Santa Barbara Was My Paris

Fifty years ago, when I first came to Santa Barbara, there was a popular folk tune, “Raspberries, Strawberries,” that proclaimed, “A young man goes to Paris, as every young man should.” Santa Barbara was, a half-century ago, my Paris. I came back to town recently to remember it and was rewarded with what feels like almost total recall of those sweet old days.

I first arrived in Santa Barbara scared, cold, tired, broke, and hungry after driving down the Pacific Coast Highway as as fast my Vespa would carry me from an Oakland home where I no longer felt safe. It was fall, it was cold along the coast, and I had no idea where I was heading. Signs for the Natural History Museum drew me in off the highway, and as I wound through the streets and began to experience the sun’s warmth, I found myself ready to stop and dismount for a while. I pounded the streets by day, looking for work, and spent the nights on Chapala Street, first at the Salvation Army and then sleeping in the backs of station wagons in the adjacent used-car lots.

Jobs for a 16-year-old high school dropout were in short supply even then, and having no money, I was growing desperate. But the town’s ambience, its warmth, and the openness of the people I was meeting kept me hopeful. Finally, I walked into the old Copper Coffee Pot, on State Street near Figueroa, just as young Andy Birk, the owner’s son, was firing a busboy. He handed me an apron, and I went to work.