Of all the transfers I have made in Santa Barbara, such as transferring a 12-pack of Natural Ice from the liquor store to my stomach, or transferring myself to the beach, the transfer from SBCC to the hallowed halls of UCSB has to be the finest of them all.

I’m not referring to the enduring toil and sweat it takes with transcripts, when a “line 6” attendant wants to charge me a dollar per copy so that I can walk them to the next room and I’m broke because of the beer I transferred the night before. No my friends, I’m speaking conceptually -the idea as a whole. The organism to the cells.

I had made it into UCSB.

I had to take a step back, and then another step back, when the postman handed me the BIG ENVELOPE outside my Trigo Road apartment. I had expected the consolation of a small, “I’m sorry, nice try, you’re not accepted” letter with a stamped signature from the president or the custodian on it. But after three years, three schools, some coasting, some hustling, I had slipped my way in.

Although much personal rejoicing has occurred, SBCC will not be forgotten and will in fact be missed.

I can remember seeing the hordes of California goddesses on parade across the grass hills with the best damn backdrop in the history of an education.

Not many places can claim such an endorsement from me. The mind focused on an ocean breeze and beautiful women is seldom worried and so I felt settled and at peace, considering it the land of the “lotus eaters.” All time seemed to slow, and I would stretch out on a grass hill littered with backs, stomachs, butts and sandals and everyone in sunlight chill mode, and I would read a book or listen to a guitar from a music student, or sit silent in rambling thoughts.

And amidst it all I did well in my classes, which, of course, is where my theory stems that school is better at the beach. Upon recent reflection I have confirmed my theory and now await the Nobel Prize or a gift certificate to The Habit or the Elephant Bar.

Further personal theory suggests that the smaller classrooms of the city college, where the students’ names are known and verbalized, and where they can participate in the class, were preferable to the mess hall “lap up these facts” environment of lower division classes in larger universities.

I found the city college professors to have a great understanding of their subject, which they taught without the inclusion of the “my brain has wrinkles on it like a prune – look at me show off my pruned brain” egotism, which seems inherent in most of academia.

They were Zen-lunatics, vibrant and peaceful at the same time, and I would only sense ill vibes from them when they spoke of how in the evenings they serve drinks at a bar downtown to make enough to live in Santa Barbara.

I will not miss the drive, or the parking, but I will miss City College. My expectation of the small consolation letter had me convinced that I was to return to City College, but the whims of the great backhand slapped me up the road about eight exits.

SBCC was like pounding a beer when you round second base in sloshball and now I’m ready for the headfirst slide into UCSB.

Matthew Kustura is a junior English major.