Four Seasons Resort Santa Barbara: old money, simple pleasures.

My cousin Deborah got married about fifteen years ago. Her wedding inspired honeymoon talk amongst the younger admiring cousins. At her reception, held in a church gym, we spoke with each other about fairytale European capitals, New York City, Hawaii, and little huts over lagoons in Bora Bora. These were not very original honeymoon destinations, and most likely locations we had seen in movies or TV shows.

Our musings ended, however, when the new bride described a Four Season's Hotel her in-laws had once visited. With a giggle, and a wink, and a certain charm I would ascribe almost exclusively to Jane Seymour's character in  The Scarlet Pimpernel, Deborah imparted her wisdom, and added, "I've always dreamed of staying in a Four Seasons. One day," she glanced devotedly to her husband,"Matt will take me there."

I left the reception that night with a sure knowledge that Four Seasons hotels and resorts were the most luxurious, the most expensive, and the most sought-after honeymoon destination on the planet. 

The problem is that now that I have visited and stayed in a few Four Seasons, they don't quite stack up to the impossible ideal I created that night oh so many years ago.  

Last week I stayed in the Four Seasons Resort Biltmore Santa Barbara.

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As I enter my room,  I compare it to the imaginary Four Seasons rooms in my head.  Why doesn't my room come with a club chair and cashmere throw next to my very real personal fireplace? Where is my high-speed wireless internet? And how about . . . I hear a knock on my door. Catering delivers a fruit and cheese amenity which rapturously captures my attention for the next fifteen minutes.

I walked outside, following the sound of crashing waves to the ocean. A street runs between the Hacienda-style resort and Butterfly Beach. The perfect hotel would have direct beach access, I start to think. And then, astonishingly, I realize that the road adds an exclusive neighborhood feel to the resort.

Locals, just getting off work, park by the side of the road, zip up wetsuits and run with surfboards into the ocean.  In the golden twilight, they bob up and down next to black cormorants, waiting for the ideal, or near ideal wave.

I cross the road back to the resort. Elaine Hu, Director of Sales, booked me for a 5:00 p.m. spa appointment.

Halfway through the treatment, at the point when you to flip onto your back, my therapist asks how I'm doing. I catch a glance of the fireplace and the gauzy curtains billowing in the evening breeze. I hear the ocean. I mumble in my trance-like state:

"I feel like." False start. I try again, "I feel like I'm in an alternative univer . . . no, that's not right. . ." 

Nancy, my therapist, helps: "Like you're in an altered state?" 

I sigh, "Yes, that's what I mean."

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The next morning at 5:00 a.m. I meet Connie and Ashley in the lobby. Chipper as ever, Elaine offers us coffee, croissants, and orange juice. 

An hour later in LA traffic, I reflect upon a quiet, peaceful restfulness lingering somewhere in my lower back and scalp. I miss my quiet little neighborhood up north as I rush south.