Day One

WEST HOLLYWOOD - SANTA BARBARA - LOMPOC

The day started off the same as virtually all the days to come: we awoke, alone, together, Mrs. & Mrs. There was the usual traffic sounds outside on the streets, but the house was still. We moved at a slow pace, taking our time--enjoying our coffee on the patio, catching up on the news, bantering back and forth about whether or not to eat breakfast.

Eventually we showered and dressed, and packed our remaining toiletries among everything we had already packed the night before: Numerous changes of clothes, beach attire, camping gear, a bottle of gin, my Avonex, some Tylenol, sunscreen, bug spray, etc. SInce we didn’t have a ton of money and neither of us had been up the coast before, we decided to take the Pacific Coast Highway all the way up north and see what the rest of the state of California had to offer.

But, first, the surfboard debate…

I wanted to be on the road no later than 10:00am, but it just never works out that way. I don’t know. Maybe it’s something about the character of the American West--a place where people mozy (is that spelled right?) instead of hustle. We had been here long enough to be on “L.A. time” and adapt to the fact that traffic was never going to be our friend, and any attempt to rush anywhere was fruitless. At any rate, this was the beginning of our honeymoon and I thought we might be able to get it off on the right foot. No dice.

After basically having to Tetris everything into the back of the car--an endeavor that involved us saying things to each other like, “You know what? Pull everything back out--again--and let’s just start over.” Finally, it’s after 11:00am before we’re ready to pull out of the driveway.

But, Brianna being Brianna and thinking of me over herself, slammed the car back into park before I could back out into the street, and cried, “wait!”

I furrowed my brow and looked at her with confusion.

She pointed up, to the ceiling of the car, indicating the rack on the roof above. “Your board. We almost left it.”

I’d no intention of bringing a surfboard. While the idea of an expedition up the coast, complete with hitting some new spots was intriguing, surfing was my thing. This wasn’t about me; it’s was about us. I wanted experiences I could share with her.

“No, no, no,” she insisted, “you have to. And you want to.”

I did. But I wasn’t going to. “Look, it’s sweet that you’d let me--”

She cut me off. “I’m not letting you; I’m insisting.”

So, a half hour later we finally left the house, board strapped to the rack, beach bag stuffed with a rash guard and full wetsuit.

The first scheduled stop was Santa Barbara. The plan--such as it was--was to get there at around noon and stop for some lunch. Well, it was already 11:30 and our tummies were complaining, and I didn’t want to make the two-hour drive on an empty stomach. So our first stop was this French place in WeHo for poached eggs and croissants. If I was going to eat carbs, I might as well make it count since I love me some French pastries.

Our bellies full, it was time to set out for Santa Barbara.

We didn’t know what Santa Barbara had to offer really. Neither of us had ever been there. All we did know was that the original Spanish mission and chapel still stood. And that was our first stop--second if you include the croissants three minutes from home.


We did the self-guided tour of the mission grounds, but the chapel was the true attraction. I’ve never seen a place so beautiful. I felt so at peace and relaxed. I think it was the first time I’d exhaled since May. We sat for awhile, and admired the art and architecture, before praying, and lighting some candles for some of our dearly departed. We knelt and made the sign of the cross before leaving, like the good Catholic girls we had once been.

I felt cleansed walking back outside into the sunshine. It had been a humbling experience. Then we made our way down State St. and just walked around. The old world architecture was just amazing. L.A. is so modern, but Santa Barbara kept its colonial heritage. In some ways, it was more New England than SoCal. It had the arty and historic vibe of Santa Fe, though it switched out Spanish pueblo architecture for that of the Spanish mission style. We saw a bunch of quirky stores, including a good ol’ fashioned candy shop. I found Clark bars for the first time in years, as well as gummy Coke bottles--which I can’t even find at the moment. By the time we hit the pier and the educational Sea Center (where we got to play with starfish and sea anemones), it was dinner time. All along our walks we made sure to find locals and ask them where they recommended eating. We got a variety of answers, but everyone did have one recommendation in common: Fishouse.

Okay. Seafood, that makes sense. But everyone told us not to bother with the seafood. We had to get their hot wings. Best in the world. Not even on the menu. But ask them for their famous hot wings...they’ll make them.

Neither of us liked hot wings, but, when in Rome...or Santa Barbara…

Oh. My. God. If these weren’t the best chicken-based creation in the world, I don’t know what is. I wish I could tell you how they made them. I wish they could have told us--and believe me, we asked. But, alas, like Coca Cola or the KFC recipe, it is kept under wraps. But I’ll say this: the coating involved green onion and parmesan cheese--no breading--and the sauce was worth going to war over.

After we licked our fingers and finished our drinks I remarked to Brianna, “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I want to live here.”

The cheapest rooms we could find were $150 a night. We weren’t having that, so we drove 50 minutes north to the town of Lompoc, the gateway to California wine country, and--from both a geographical and cultural standpoint--the border between Northern and Southern California, the true beginning of the Central Coast.

We booked a room for two nights. We had no idea what the sleepy town had to offer, but we were eager to find out. I did discover a sleepy little stretch of beach known as Surf Beach that I wanted to check out before we left.

And that was an adventure in and of itself. At least, almost an adventure.