San Simeon: Power, Decay, and the Smell of Salt
Some places are meant to be passed through, forgotten. San Simeon isn’t one of them. It’s where California starts to show you its weird underbelly—the ghosts of old money, the beasts of the sea, and roadside food that tastes better because you didn’t expect it to. It’s not glamorous. It’s not cool. But it’s real. And that counts for everything.
Drive the coast and the ocean owns you. It’s there on your left, wild and silver, gnawing at the cliffs like it’s trying to take the whole thing back. The wind smells like brine and something older, like rusted anchors and broken dreams. Then you catch sight of it—Hearst Castle, hanging over the hill like some fever dream of excess. A place built not just to impress, but to intimidate. Built by a man who had everything and still wanted more.
Walking through that estate is like touring the brain of a megalomaniac. Marble floors. Gold leaf. Ceilings ripped from European cathedrals. Pools designed to make you feel small, even naked. It’s obscene and fascinating and so American it hurts. This wasn’t built to last—it was built to conquer. And now it sits there, a monument to wanting too much. The tour guides smile, tell you about the parties, the guests, the art, but the real story is in the silence, the dust on the railings, the way the place creaks when you’re not talking. Power fades. Concrete cracks. But the ego? That lingers.
Down the hill, the sea lions aren’t impressed. They haul their fat bodies onto the rocks like they own the place—and maybe they do. Loud, smelly, unapologetically grotesque. It’s a beautiful kind of chaos. You stand there and watch them grunt and fight, flopping over each other in a pile of blubber and attitude. They don’t care who built what castle. They don’t care about your photos. They live on their own terms, belly up to the wind, eyes closed, sun drunk.
Hunger creeps in the way it always does—slow, dirty, honest. And here, if you know where to look, you’ll eat better than you deserve. A roadside café with cracked linoleum floors and a cook who’s seen some shit. Fish tacos that are too greasy and absolutely perfect. Clam chowder in a paper cup, thick enough to hold a spoon straight up. Maybe a tri-tip sandwich dripping onto your hand while you sit outside on a splintered bench and listen to the waves crash below. This isn’t farm-to-table. This is truck-to-grill. Salt. Smoke. Fat. No garnish. No apology.
San Simeon isn’t a destination. It’s a mood. A reminder. That behind every monument to power, there's a taco stand feeding the people. That sometimes the best stories are the ones with sand in your shoes, grease on your chin, and no good reason for being there—except that you were hungry, and the road was open.