Santa Barbara, Nexus of Delight

It's heartbreaking. Every time I've been there, it has been idyllic. The bar is raised to impossible heights, but each visit to Santa Barbara is ludicrously pleasant. This time had some perversely nice twists. First, I was simply accompanying my wife on her business trip, so the expenses were considerably less than if we had simply gone there of our own volition. Next, the weather was flawless. Not just "Oh, Gee, it's nice, considering it's January," but nice enough to compare with anywhere, any time of year. Lindz attended a multi-day business conference replete with presentations and lectures; I wandered around. I took pictures, drank beer, wrote in my journal and plowed through The DaVinci Code. During our stay in Santa Barbara, my harshest dose of reality was the need to purchase band-aids for my blisters (I had been walking in sandals all day, each day). Hellish. Absolutely hellish. For starters, here's the view from our hotel room that greeted me at sunrise our first day (I would have missed it were it not for the three hour time difference):

And I wandered.


Pelicans on Stearns Wharf are unafraid of humans; I was able to get close:

A slice of sky from underneath the 101 overpass at State Street:

A sidewalk in the afternoon:

I don't know the exact age of this edifice, and the picture does not quite do justice to the fine stonework. Perhaps my brother will drive up there and photograph it properly:

Fulfilling my duty as a spouse, I attended each evening's social events with Lindz, and we chatted with political/commerce-minded folk from around the country. That was pretty much my only requirement during the trip, which served to prevent me from wandering too far or getting too drunk. All things considered, I'm quite the lucky son of a bitch.
Lindz's conference concluded, and we headed into the hills for some wine tasting. We pulled off from route 154:


Here are some backlit cows grazing near Sanford Winery, of Sideways fame:
Incidentally, this place is my favorite. The wine is superlative. They make a lovely, seductively complex Sauvignon Blanc, and their Pinot Noirs are of peerless stature. We brought back a bottle of the Pinot Noir 2001 La Rinconada Vineyard. It's the shit. Rich, deeply extracted fruit with licorice, mineral and spice notes. Probably the best pinot I've had the luck to drink, and I've had some good Pinot. It's a bigger wine than many Cabernets. The place is unassuming and quaint:

We started south for Los Angeles (we got a hotel room near LAX because our flight departed early the next morning). The sun disappeared behind one of the Channel Islands, and Lindz snapped a picture while we were driving:

We were in a daze; the drive had been so beautiful. We drove through fine Santa Barbara County scenery during photographers' fabled "Magic Hour."
After that, via Ventura and Thousand Oaks, we gradually descended into the ordeal of traffic that is the hallmark of that hateful tumor of a city, Los Angeles. What potent mixture of drugs allow Angelinos to maintain the will to live? I'd likely put a shotgun in my mouth if I lived in that Disneyland Trashcan. Lindz was kind enough to put up with me as I swore at the traffic. What can I say? It was an infuriating and confusing undertaking just to fill up on gas on Sunset Boulevard, and two hours earlier, we were sipping great wine in Buelton.

Like photography, life is meaningless without contrast.