Travelling, huh?

Pulling into our hotel at one am body time, that's the better part of what I've got. You can get wifi on flights now, but you've got to pay for it, and log in and go through all sorts of rigamarole. I love that word, sounds like pasta.

Santa Barbara is nice all of the time apparently. Somehow living in that changes a person. In the airport, half the size of Burlington's while being more than twice as nice, you can tell exactly who's a tourist. I wouldn't say they look like they're in Chinatown, but they look like they've been dreamed up by an AI trained on the film plus some indica.

It's kind of a nightmare.

A desert in more ways than the air and the heat. A desert of meaning. Given the dominance of this area in American film and television, it feels like nowhere. The people feel like they've just woken up, either that or they really want you to think that people who are like that, the ones in flip flops who don't tuck in their shirts? Those guys suck. I endure a New York city of the soul.

That's them saying that, not me. I would never say that.

But hey, I wrote this standing at baggage claim, I haven't even set foot into California proper.

-- 

Outside, I'm writing this in the tesla we rented, it feels like a vacation spot people just kept renewing. It has the same energy as gilded age heiresses and exile Lords choosing to live in the Waldorf Astoria forever.

--

We're about two miles from the ocean, but it smells like we're far closer than that, or maybe further? Whatever's briney-er. Funny how half a day sat in the world's worst vinyl recliner stuck between two strangers can sour a person to Paradise.

Abby's not here anyway, so how good can it possibly be?