Even paradise has its frustrating moments. Take Santa Barbara, where I am currently ensconced. I awoke in the middle of the night, very aware of being somewhat trapped in a foreign bed. Although mostly the latter is a simple byproduct of general irritations. I am old. Everything is a bit harder. And more than that, I am conscious of everything wrong with my life in San Francisco. What’s wrong? Well, in the context of seeing things as they are…that is to say from a distance and with perspective…I just don’t have enough human connections. I write. I exercise. I roll down to the neighborhood shops, then roll back. New in town? I guess I still am. Still, holidays are times of contrast, a chance to see things in a new light. And thus, my old-age discontent surfaced last night at about 3 AM, in our hotel room just off State Street.
The Canary Hotel is quiet, pleasant and small. It also has the absolute latest in wheelchair inaccessibility. I mean we have a bathroom that is all railings and wheelchair access. The whole hotel is ramped. But the bed is stylishly high, the mattress well above my waist when I stand. I’m not sure how I got in the thing the first night or two. The management eventually carted off the box spring.
Tom Friedman spoke just the other night, And we were there to hear the New York Times columnist along with 2000 others, just up the street at the Arlington Theatre. Among his observations…we remain a nation of lonely people, despite all our purported connectivity. And, yes, this fueled some of my 3 a.m. awareness. Writing isn’t enough, it seems. And the kind of writing he does, the polemical column, involves as he put it, light and/or heat…and a conscious awareness of how and where the wheels of power are turning. Another area of my own failure, it seemed about 3 AM.
Santa Barbara’s center has the look of fun Moorish/California Mission affluence. The buildings are uniformly in good nick. And everything, drug store signs included, suggests happy Spanish Colonial mercantilism. The Italian pottery shop around the corner will sell you two small espresso cups for $70. Handlebar Coffee will sell you an actual cappuccino for somewhat less, but you will get to drink it in the company of vital and vibrant middle-aged people, all tans and success. Everyone in this burg is blond or looks as though they should be. The capital outlay on bicycles is evident, the investment in home workout gear slightly harder to assess. Only slightly.
Even the homeless look as though they just put their surfboards away. It’s an illusion, of course. And in this predominately liberal seaside town where the cops wear shorts, there is no obviously heavy-handed effort in place to move poor people out of sight. So they are around and visible, and the town has decided to let itself be blemished. Which is, after all, reality. It’s everyone’s reality. I just hope I can get used to my own.