Published November 26, 2006 by LA Times
by Robin Rauzi
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA freeways make my mother hyperventilate. So when
Santa Barbara assembled a package of discounts for visitors arriving by
train, it seemed the perfect outing for Mom's annual visit from Ohio.
Train travel occupies a sweet spot between let's-jump-in-the-car
spontaneity and the toiletries-in-a-Ziploc hassle that now accompanies
flying. Anyone can board a train and a conductor will sell you a
ticket. To get the Santa Barbara Car Free 20% discount, though, I had
to reserve my tickets three days ahead, which was easy. I had started
planning a month before Mom arrived, trying to get a weekend hotel room
just as students were returning to UC Santa Barbara in September.
The Car Free program also offered rate reductions up to 20% at 18
hotels in the city, from modest motels to the upscale Fess Parker's
DoubleTree Resort. After weeding out the lodgings that limited the deal
to weekdays, I quizzed front-desk clerks on locations and chose a hotel
close to the beach and three blocks from the station.
I'm a long-standing fan of Amtrak's 325-mile Pacific Surfliner line,
which runs from San Diego to San Luis Obispo, but my only experience
was riding it south from Los Angeles. The journey from downtown's Union
Station to Santa Barbara takes just over 2 1/2 hours, and though a
person might argue that one can drive there faster, I would question
whether that person had driven the 101 Freeway on a Friday afternoon.
I've been told that the segment north of Santa Barbara, where the
Pacific Surfliner traces the coastline around Point Conception and
along the edge of Vandenberg Air Force Base, is its most spectacular
stretch. But I was gripped by the view of the mostly industrial
backyard of Los Angeles. The train passed downtown's corrugated
warehouses of recyclables, turned along the Los Angeles River, then cut
diagonally across the San Fernando Valley. In North Hollywood, we
glided past ironworks and stonecutters, fenced forests of fake
movie-studio trees and a giant auto junkyard.
Beyond the Chatsworth tunnel and the cracked-boulder landscape of Simi
Valley, I closed my eyes and napped, which I surely could not have done
on the freeway.
The next thing I knew, we were in the coastal plains of Camarillo and Oxnard, strawberry fields forever.
When we disembarked in Santa Barbara, the light was pink-orange from
the smoke of the massive Day fire, which was still burning in the hills
of Ventura County. I tossed my gym bag over my shoulder, Mom pulled her
wheeled suiter behind her, and we were in the lobby of the Hotel Oceana
quicker than we'd have found a taxi stand at LAX.
We weren't the only people with the train-getaway idea. Four groups
from our train were also checking in. Behind me, I heard a woman
whisper, "Tell them we took the train."
The clerk, however, was unfamiliar with the discount program, which
caused some delay checking in (and again at check-out). The hotel's
reservation service also hadn't indicated my need for a room with two
queen beds.
Hotel Oceana has 122 rooms in multiple buildings. Some are small
hotels, others converted apartment buildings. The result is a
spread-out campus effect, and we walked most of it with a bellman
looking for a room that might suffice. After we toured the property,
there suddenly were two double rooms available — already empty and
cleaned — because some guest "wasn't coming back."
Mom and I took the edge off our ire — OK, mostly my ire — with
cocktails at the Santa Barbara FisHouse, a short walk east on Cabrillo
Boulevard. Then I was able to enjoy catching up with Mom, at the same
time enjoying the Prawn-Ton appetizer (prawns rolled in wonton
wrappers), a salad, cioppino (fish stew), and crème brûlée. The
restaurant, which looked low-slung from the street, had church-like
beams inside that reached from the vaulted ceiling to the floor,
framing the beach-facing windows. I was sorry we'd missed sunset.
Free breakfast goes fast
THE next morning, the breeze had shifted, and the sky was
cloudless. Outside our picture window — our room had clearly been the
living room of a beach-close apartment — was a lovely pool with rolled
towels waiting on every chaise. Several striped cabanas offered shade.
Though the day would get warm, it was too brisk for the pool in the
morning, and we headed to the cozy room where the Hotel Oceana served
its free continental breakfast. But we didn't stay. By 9:30 a.m. on
Saturday, there wasn't a crust of toast to be had.
Lucky for us, the Oceana buildings surround Sambo's, the only remaining
outlet of a once-massive diner chain from the '60s and '70s. We took
available seats at the counter and shortly found before us more eggs
and flapjacks than we could possibly eat.
The Downtown-Waterfront shuttle was crowded as we headed up State
Street, the main drag, but the short trip and 25-cent fare underscored
how easy Santa Barbara is to get around without a car. The next day we
pushed our luck, and tried to get to Montecito. The bus we wanted
didn't run on Sundays, and we had a hairy walk under the 101 Freeway to
get into the village. But we got back by another route with little
trouble.
Santa Barbara Car Free may be the first tourism promotion created by a government pollution-control agency.
It's a cooperative project overseen by the Santa Barbara County Air
Pollution Control District, which started as "Take a Vacation From Your
Car" about three years ago. Besides train and hotel discounts, it has
arranged partnerships with tourist-geared businesses, including sedan
winery tours, though that seemed to violate the car-free ethos to me.
But there were plenty of other ways to see Santa Barbara — by sailboat,
by kayak, by bicycle.
We chose Segway.
At Segway of Santa Barbara, a garage in the warehouse area near the
waterfront, Mom and I strapped on helmets and stepped aboard. Sensors
in the Segway platform sense where your center of gravity is. If it's
forward, the Segway rolls forward. Shift your weight to your heels, and
you'll go backward. Squat, and the contraption comes to a sudden stop.
Steering is controlled by a twist of the left handgrip.
My mother has many talents, but driving a Segway did not come naturally.
Trish, one of the owners, let a 30-minute lesson stretch beyond an hour
as Mom continued to plow over mini traffic cones. But once we were out
on the bike path, which wends its way east along the south-facing
beach, Mom could stop thinking so hard and just ride.
We joined pedestrians by the score, and bikers by the dozens. Families
in pedal-powered surreys worked their way down the parallel street, as
did girls in undersized Fun Cars equipped with GPS-guided audio tours.
By the time we rolled our Segways back into the garage, we were
exhausted. Including the hours of browsing the shops of State Street,
we'd been on our feet for six hours straight. We stopped at Eladio's
for a glass of wine and appetizers, then fell onto our two beds for
more than an hour, barely able to wake ourselves for dinner.
We went back to Eladio's — it was close and our feet still hurt. Out on the patio, we recovered over salad and crab cakes.
On the train back Sunday afternoon, I did the math — because even with
gas prices hovering around $3 a gallon, it's often hard to make the
economics of not-driving work. Our two Amtrak tickets cost $64,
round-trip. That's maybe $36 more than I would have spent on gas, but I
also saved $42 on the hotel and didn't pay $18 for two nights' parking.
And Mom didn't once, not even on the Segway, hyperventilate.
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