Today I woke up and decided that I wanted to go to Santa Barbara, 90 miles up the coast. Ostensibly this was because it was the last day of a show at the SB museum. It was also because it was a beautiful day and a beautiful drive and because I had a hankering for guacamole.
Taqueria Super Rico in Santa Barbara is most likely looked down on by the locals as some tourist trap but I love it. So did Julia Child so I don't think I have to apologise..
Santa Barbara is an almost ridiculously picturesque town, all Spanish tiles and missions and hills spilling into impossibly blue waters. There are beautiful beaches, painfully cute neighborhoods full of cunning shops and the sort of laid-back, no pushing atmosphere that I wish didn't put my teeth on edge. I wish I was the sort of person who could happily follow someone who is weaving back and forth doing 22 mph on the street by the beach looking for parking with equanimity. I wish I could smile serenely and row between second and third, not gritting my molars to dust and muttering "get the bloody f*&k out of my way you complete idiot before I am forced to kill you!"
I can't. Even with a gullet full of truly excellent guac. I'm too type-A. I am too New York. Even after looking at a room full of Picasso drawings on a sunny day, maundering down Cabrillo Boulevard. I suppose there's something to be said for knowing oneself, even if it means knowing you're an asshole...
Photo: my iPhone