I’m learning with this whole blog thing. And I think titles
may be necessary every so often.
I got a call two-and-a-half weeks ago from a “415” area
code, and picking it up—as I tend to do with unknown numbers from known area
codes—I heard the voice of a foreign girl ask to speak with me. Her name was
Heidi, and she told me that she had studied with a friend of mine, Aaron
Freifeld, in Denmark back in 2008; he suggested they call me for their visit to
Santa Barbara. Her and her friend Laura were travelling south from San
Francisco with stops in Santa Cruz and Big Sur into Santa Barbara, continuing on
their way through to San Diego as the last destination of their US West Coast
trip. Both from Finland, the girls were looking forward to experiencing picturesque, sunny California; it'd been cloudy and cold from San Francisco all the way down so far. Thinking all was well at the SB House, I invited them to sleep in my van
while I would sleep on the couch. A van-bed and a house-couch aren’t terribly
different and have their benefits and pitfalls. I figured I could manage for
the sake of vibes at the SB House.
The girls got into Santa Barbara late Friday night,
September 20. After going out for drinks at Mel’s, a local dive bar that Yelp
suggested, we cabbed back to the SB House, where the girls slept “one of the most comfortable nights on their trip,” and I slept inside, curled up on the
couch beneath the window. In the morning, I was to find out from Brian that
this was essentially the last straw of having me at the house, thus relocating
to Carpinteria outside of Casa de Macias. And not that it was the last straw,
per se, but that my lingering presence resulted in moments of discomfort. So it
goes. I understand. It's not my house anyhow.
In the morning, we threw the boards in the van and drove
down to Dumpsters, where Tim was going to meet up with us on his way back from
Oxnard. It was there where spent the entire day, drinking tepid, sun-warmed
Tecates; paddling out in a textured, blown-out wind-swell that blew in wave
after wave; joyously hollering as dolphins crested the surface of the ocean; and
laying on the sand as the tide rose to the rocks, forcing us to pack up and
leave. The girls practiced on the incessant white wash while Tim and I
struggled to make the best of 3-foot close-out waves. It was a blast for
everybody. After a long day, Tim’s parents were so kind to let us stay over for
chimichangas that evening and park the van for the ladies to sleep in while I
shared Joe’s tent in his backyard. (As I write this out, there seems much to
explain to truly paint the picture of day-to-day living. Joe is Tim’s dad. He
likes to sleep outside during the summer because it is not only refreshing, it
also helps him get good sleep while the four dogs yap early in the morning.)
On Sunday, we drove down to C-Street, hoping the waves would
be a little more promising for the Heidi and Laura to practice surfing. It was
another five-hour day at the beach, sprawling out in the California sun while
the sound of crashing waves rolled onto the shore. I probably paddled out on four
separate occasions, too tempted by even the slightest show of a set coming
through. Stopping by Tim’s after, we drove up to Francesci Park for a stellar
panoramic view of Santa Barbara. To send the Heidi and Laura off with satiated
grins, Tim and I took them to La Super Rica on Milpas Street, perhaps some of
the most delicious and authentic Mexican food in Santa Barbara. Papa Greeley
recommends it to all. We ate, we chatted, we said our good-byes, the girls gave
us hugs that words cannot describe, and they drove off to LA LA land. I’d meet
up with them a week or so later at the train station in San Juan Capistrano.
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