Recently scribbled in a BootsnAll moleskine in the midst of a recent road trip

I’m not a kid anymore (SHOCKING, I know). Try as I may, my 26 years show in my eyes, my body, my approach to the unknown. Now, I’m not going to pull a Charice and start getting botox just yet, but I’m not my former college self. Some study referred to 18-25 years old as your most beautiful, and that stung – I’m not there anymore.

That being said, driving south of Santa Barbara makes me feel like a kid again – even a puppy in my more silly moments.

Head out the window, sucking in sea salted air, I recall being a kid in the cold north, fantasizing about open skies, slate blue surf, and Palm trees. Saved by the Bell and it’s stupid younger brother California Dreams were a distant, alien place (in fact, the first time I saw SBTB was, ironically, in Cuba).

All of this is foreign to me – the tanned skin, the warm glow. I don’t enjoy the Southern California embodied by LA + Beverly Hills, as my klutzy nature and inability to put together a decent outfit makes me stick out. Hell, I don’t even like downtown Santa Barbara, what with the toned bodies and teensy, yippy dogs.

But a beach town like Carpenteria, with sun-kissed locals sipping microbrews, and early closing antique shops containing relics from the era in which my Nana dreamed of California takes me back to when I dreamt about surfers and hummed Beach Boys bridges.

I’ll be honest – I’m glad I don’t live here. I’d never leave, never work, never grow.

I’d sit on the beach, stare into the fog.