Santa Barbara is one of California’s undeniable gems— perfect weather, irresistibly quaint architecture, hipster restaurants, shopping, beaches. And yet, we’ve got a dark and sordid history with this beautiful town.
It all started back during my first visit as a tween. One day I was traipsing around the woods with my best friend, Esther, and the following weekend I was miserably trapped in this quaint town with half my face covered in poison oak. Grumpy doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Many years later, James and I planned a trip to Santa Barbara for his birthday— Jake was just 15 months old. All we really remember about that trip was a little, bald tyrant fussing and complaining while we tried to enjoy a beautiful dinner at the end of the pier. The following day we sat on a bench in a shaded paseo, debating our options for lunch as the tyrant continued his incessant malcontent. We gazed at the Panda Express, looming at the end of the passageway, and vividly lamented that we might never enjoy a lovely meal again. The only time I remember a smile on that kid’s face during the entire trip was our stop at the U-Pick Blueberry Patch, allowing him to pop $15 worth of blueberries into his mouth, and keeping him happy for 5 minutes of the remaining 4 hour drive home.
And then there was this weekend. We decided to visit the Santa Barbara Zoo, which was not much farther than our previous drive to San Francisco. The day was beautiful. The zoo was beautiful. But Nate? Nate was not so beautiful. Bouts of complaining and whining and refusing to walk. Hiding under foliage. Begging for piggy-back rides. He sat on the lawn and shouted, and I quote, “I’m never going home. I’m going to stay here for the rest of my life!”
Fine. Stay with your brother. Daddy and I are going to a beautiful lunch.