The General Situation

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.

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....

House of the Blacksmith

Down the hill from our house is Casa del Herrero, or House of the Blacksmith. Without doing much research into it, I suggested Adam and I take his mom on the tour. I assumed that the property had humble origins, but I was wrong with a capital R. George Fox Steedman, whose fortune came from munitions, commissioned architect George Washington Smith to build the house in the 1920s.

The architecture is appealing, if you don't mind the dimness of the Spanish Colonial style, but where the house shines is in the details. Visitors aren't allowed to photograph inside, so you'll have to take my word that nothing was too small for Steedman to obsess over. I was particularly drawn to the stone paving in the motorcourt (first photo below). As for the second photo, Steedman adopted the centaur as his personal symbol, inspired by the "steed" in his name; the creature is all over the house, including this outdoor chair. (It reminds me of Edward Gorey.) There was no shortage of self-mythologizing in this family: The "blacksmith" part of the house's name comes from Steedman's metalwork hobby. His studio is stunning.

The gardens are lovely enough, although they pale in comparison—unfairly, unavoidably—to Lotusland. That's a frog statuette at the top of the third photo below.

If you come to town, I'll encourage you visit Casa del Herrero, but I don't know that I need to do the tour again. (If only one could wander freely....) Then again, I'm sure I'd spot more amazing little details—like the cement (?) drain cover below.

P.S. Brick stairs look so much better this way!

Yoprah!

A real-estate update, of sorts: We made an offer on a house, but our brokers (who also represent the seller, an awkward sitch that's not illegal in California) responded that the amount was too low for the seller to even consider. We decided to wait till after we're back from Sweden/Denmark to decide how to proceed. 

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When folks are visiting, it's important to come up with an outing that's new to everyone. In the case of my friend Tracy, that meant Test Pilot, a craft-cocktail tiki bar in the Funk Zone. Why do mai tais get relegated to tropical vacations? A good one is a treat and a half.

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Naturally, we're running out of things we haven't done that we'd still want to do. Tracy also got walked at the Ennisbrook Preserve, which Adam and I have been to a few times. It abuts Oprah's estate, not that you'd be likely to spot her anywhere near the fence; still, Tracy mulled what she'd say on the off chance we ran into her and insisted that we'd buy her a coffee. (I planned on yelling, "Yoprah!") Instead, we got nasturtiums.

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Some readers of this blog receive posts via email, which is swell, except I occasionally include a video and, even though I know better, assume it'll be emailed out. (You can't embed videos in emails, which is possibly a blessing but kind of strange in 2019...?) Anyone who'd like to watch my Sexual Karma of Laundromats documentary—"a work of genius," was one reader's verdict—can click here.

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This morning, I planned on swimming and then changed my mind, deciding instead to take a long walk on the beach: The tide was low, making it possible to go from cove to cove to cover. I didn't fiddle with the color in these photos at all.

Bone Cute

I don't often feel like a prude, but is it really appropriate for the New York Times to use "bone" as a verb?

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Highly recommended: Apollo 11, the recent documentary about the first moonshot: "The film consists solely of archival footage, including 70 mm film that was previously unreleased to the public, and does not feature narration or interviews." (Wikipedia.) So much more fulfilling than First Man, despite Claire Foy's charms. We watched it on DVD, via Netflix, but I'm sure it's streamable.

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We had reserved a loaf of bread at Bettina, our favorite restaurant in town, but I didn't want to get in the car, so I walked down to the restaurant to pick it up. More impressive, I walked back—up, up, up the hill. The trip was about seven miles total, and it left me plotzed. I was reminded, however, how much more you see when you walk. Like this sign. I can just see someone starting to dig rather than attempting to make a collect call.

And check out this house marker, wedged between eucalyptus trunks.

I do like a retro sign like El Cielito's. I wonder what they thought of me when the reviewed the footage from the security camera.... The second photo, meanwhile, is of a sign shaped like a sprouting acorn (although the leaf looks more like a Matisse); the words say "Pay Dirt." Odd name for a house.

And then there are the people who had the temerity to name their plantation house Tara.

Sifting Sands

Someone with whom Adam wanted to network for his charitable endeavor said he'd be participating in a beach clean-up, so we tagged along. I was under the impression that we were also doing it for socialization reasons, but we were sent off to the far end of the beach. "I didn’t come to meet people," said Adam. "I just wanted to pick up trash off the beach." We can add that to the list of sentences I never thought I'd hear him say.

I'm not prepared to categorize the two hours on the beach as fun, but it was satisfying. (Then again, I love a grabber tool.) Locating trash is the hard part, because the beach has all sorts of natural detritus on it. You have to focus intently, training your eye to search out unnatural colors and too-perfect shapes. It's prudent to look up every now and then, in case you're about to step on a rotting bird corpse or a sleeping homeless person.

Non-homeless beachgoers looked away whenever I approached. Did they think were petty criminals doing penance? Since I haven't committed any crimes lately, I tried to think of past misdeeds that I may have forgotten to atone for. 

I wish I could report amusing finds along with the cigarette butts and fragments of plastic. (Adam got a syringe!) There was some pathos in the many flowers on the beach, probably left behind after a wedding or proposal. Having turned competitive, Adam declared that the flowers weren't acceptable garbage, but my feeling was that anything a human leaves on the beach should be removed.

In total, our group of 10 do-gooders gathered around 75 pounds of trash. It's a start.

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With a grape jelly chaser?

Hell-Bent for Uni

We did something new today: Before the farmer's market, we went to the Saturday Fishermen's Market, held at the harbor. Adam was hell-bent for uni: Santa Barbara is known for sea urchin—you can find it on menus in New York City—but the restaurants here don't seem to really showcase it. 

There were around eight stalls, selling uni, crab, abalone, and fish. We made a beeline for the uni. "You going to eat it here?" asked the appropriately crusty vendor. We took a pass, explaining we'd wait till lunch. He went to work, using a tool out of Dead Ringers to pry the urchins apart, in order to harvest the gonads. The spines wriggled all the while, turning the experience a shade gruesome.

I distracted myself by buying an abalone shell. I knew the nacre inside abalone shells is pretty, but I didn't recall the exterior being so nice. Or maybe these had been cleaned up?

In a classic bait-and-switch, Adam had promised me an uni-and-crème-fraîche omelette for lunch, but once we got home, he decided we should just eat it on pieces of nori.

The farmer's market, meanwhile, is nearly in full summer mode, although not quite to tomato season. We bought far more stone fruit—peaches, nectarines, cherries, plums, and apricots—than we'll likely be able to eat. (I may have to make a galette.) I blame Adam's aunt, Tracey, who heard Adam say he wanted a wagon for the market, sent us L.L. Bean's largest model. The wagon has taught us the virtue of being limited by what you can carry. 

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Kids these days! Part of the joy of water balloons is the struggle to get them filled and tied.

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Sorry, Joan. Mom sends her regrets.

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.