The whirlwind pace of my yearlong trip around the world means I never leave a place feeling like an authority on it. At best, I hope to catch a glimpse of its soul — a collage of impressions and interactions that fit neatly into a narrative. With just three stops and two weeks remaining on my journey, I finally encountered a place where I struggled to find that. I like Los Angeles, but I don’t understand Los Angeles.

This was technically my second time in the city, but my first — a one-night stop as a touring musician where I saw little but the Sunset Strip — doesn’t count. With just four days to take it in, I was intimidated and baffled the moment I arrived (LAX is a nightmare rivaled only by New York’s airports) and remained so until the day I left.

Santa Barbara, where I headed next, was predictably easier to digest. If Los Angeles is a confounding feast Santa Barbara is an amuse bouche. With sunshine glistening off ubiquitous Spanish tilework and a cool breeze coming off the Pacific Ocean, the town is almost too pleasant, like it has been packaged and gilded for maximum enjoyment.