The Chocolate Gallery, 33 years and counting!
I believe you can. I feel justified declaring myself a full-blown New Yorker. The pace in sunny SoCal and me… well maybe we just don’t quite mesh. I feel abrupt just walking into the bank or a shop by the reactions that my mere contiguity seems to entice from the folks around here. It is interesting, to say the least. I’m unknowingly staring in a Cohen Brother movie. I have to admit that it’s difficult not to walk fast, get impatient at a cross walk when there are barely any cars on a massive suburban intersection, and ask sharp, precise and direct questions. I think my real problem is that no one else reacts with much swiftness. I’m not complaining, Santa Barbara is a very nice place. I walk these streets now with confidence… amazed how much nothing has changed. In fact, I’ve realised Country Meat Market is just across the road… how funny! And then Bob Seger comes on with “Still The Same” and I can’t help but reflect, with a huge sense of accomplishment and a giggle. I so completely respect all of my lovelies who simply love living in our hometown. I just cannot relate. I imagine many wouldn’t relate to my three mile walk to spin for two hours, as I must maintain the business, of course, but also my figure in anticipation of my upcoming ‘pool day’ with the VP. Eat-your-heart-out moments are secretly my most favourite.
In the land of the perpetual cul-de-sac, having just jumped the Overpass fence to the bike path, I passed the San Simeon house where I swindled that deal for a limo ride to my eighth grade ‘school dance’, and found the perfect avocado just fallen off someone’s tree. I watched Calle Real slowly go by, (and Jimbo as well!) and am genuinely moved by every song that proceeds the next, upon reflection of my last decade away. I’d never have known the words to that legendary Stone Roses ballad by heart, without the VP. I’d never have the relationship to music that I do, had my dear client not outfaced me to actually spin for charity rather than just donate money. I’d never have been introduced to Bob Dylan by my immeasurably loved special friend. Can’t imagine Gangnam Style would sound the same had Ashlee and I not smashed it at our London event. Would Ed Sheeran even be on my radar had that gorgeous tall Brit not downloaded it to my iTunes whilst in Mexico? And let’s face it… what would I even do without Pulp!? What I do know, is that more than anything, my head is lost on some bus with Edward Sharpe’s “Home”, and I simply must distract myself in the form of general mischief.
“… and so it depends”… sigh
I don’t count San Fran as real trips so therefore I’ve oddly not been on one since New Year. I must admit, I’m growing increasingly excited as St. Barth’s, Puerto Rico, Oman, Dubai, Bangkok and California hover in my v near future. As much as I’m trying to initiate change and market my incredible business, I think the ever-present debates about arranging Italian versus French hotel sites, or offers to pop across the pond helps to ground, legitimise and motivate me. With all the dead-weight now in storage, I must incorporate meeting my second grand-niece, Brooklyn in Washington State with a Vegas conference impending that I’m still not quite sure attending, for the third year in a row, is worthwhile. (and I’m completely full of shite, as it is not likely I’ll miss that reunion, I mean… conference)
I say this with respect, but if my internal debates were centred more around “what should I pick up at Country Meat Market for dinner”, I don’t think I’d be a v happy person. And on that note I’ll head over to the Chocolate Factory to collect a real down home special surprise for my Bistro family on the upper east side. Maybe I’ll turn on “Withnail & I” or “Amelie” for a bit of mental stabilisation. My six miles today, coupled with a two-hour self-spin sesh helped as well.
Turns out you can take the girl out of Santa Barbara and you can also take Santa Barbara out of the girl. I’ve officially defected. I’m hungry for New York, Capri and Seoul. However, as often or little I visit ‘home’, I can always count on this crow. This is the only fucking crow I’ve ever seen in my life… and it lives outside my parent’s house where I grew up. Not quite as scary as the kraken, but what is with this silly old bird? Speaking of kraken, to formally answer my dear friend’s question: I think I am really beginning to enjoy my liberation. x and here’s a tip: being at mum’s is not v gluten-friendly! Love you, mom!
But “give me champagne when I’m thirsty, and… ”
My parent’s pet crow 🙂
