Santa Barbara 2: Farmers Market

The Santa Barbara Certified Farmers Market is a "non-profit mutual benefit corporation" founded in 1983 with local growers selling their food at various locations in the area.



The produce looked great but the pricing was relatively expensive, especially compared to the Farmers Markets in San Francisco.



There are idiosyncratic fixtures at the downtown location on Anacapa Street, such as the ancient hippie chick playing a didgeridoo while imploring us to somehow help her fight cancer.



Between her drones, you could also make out Bach cello suites nearby.



The Saturday morning fair is great for people watching...



...and even the beggars are picturesque.

Santa Barbara 1: Land of the Cults

Though I grew up in the environs of Santa Barbara, I've never really understood or particularly liked the place.



The people are a strange mixture of the outrageously rich, entertainment celebrities, retirees, hippies, a few middle-class folk, and poor Mexicans who are essentially ignored except as cheap labor or crime statistics.



The town also seems to host more philosophical and religious cults per capita than any place in California, which is saying something.



On Chapala Street, there seemed to be one strange headquarters after another, including the 33-year-old Institute of World Culture in a lovely yellow Victorian called the Concord House...



...and the comparatively downscale, Saint Germain Foundation nearby which had the scariest logo of all.



According to their website:

In 1930 Guy W. Ballard, hiking in northern California, met the Ascended Master Saint Germain on the side of Mount Shasta. His remarkable experiences are recorded in the books, Unveiled Mysteries and The Magic Presence, written under the pen name of Godfre Ray King. First published in 1934, the books have never been out of print. This introduction was followed by more than 3000 Discourses by the Ascended Masters. Out of this dynamic and practical instruction the "I AM" Activity was founded by Mr. and Mrs. Ballard, under the daily direction of Saint Germain.

SoCal Road Trip 1: Arroyo Grande

I started a Southern California pilgrimage this week at my sister Hilary's house atop a hill in the Central Coast of California.



She has a mad love for the animal world and her place is overrun with happy creatures, including Norman the goat...



...along with three horses...



...not to mention three cats and five chickens and four baby ducks and Lopez, the Pyrenees sheepdog who protects the homestead.



The hilltop was happy above all because their independent daughter Kyle had finally reached the real age of majority for all Californians, sweet 16, which is when you can finally legally drive on your own. The sense of relief for everyone in the family could probably be felt for miles around.

Ghosts of the Vulcan Stairs

San Francisco has innumerable secret beautiful places...



...and one of the loveliest is the Vulcan Stairs situated on a hill parallel to 17th Street going from the Castro District towards the Upper Haight Ashbury.



Both the top and the bottom of the stairs start off of obscure side streets...



...and the houses nestled along the stairway look like magic cottages.



I used to live on various parts of this hill for 15 years in the 1970s and 1980s, and I was shocked at how many ghosts there were for me as I walked down the stairs for the first time in years.



Lee Brenneman, a best buddy for two decades before his death from an aneurysm, called one morning with personal gossip. "I've been trying not to be such a tramp lately because I can't seem to look at anyone these days without getting a venereal disease. Anyway, I met this guy last night who wasn't very interesting but he said he lived on the Vulcan Stairs and that's all I needed to hear."



"The sex? It was so-so. Waking up on the Vulcan Stairs? It was bee-yoo-tee-ful."



It still is.