Tag Archives: Goleta

Non-fiction

Back in Goleta

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I returned to Goleta last night after two nights in Avila Beach and can say that I’m happy to be away from that mean town. The weather is hotter here. I’m staying at the same hotel where I stayed on the first night.

It’s an awkward hotel room, especially the shower. The showerhead is one of those detachable ones that hangs in the middle of the stall. And it faces the wall. I can’t just stand there and let the hot water hit me. I have to hold the showerhead in one hand and wash myself with the other hand. It’s just as dysfunctional as the shower when I stayed on the first night, which was missing a door, but it’s something that I’ll remember in years to come.

But anyway, I kept eating yesterday. My parents and I ate lunch at a restaurant inside a hotel in Los Olivos, which is a small town off the 101 mostly for wine tasting, but they still have places to eat. All three of us ate flatbreads. Our waiter was a big man with mutton chops. He suggested the specials. Waiters always speak fast when they tell us what the specials are. I can never catch on to what they’re saying. But I did hear the word “artichoke.” My father did, too, so we ordered the artichoke as an appetizer. It was a plate full of small artichoke hearts with some sort of white cheese sprinkled on top of it, with a yellow sauce that I can only describe as tangy–if that’s the right word, but it’s hard to tell.

We then ordered our flatbreads. My mother ordered the Margherita flatbread, which needs no explanation. We all know what a Margherita pizza is: salt, olive oil, mozzarella, tomato sauce. My father ordered the mushroom truffle flatbread. And I ordered something with garlic, mushrooms, pine nuts, tomato sauce, and ricotta cheese. There was no hint of garlic, even though it said garlic on the menu. It didn’t taste as good as their flatbreads, but they still gave me what they couldn’t finish, so I ate it later in the hotel room in Goleta. The flatbreads tasted better cold than they did hot. I wasn’t expecting that.

After lunch, we drove to Chumash and gambled at the Chumash Casino. It’s a fair casino, unlike the casinos in Coachella Valley, where the machines hardly ever hit. At this one, I broke even after playing a machine with the devil involved in it. When the devil shows up in the middle slot, a bunch of free games shows up, and the devil unlocks more money, including bonuses such as the mini bonus, the minor bonus, the major bonus, and the maxi bonus. The major bonus would’ve won me a hundred dollars, while the maxi bonus would’ve won me over a thousand dollars. But that never showed up. I went there with a hundred dollars to gamble with and left with the same amount. It was as if I never even played the slots.

And then I said goodbye to my parents. They’re staying for the rest of the week in Avila (God help them), and I’m driving back to the heat in Palm Springs this afternoon. It was a trip that was frustrating at times, but I got through it.

Non-fiction

In Goleta

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I arrived in Goleta last night at about six o’clock. The waves were crawling along the ocean as I drove by with the sun beating my face from the west on the 101. I’d driven four hours from the heat of Palm Springs to the cool of Santa Barbara County. The hotel room was waiting for me.

I checked in with a kid named Chuck, who was probably close to twenty-three. The lobby smelled like peanuts and beer. (It was next to a lounge where folks were laughing and chatting.) Chuck was a nice kid.

He said, “How’s’ your day going so far? It’s hot. At least it’s cool in here.”

It was seventy-two degrees in Goleta. I’d just driven from the hottest part of California, arguably.

“I live in Palm Springs,” I said.

His smile changed. “Oh. Okay. Are you parking here?”

What an odd question. Where was I supposed to park?

“Yes, I am.”

He handed me an air refresher in the shape of an old-fashioned Woody car that I could hang on my mirror. “This will allow you to park here,” he said.

I’d never been given one before, but I took it.

“Thanks, Chuck,” I said.

Chuck told me where to park. Like hotel staff people do, he showed me a map of the complex by drawing a curve to the right building. I thanked him and drove there.

I rolled my suitcase to the second level, which smelled like sanitizer. It was outdoors. My room was 270. It was above the pool.

I saw a few scantily clad women in bikinis at half past six. It was cool outside, and they were lying to get a suntan.

When I entered the room, I noticed the shade was transparent. Everyone could see me in there, but then I saw another shade that was made of bamboo. I rolled that one down so no one could see me.

I dropped everything off before I went to get my favorite pizza in town. Rusty’s Pizza Parlor brought me back to my youth when I used to eat the same pizza up north. I used to drive for them as a delivery boy in college. It’s some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. I ordered it with pepperoni, sausage, and mushroom, the standard pizza I always eat.

And then I took a shower. Whoever designed it needed their head checked. It didn’t have a shower door. When I went to turn it on, the water blasted out and doused my head before I could take my clothes off, so my shirt got wet. What a folly that shower was. At least the shampoo was peppermint, and the soap had the aroma of rum, of all scents.

Anyway, I went to bed at around 9:30 p.m., which is the standard time I go to bed, and I kept waking up in the middle of the night. I’m a bad sleeper.

I awoke to the smell of a dusty air conditioner before the sun rose and brushed my teeth in the shower. I wash myself at night and brush my teeth in the morning—that’s two showers a day. I also shave in the shower. It gets things done quicker and easier.

Then, I drove to my favorite coffee shop, the Old Town Coffee Shop, where the coffee beans lured me in with their distinct smell.

I ordered the iced Americano. The lady behind the counter told me to use a password on the receipt that was case-sensitive to use the internet. I waited about ten minutes for the one guy who was making the drinks.

