayed with herbicide. Adam and I saw a guy doing the spraying on our last visit, and we were surprised, to say the least. The National Park Service volunteer said that the fennel is so invasive that it was to be killed.

There were a couple of other hikers at Smuggler's Cove, but the beach was big enough for all of us. My cheese sandwich was a warm, squishy mess at this point, and it tasted fantastic.

The beach was better suited to beachcombing, or whatever the window-shopping equivalent of beachcombing is. I got all excited about this shell, and I could feel my virtuousness breaking down. Then I turned it over....

I had lots of time left, but I knew I'd be happier waiting near the dock rather than three miles away, so I hit the road again. A fox joined me for a while.

According to AllTrails, I walked 11.6 miles at a pace of 18:47 minutes per mile. The app had the total elevation gain at 686 feet, which felt way off. Sure enough, Modern Hiker says the elevation to Smugglers Cove is 675 feet, and Backpacker adds another 544 feet for Yellowbanks. Either way, I deserved a break.

P.S. I took the occasion of Adam being gone to watch Beyoncé's "Homecoming" concert documentary. She's an unbelievable talent, a force, and the whole thing was clearly a triumph. But I was surprised how often the camera slowly panned down her body or lingered on her ass. She had to work at superhuman levels to pull the concerts off after having twins, and maybe that's what those choices were about. But they also seemed misguided, at best. Beyoncé's ass is not even close to the most interesting thing about her.

How Sweet the Sound

Adam is in New York City for work, but I no longer have anxiety about being alone here. I do, however, make an extra effort to keep myself occupied, at least intermittently. And I prioritize activities that he wouldn't want to do (unless I'm feeling ignored, in which case I prioritize activities he really wants to do).

Yesterday, I went to see Amazing Grace, the documentary about the making of Aretha Franklin's live gospel album in 1972. The record is evidently the biggest-selling gospel album of all time, but I had never heard it, so the whole experience was new to me. She was gorgeous back then, and the film—a bit of a glorious mess—is highly watchable even if you don't much like gospel. Her rendition of "Amazing Grace" moved me to tears, but I was already in a ragged emotional state because the man behind me chose the song's slow opening to thoroughly crumple his popcorn bag into a tight little ball. I was reminded of seeing The Brothers McMullen with my friend Aviva; annoyed with some folks across the aisle noisily scrabbling around in plastic packaging, she went over and suggested they go home and wait for the DVD.

Amazing Grace was an interesting counterpoint to the Studio 54 documentary I watched on Netflix later that night—an inclusionary church vs. an exclusionary one. The film is a decent version of the talking-head documentary, but the format is tired.

And I've eaten hot dogs, too many hot dogs. I bought them months ago, thinking that we could grill them, now that we have a grill, possibly as an easy lunch for guests. (The hot dogs are from Niman Ranch.) But Adam never wanted to, and the only thing I like less than wasting food is wasting meat, so I had two for dinner last night and two for lunch today. Praise the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost that the package only contained four. On the other hand, I quite enjoyed all the pickle relish, even if the jar will drive me crazy sitting in our fridge for the next 12 months.

Tomorrow, I go back to Santa Cruz Island, to do a hike that Adam was wary of. I went to print the ferry confirmation today, and everything about it was wrong: It was a camping ticket (rather than a day-trip one), for two people, returning the next day. Embarrassed by my inability to get much of anything correct, I called the company, and it turns out that someone had called to change his reservation and mine got altered instead. "Believe it or not, your names are kind of similar," said the staffer. Makes you wonder what it could be. Derek Doorbells?

P.S. How does this happen?