NEW YEAR, NEW PLAN

The Road to Somewhere

So: I’ve been renting places to live ever since Montecito mud slid into my house (quite a lot of it) coming up six years ago this week. (A post about that experience is upcoming this Sunday.)

Since moving out of there in rather a hurry (understatement), I’ve resided in four different houses.

I started out in the Wine Valley (Los Olivos—“my happy place,” says my favorite trucker cap) and somehow wound up back in Montecito just in time for Covid and the exodus it wrought from LA to these bucolic parts, causing increased traffic, parking issues and real estate prices that went through the roof after Harry & Megs commenced their exile here.

Montecito (nicknamed Hollywood North and known for its high hedges) was once a best kept secret. But as a result of ex-British royalty staking a claim, it has transformed during the last couple of years into a glamor & glitz zone for billionaires (and PPP fraudsters)—plus the kind of con men who prey on them.

I’ve extracted myself from the (mostly) overpriced beaneries and watering holes of Cito’s Coast Village Road, preferring instead the earthiness of downtown Santa Barbara’s arts district and funk zone.

Recently, notice was provided ending my month-to-month rental in 60 days. This has been happening a lot in Montecito/SB as landlords decide to take advantage of high values by selling their properties before the market softens from high mortgage interest rates (already happening) or crashes altogether.

If I find a decent rental in one of those neighborhoods between today and 31 January, I’ll probably take it, just so I’m not officially homeless.

If I do not find a home, it’s time for me to hit the road, Jack.

Ever since the mudslide of ‘18, I’ve been meaning to do just that, to escape from Montecito. But, alas, too many loose ends needed tying, and it’s easy to get stuck (in mud or no mud).

For places to live, I’ve considered a spectrum: Lake Oswego (near Portland, Oregon), Crested Butte CO (my spirit resides there but six-months of single-digit temperature would freeze my bones), Boise ID (where the natives have become weary of Californians moving in), Easton MD (on the Chesapeake, just far enough away from Washington, D.C.), Vermont (I’ve always loved the sound of Vermont) and New Hampshire (the freest state in the union, as opposed to California, the least free, according to the Cato Freedom Index).

A classic log cabin by a river plus mountain view never stops whistling my name.  

However, I haven’t yet discovered the location of my dream cabin; still scouting an ideal venue for settling my soul.

So: If no suitable rental appears in the next 30 days, on the first day of February I begin preparing for a trek I’ve been meaning to tackle for half a century—literally, since 1974, when I read Kerouac’s On the Road: I intend to drive cross-country.

Maybe, just maybe, in the course of such a journey, I’ll find home at last.

But whether that happens or not, along the way I’ll take the pulse of the country, of its people—and assess the state of our disunion.  After which, who knows, I may decide to live abroad.

The first step of my plan is to trade my Land Rover Defender in for a Cadillac Escalade. I miss my old Platinum EVS from 2014, what I dubbed Clubhouse on Wheels (COW), in which I undertook numerous road trips that turned into novellas.

The old COW (somewhere in Cali)

Escalades are extremely comfortable, have loads of space and, with unobstructed large windows, make an ideal touring vehicle. (Others might buy a mobile home and sleep wherever they park for the night, but camping is not in my genes.)

COW II will be baptized with a vintage cowbell I picked up in Boulder City NV and its rearview mirror strung with Tinker Bell, gifted to me in Nashville by a fellow road warrior.

Second step is charting my course (the first phase, anyway).

Step three is to assess what to pack: an array of garments for all climes in addition to various amulets and talismans to grease spiritual growth.

If I were departing tomorrow, it would be to Faith, Hope & Charity i.e., three mountains in central Oregon near Bend and (more interesting to me) a town called Sisters (named after that trio of mountains part of the Cascade Range).

But knowing myself, I’ll probably change my mind a number of times before D-Day.

Another strong contender (given wintry weather) is a route across the southern flank to Florida, through towns like Bisbee AZ and Marfa TX, maybe pop up to Oxford MS before landing in St. Augustine, the oldest city in the USA and where Ponce de Leon thought he’d discovered the mythical Fountain of Youth.   

Fourth step, put all worldly goods into storage.

Fifth, hit the gas pedal.

After writing all this down, I find myself cheering departure over lingering.

Because aside from anything else, I look forward to getting outside my comfort zone and chronicling travel adventures in real time right here on Substack.