Disclaimer: This series of blog posts regarding our weekend to Santa Barbara was a mess of mixed-up images, followed by a longer post dated after our return that consolidated things into a single post. Here in November 2022, I’m repairing those mistakes.
Sunday starts again with flowers. While on our routine visit to the park for a morning dog trot, I wander about looking for flowers. Yesterday, the park was full of children; today, the place is almost empty. Caroline talks with Gail, who brought Augie and Chester with her.
Augie and Chester, instead of playing with Sophie, are more interested in nuzzling with my aunt and uncle, who have a soft touch for an animal’s affection. We spent a short time in the park today before going to Costco for a berry sundae and are soon back at the house.
Caroline and Aunt Anne are picking lemons for us to bring back to Phoenix and I help with putting some heavy items into storage. My Uncle’s back is not what it used to be, and he is supposed to stay away from heavy lifting. On our visits, I try to help with what I can. Near the lemon tree, Caroline found this large specimen of a spider!
By early afternoon Caroline and I are already about to end our short visit here in Santa Barbara and will soon be on the highway going east. With the car packed, we say bye with the hope that we will visit this coming Christmas. On the way out, we stopped at a farmers market we spotted earlier in the morning in the parking lot of the Costco plaza. Vendors from all over the greater Santa Barbara area are here selling their pesticide- and chemical-free fruits and veggies.
This farmers market operates every Sunday from 10:00 until 2:00 and will see us coming back again and again.
The weather and view are already a pull to leave Arizona and move to Santa Barbara; this farmers market adds another reason. Of course, the high price of living here is a stumbling block. This market is everything Caroline and I could wish for from such a small operation.
From chilies and squash to carrots, cheese, and honey, this farmer’s market has it all. The contents of the small booths seemingly wink at us to buy a little of this and a little of that. If we need convincing to buy, the local cheese seller has donned an Elvis costume and belts out the Blues tunes to sell his blue cheese; think Blue Suede Shoes, Blue Hawaii, Blue Christmas, you get the idea.
Exotic Asian veggies such as sinqua, opo, and bitter melon are all for sale, along with lemongrass, bean sprouts, and some unidentifiable greens. While we don’t need any of those, we do buy lots of tomatoes: heirlooms, chocolate, and some small beefsteaks. We add some carrots, lettuce, and beets, too.
Finally, if you are not sure of what you want to buy, you can be sure that half the vendors are going to offer you samples to tempt you into shopping for more. We ended up with grapes, a watermelon, plums, and some truly great grape juice from the Monahan Family Farm in Paso Robles, California. This juice is from Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah grapes and is unlike any grape juice I have ever had – you have got to try it.
With not much room left in the car and the air conditioning on full to keep our stash fresh, we again tried heading back to Phoenix. Soon, the ocean beckons. We heed its call. North of Seacliff, we pull over and jump over a safety wall onto the rocks piled up to the highway that leads down to the beach.
Caroline loses control under such beautiful conditions and decides she just has to make a splash. The beach is almost empty; we have it to ourselves, and in a second, Caroline is finding her way into the Pacific – with her modified swimsuit. Refreshing is how she put it; cold is how I would describe it.
On the other side of Route 101, the Amtrak Surfliner train is leisurely making its way south. The train originates in Paso Robles and passes through San Louis Obispo, Santa Barbara, Ventura, Burbank, Los Angeles, Anaheim, Irvine, and San Clemente, terminating in San Diego.
Now hungry from the shopping and frolicking in the surf, it is time to stop for lunch. We chose an old haunt from my punk rock days called Oki Dog on Fairfax and Willoughby in Hollywood. Oki Dog is a joint, a tiny corner shop with a health department rating of C, but that is of no concern when dealing with such a unique experience. Home of the world-famous Oki Dog and Oki Burrito. I’ve been eating the Oki Burrito since I was a teenager when Oki Dog was on Santa Monica Blvd. With friends, we would leave the Starwood, Whisky a Go Go, or the Anti-Club and head to Oki for the two tortillas, grilled veggies, layers of pastrami, chili, mustard, and pickles all rolled into the biggest burrito you have ever seen which as of this writing was only $5.45.
By 6:30 we are in Indio, California. The sun has just dipped below the mountains, and we are still 90 minutes from the Arizona border. We will finally get home minutes before 10:00 p.m., happy with having a weekend so far removed from routine.
