We awoke in the attic of an old Santa Barbara house turned hostel, all angled ceilings and timber paneling. The night before we had wandered the waterfront, a promenade in music. In the parking lot a stereo was blaring fat beats to the night sky, I turned the corner and a wedding reception was bursting with an interesting mix of Spanish songs and hits of the 90s, dancers spelling onto the grass, then metres away so their rhythms mashed into a new beast altogether a group of drum players about twenty in total, little girl dancing joyously at their feet.Our dinner consisted of what Dylan referred to a reminder of what good pizza is, not because it was exceptional unless you qualify it with the word bad. Bread thick dough, pasta sauce and a few mozzarella slices all for $20! Santa Barbara redeemed herself however when we found the James Joyce. Jazz was filtering through the cracks as we approached, the doors swung open to what can only be described as a kicking good atmosphere. Drinks clinking and a band consisting of seniors with a dame in a black wig and a killer set of pipes. A swing dancing class took to the floor demoralising all other dancers to the sidelines. The instructor took each lady by the hand and jaw dropped as they cut up the rug. Two of the male students gave up, but the eldest of the group, a mob of about 80 took the girls for a slower shuffle. Then if the free entertainment was not enough, the dame at the mic began handing out cake for one of the band member’s retirement. “I guess his wife finally convinced him to buy an rv” Dylan suggested. What a night.
The next morning we lingered a while, saw an Easter bunny dancing on the streets waving at cars, got free lemonade and biscuits in a clothing store then hit the road.
The contrast between the poverty of the Mexicans in the field of the other day and the luxury on the mansions on the Malibu hills was stark, washing off the gloss and leaving a bad taste in the mouth. This exists everywhere, but a we passed the golden beaches of the California coast we started feeling excited to soon be moving on to Europe. California was beautiful, but it had lost the shine er had felt when we first arrived what seemed an age ago, it wasn’t us.
Our Airbnb by the airport was nestled under a line of power pylons, buzzing in the wind. After hours in the car we finally got the chance to go to the beach. A beach with a backdrop of a powerplant puffing out steam. It seemed so right, a dropping of pretence. Sand between toes, airplane overhead, we felt free and delighted in the small things: tiny birds running with the waves, children playing I the sand, catching the sun hanging on the horizon.
We packed, and went to sleep to the buzz of electricity.
