Last week my family took a leisurely drive north from Burbank up into the central California coast. The occasion was spring break for my ten year old daughter. I have to admit that this is something we never do, and should do with great regularity. We have carted ourselves across the ocean to Australia to visit my older brother and his family. We have taken the night flight across continents to Rio, via Miami or NY depending on the airline's preference, many times to visit my husband's family. Yet we had not yet gone further north than Santa Barbara since Isabella's birth. Mostly because "travel time" with a child equals "school vacation," which equals hordes of people. And, frankly, Mom hates the hordes. Not the people. I love the people. I just prefer that they not surround me by the millions on highways, beaches, sidewalks, hiking trails, and in hotel rooms. Hordes set my teeth on edge like absolutely nothing else, and, admittedly, I am less than pleasant to travel with when my teeth grind incessantly. Still, when my daughter looked at me on Monday and said "Mom, I think we need to go somewhere this week. Even if it's just for a day or two." I knew with certainty that she could not have been more right. And so we hit the internet.
That we would go north required no decision. The north calls to me with great regularity. I have at times listened and followed that voice. Other times, I have fled from it. And so, with each passing year, the voice gets louder, and louder. It has become part of the noise that surrounds my life....the chirping birds, the distant barking dogs, the lawn mowers, the planes overhead, the streams of traffic down the street. It blends in and I forget that it is there...until I venture north again. Listening in earnest to the voice, Isabella and I decided on Pismo Beach...which gave us proximity to SLO, Morro Bay, and a handful of other beautiful spots. We booked a night at an Inn on the cliffs, and waited the three long days for Thursday morning to come. Early on Thursday, we headed north, and the forgotten siren began her singing.
That we would go north required no decision. The north calls to me with great regularity. I have at times listened and followed that voice. Other times, I have fled from it. And so, with each passing year, the voice gets louder, and louder. It has become part of the noise that surrounds my life....the chirping birds, the distant barking dogs, the lawn mowers, the planes overhead, the streams of traffic down the street. It blends in and I forget that it is there...until I venture north again. Listening in earnest to the voice, Isabella and I decided on Pismo Beach...which gave us proximity to SLO, Morro Bay, and a handful of other beautiful spots. We booked a night at an Inn on the cliffs, and waited the three long days for Thursday morning to come. Early on Thursday, we headed north, and the forgotten siren began her singing.
It started this time as we rounded the curve @ Bates Road, passing Rincon Beach and driving into the little town of Carpinteria. The memories flooded me suddenly and powerfully, like the waves that occasionally hurl themselves without warning over the concrete barriers between the highway and the Pacific below. I was back in high school, trekking up from L.A. to visit one of my best friends who had moved up here. The beach trips, the concerts, the long nights talking and laughing, all the time watching her little toe-headed boy grow like a weed. 
Then the quiet hillside town of Summerland, where Nancy and Howard lived in a rustic apartment, lovely humans and friends about whom I wonder now with great regularity. Santa Claus Lane, which has finally, and sadly, been cleared of most of the Santa garb, still brings a giggle. The SB Polo Grounds on the right, which I'd surely passed hundreds of times over a five year period, and even spent time inside watching polo matches. Montecito...sigh. Such a beautiful place that still holds some inexplicable emotional hold. This I don't understand, since I've never lived there. But there is something special, and imminently beautiful. 
The East Beach offramp is closed, but the bird preserve and zoo loom quietly on the left side. From my apartment adjacent to them both, I reveled in the nighttime sounds of the animals. Then the curve past Milpas, where the best Mexican food still lies just north of the freeway, @ LaSuper-Rica. Homemade fare, best served with an ice cold Negra Modelo. The stretch of highway, which still feels new to me, then zips past State Street, sweeping north around the eastern perimeter of Santa Barbara. I pass familiar street signs, remembering my little craftsman-style house with the front porch by Oak Park. The memories have become heavy now. I slip Peter Gabriel's US into the CD player. Signs of Goleta come and go, and I remember the trail I used to run somewhere along here. The visits to a well-loved boyfriend @ UCSB, and the ensuing Sunday late night trips home that at some point convinced me angels protected me. How else could I have made it home so many times in one piece on no sleep and a cup of coffee?
My girl is asleep, my husband deep in thought, and I drive north away from the coastline, into the verdant green hills. My god, it is beautiful. Just as we veer toward Lompoc, and Highway One, Isabella wakes up. "Mom?" "Yes, honey." "Is this what you meant?" "Yes, baby. This is what I meant." I had told her about these hills. The emerald mounds she hadn't yet seen. She pulls out the camera, the iPhone, my phone....and begins snapping pictures. Her dad does the same. I drive. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. There is nothing like this for me. There is no comparison of feeling. And there are no words to accurately describe any of it. I cry. I weep. I sob. I want to stop and lie in the fields of green. Climb the mountain, sit myself down, and be absorbed by the earth. It is home. It is me. I am it. We are one. But I drive on, as there is much more to see, to feel, to be.
