It was 30 years ago -- 1995 -- when a kid named Lou Brancaccio (that's me), who grew up in Chicago, found his way to the end of Route 66. There were stops along the way of course: A journalism degree from the University of Florida, newspapers around the country and even a USA Today assignment that travelled to all 50 states in six months... by bus.

But Santa Monica was calling, selling its beaches, its palm trees, its virtues and I was buying. The local newspaper, The Outlook, was looking for a managing editor. I had just worn out my welcome at a newspaper in upstate New York so, yes, And back in those days, when the newspaper business was an honest to goodness real thing, if you had talent you could travel the country and land almost anywhere you wanted to. So I packed my bags, threw them in the trunk of my 1987 Honda Prelude and began a cross country drive.

Ironically my California dreaming almost ended immediately. It was a dark, icey, early morning winter's day when a deer darted out in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, which my Prelude didn't appreciate. I did a 360. Fortunately there were no other cars nearby. The deer lived. So did I. I pretended nothing had happened and five days later I arrived.

 *******

Look, my newspaper career had given me plenty of adventures. I had covered hurricanes and wild fires, murders and county fairs (I had to throw in the county fair because I once judged a cheese contest and that goat cheese was something else.) My reporting once cost a local sheriff an election. But Santa Monica seemed magical to me. I simply could not stop singing Sheryl Crow's "All I Wanna Do."

And it didn't disappoint.

When my wife Maley and our eight-year-old daughter Danni joined me, going down to the beach near the pier was superb. I was a gymnast in college so those swinging rings were just calling my name. The beach itself was breathtaking. I had been to beaches in Chicago and Florida, in Hawaii and the Bahamas but this beach.... my goodness.

And the Santa Monica Pier? Like a never ending carnival. Always crowded, in motion and vibriant.

The 3rd Street Promenade intrigued me. Restaurants, movies, street performers and more. It always seemed busy.

We lived across the street from Saint Monica's. The neighborhood was quiet and clean and picturesque. A basketball court was a few steps from the church where we happened on Woody Harrelson waiting in line to get into a game. Who says white men can't jump.

The grocery store was a few blocks away. Maley would occasionally roller skate there to pick up dinner.

 *****

But I was here because of my new job at The Outlook. It was a small newspaper but spunky and loaded with talent. The big dog newspaper -- the L.A. Times -- would always pick us up to see if they needed to cover something in Santa Monica. We were on top of it all. We won several awards and I even landed a first place for a column I wrote about portajohns. I love L.A.

I actually knew this was going to be a fun job the first day I arrived. I had barely settled in when Reporter Josh Grossberg -- who turned out to be one of the best writers I had ever come across -- threw this first-day question at me:

"Beatles or Rolling Stones."

I didn't hesitate. "Steppenwolf."

 *****

The excitement for me never stopped. But the newspaper business was changing. Profit margins were shrinking. Owners were getting worried. So when a new owner was named, The Outlook staffers began looking over their shoulders. At about the same time, when a headhunter called, lining me up with a more secure-looking job in Vancouver, Wa.I took it. As quickly as my enjoyable time in Santa Monica had begun, it had ended. And a few months after I left, The Outlook shut its doors for good.

****

Our old neighborhood didn't change. Quiet, picturesque, inviting. A few young bucks were shooting hoops next to Saint Monica’s. But no Woody Harrelson.

The pier was still crowded. People taking photos under the Route 66 sign. After all, this road from Chicago ended here.

The 3rd Street Promenade was the most disappointing. It was mostly lifeless. It simply felt sad.

I also hooked up with a few folks I worked with at The Outlook. They all landed on their feet after the paper shut down.

And Josh, that very talented writer? He remembered 30 years later, that first question he asked me.

*****

What a ride it was. Life’s all about the journey my friends. It’s what makes those early morning corner bar stories bearable.

Well, almost bearable.

From left: Photographer Richard Hartog, reporter Josh Grossberg, executive editor Skip Rimer and Magaging Editor Lou Brancaccio.