Days 8 and 9

I am sitting in my hotel room in San Luis Obispo, completely naked and with all the lights off. No, I have not decided to jump on the homemade porn bandwagon that has become so prevalent in southern California. It is simply 110 degrees here, and since my ample budget won’t allow for a decent hotel, I am suffering in this $55/night hell hole, taking breaks from typing up copy every so often to stick my head in the freezer (though air conditioning was apparently too much of a luxury for the Los Padres Inn, at least the half-sandwich that I’m saving from lunch is cooling in the refrigerator/freezer).

However, San Luis Obispo has led me to a very important realization: I am too old to wear Abercrombie and Fitch clothes. Oh, I know it seems I should have reached this conclusion long ago (say, twelve years ago when I went through puberty) but I never really thought about it until I was dragging my sweaty body along the burning streets of this city, desperately searching for Woodstock’s Pizza Parlor to confirm whether it does indeed serve all-you-can-eat pizza and bottomless soda for $8 (it does).
All of a sudden, my overheated, blurry consciousness became aware of offensively loud pop music and that unmistakable scent of Abercrombie cologne, both wafting from the doors of the store to my right along with – most importantly – blessed air conditioning. I took refuge, ducking inside the cool interior of a shop in which I thought I’d never again set foot. Once I had had a taste of the air conditioning I became greedy, and decided to browse so as to prolong my stay indoors. I asked one of the devastatingly attractive sales boys if they had any dresses, and he led me to a rack of… dresses? They couldn’t be. But he assured me they were, and even led me to a dressing room with two of these “dresses” draped over his arm. I shimmied into the nearly sheer, $55 piece of tiny cloth and turned to look in the mirror. My breasts looked like I had given birth to four children, all of whom would have been irreparably scarred by the sight of my rear-end, of which this “dress” exposed more than a peek.
I checked the tag: XL.
I tore off the offending item and ran out of the heavenly air conditioning, the impossibly loud music following me like a taunt. The heat outside surrounded me like a blanket, but I was pleased to see Woodstock’s Pizza Parlor directly across the street. I trotted off, content with the realization that I have reached that age at which Abercrombie and Fitch is no longer appropriate attire. For this new knowledge I say: “Thank you, missionaries who could not be bothered to spend the extra two minutes it would have taken to realize it is NOT a good idea to build a city in the middle of the desert.”

That one horrifying experience aside, today and yesterday have been filled mostly with pleasant driving. I traveled from Ventura to Santa Barbara, then along mountain passes to this city of heat. Santa Barbara, of course, is absolutely breathtaking. Here is a picture I took of the sailboats from the pier:After finishing my research yesterday, I spent an hour or so sitting on a bench in the shade of State Street, the main drag, reading and people watching.

Today, on the way to San Luis Obispo, I stopped in Solvang, which looks like it is straight out of Disney World’s It’s a Small World ride. The Danes who settled here did not want to let any part of their culture go, so they created a little world of their own. The result is a mix of charm and something out of Are You Afraid of the Dark? For example, windmills like this:
coexist with unbelievable manifestations of creepiness, like this:

That's all for today. If you will excuse me, I have to go bathe in my own sweat.