The iced Americano didn’t taste like espresso. It tasted sour, and I didn’t like it. But I love this place not for its coffee but for its ambiance.

It’s huge, with a large back patio with orange canopies, a wooden fence surrounding it, and violets growing over it.

The white brick wall of the building next to it has a painting of two brown hands holding each other and swirls of green, dark blue, and light blue. It’s ugly, but most paintings these days are ugly anyway. I go to a museum and leave unimpressed. People just don’t have the time to make a good painting anymore.

But anyway, what am I going to do today? Eat. That’s what vacations are all about—nothing else. It doesn’t matter where I vacation—Switzerland.

“What did you do in Switzerland?”

“I ate.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t go on any tours?”

“Nope.”

I’m not the average tourist. I spend my time eating. Eating and writing. What else is there to do in Switzerland, Morocco, or Brussels? What else is there to do domestically in New York, in Key West, in Seattle? To me, that’s what vacations are all about. I’ll spend my time this week just eating, looking forward to the next glutinous meal.

Non-fiction

Travel

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Next week is my birthday. My parents are meeting me in Avila Beach for a celebration. The drive to Avila from Palm Springs is over four hours, so I’m staying in Goleta for a night, where my favorite coffee shop is.

But anyway, I’ll have to gas up the tank entirely. It costs me fifty bucks, roughly, when I’m on empty. I figure I’ll run out of gas by the time I get to Avila Beach. So I’ll have to gas up again to drive back to Palm Springs. You do the math. That’s a hundred dollars to gas up to go there and back, which can cost as much as a plane ticket to some parts of the country.

I look at gas as something that should be free. That’s my mind for you. I guess some people value gas differently, but I would rather spend my hard-earned money on another commodity. Whatever the case, it’s gonna be a travel from here to there. I just hope there will be no traffic along the way. There have been wildfires near Gorman on the 5 freeway, which has altered the course for some people. That could be the direction that I’m going. If that’s so, I’ll just stop on the road more often.

I can take my time getting there, as I have all day to get to Goleta on Sunday. I’ll stay the night, hit the coffee shop in the morning, and work on my manuscript before I drive to see my parents in Avila on Monday. That sounds fair. I’m taking the whole week off from work. Thank God. To work is to suffer, and I love traveling anyway, especially to those parts where it’s cool by the ocean. I’ll eat my favorite pizza and my favorite Danish. It’s something to look forward to.

Non-fiction

Another One of Those Days

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Here I sit in the coffee shop, another feckless bore, typing on an iPad. That’s right. Ha ha. I’m typing with a keyboard for an iPad instead of touching the screen a bunch of times like most people with iPads do. That’s because I bought a keyboard from Best Buy. They makes those now. I find it easier to write with an iPad for some reason, similar to when I’m texting someone on an iPhone. The words come out more fluidly. I don’t feel the need to censor myself or get uptight about things. It’s just like I’m texting my neighbor. Meet me at the pond by eight. There, that’s it.

I dream big dreams as I’m typing, but I won’t tell anyone what those dreams are. It’s my dirty little secret, you see? If I tell everyone, the dream might not come true. And then what? More medication for me to take? 400 milligrams of Gabapentin, 300 milligrams of Trileptal, 1 milligram of Klonopin, 15 milligrams of Abilify, however many milligrams of Adderall. I may have forgotten some. In a perfect world, I’m taking none of that crap. But I need it to keep me going. I take amino acids to reduce the withdrawal symptoms because I’m getting off one of those drugs. My doctor says she’ll prescribe me something that will lift my interest in activities again. As of now, there aren’t many that bring me joy. I work my dead end job, take a walk, and go to sleep. Those are how my days transpire.

Now and then, I’ll have a day off. Like next week, I’ll see the dentist on Monday. Wednesday is Juneteenth, so my boss told me to go ahead and take Tuesday off as well. There’s no use in working on Tuesday and taking Wednesday off again. So I’ll work only two days—Thursday and Friday. And then I’ll take the whole week off after that.

It’s for my birthday when I’ll turn the ripe old age of forty-seven. I’ll drive to Goleta where my favorite coffee shop is and stay for the night, and then I’ll drive to see my parents in Avila Beach the day after. I’ve been to Avila only once or twice in my life. My parents swear by it because of how gorgeous the weather is. They just want to escape from the triple-digit heat here in the desert. I don’t blame them, but something tells me Avila Beach will be overrated. I’ll stay there for a few nights. The drive there is over four hours. That’s why I’ll stay in Goleta for two nights: on the way there and on the way back. That way, I can break the trip up into an hour-and-a-half drive and a three hour drive.

And then the Fourth of July is the week after. So you can say I have it pretty easy for the next few weeks. But it’s back to a full week on the week afterward. Oh, well. Nothing lasts forever. What else do I have to look forward to? Nothing, really.

I’m sitting in the coffee shop, and nothing interesting is happening. I see the same old men sitting at the long table in the middle: the guy who looks like an Italian hitman, the guy with the tattoos on his neck who rides a wheelchair. Who knows what they talk about? The nice old man in the corner who always smiles at his iPad as if he’s looking at some endearing pictures of his family. The same baristas I see almost every morning, hustling about behind the counter. And me, trying not to be nosy, but I can’t help myself.