SAN DIEGO
Ideally, I would like write a travel blog. Who wouldn't? Traveling and writing sounds Utopic to me. How many Saturdays have you spent watching Rick Steves on PBS thinking, "OK. How did this guy land this job? Come on." Did someone proposition him? Can you imagine the pitch?
I imagine it like this. "So we're thinking of a show where you travel all over Europe, do as the locals do, eat their food, describe the muscle tone in their art, all with a hint of condescension? And then you can write books where you tell Americans what wrinkle-free pants to buy. Think it over."
San Diego is everything it's cracked up to be and almost everyone I know has been to San Diego. This is my second trip; this time Lewis volleyball gave me a reason to come back.
The night of my arrival I connected with my friend Amy, a transplant from Chicago, who now resides in Burbank. The next day we picked up my niece Gracie before heading to lunch. We pulled up and I immediately noticed two orange trees - one next to her apartment and one across the street. I got out of the car and picked one, peeled it and ate it. It was freeging delicious. Amy was a little shocked by my behavior, for I hadn't asked permission to pick from the tree. I felt like an impish character in some Harper Lee novel, stealing fruit from a tree on someone's personal property only to be chased away by a woman with a broom.
"Who cares, dude? It's not like they're going to eat all these oranges. You want one?" She laughed and I commanded her to eat it. We found two handfuls of napkins to sop up the juice before it bled all over her seats. Gracie came out and laughed at us. Amy is two inches taller than me, so I ordered her to pick two more oranges for tomorrow's breakfast before we drove off.
We proceeded to lunch at Waterbar. Located on the Pacific Ocean in Pacific Beach, I embraced being the tourist, as opposed to the traveler. We ordered the fishbowl of white sangria for the table, presented in a gold, matte-frosted bowl with a brass ladle, oranges, blackberries, and a floating orchid. Cheers! Amy ordered the crab cake and I ordered the ahi tuna sandwich: three mini seared ahi tuna fillets crusted with black sesame seeds served on toasted Hawaiian rolls with spicy cucumber pineapple salsa and smashed avocado. I hadn't eaten in about 14 hours so I Hoovered them as slowly as possible while the breeze gently blew my hair into the smashed avocado. I was the perfect model for a Rip Curl ad.
Gracie, also a Chicago transplant, was the best host we could ask for: she knew which store to bop into, where to watch the surf and surfers, how long it would take us to swim to Tijuana. But when it came to food, her South Side Chicago roots were firmly intact. "I'll have a plain cheeseburger with a side of tater tots."
After a walk on the pier and shopping, we visited Gracie's work, a boutique-style dispensary with everything from CBD bath bombs to THC lollipops. I loved the smell of one of the soaps and decided that would be a fun purchase from my visit. Until one of the employees told me it destroys your plumbing. I gingerly placed the bar back on the shelf.
Amy could not have been more hospitable and graciously drove us to all our destinations. We were staying at a Hilton in Carlsbad, and as anyone knows who has been to California, you need to get on the highway to get anywhere, and like Chicago, there is usually traffic. Need an ATM? Jump on 5 and head south. Coffee? Jump on 5 and head south. So we decided to head back at a reasonable hour. We bid our farewell to Gracie who insisted on jumping on a segue to cruise home.
Similar to my arrival on the first night, the entire town was shut down and sealed up by 10, and the only place to grab food was In-N-Out Burger. Overrated. Been there, done that. Anything served with Animal Sauce gets a quick no from me. Day 1 complete.
Day 2. I ambled off to breakfast by myself and enjoyed some chicken chilaquiles bathed in salsa verde topped with a couple of poached eggs. I could have finished the whole plate, but made the wise decision to eat half. Amy and I then headed south to La Jolla.
La Jolla. The day of the sea lions. Lazy sea lions loafing along the shore lifted my spirits and launched me into laughter! We leaned into their barking and tiptoed down to the rocks to get a better look. They were not the charcoal or spotted sea lions I had seen in northern California, but buff-colored sweetie-pies with cream faces and whiskers as long as porcupine quills. They plopped on rocks as if they just unbuckled their belts after a five-course meal with Tony Soprano. They reminded me of Ringo when he sprawls out on the backyard cement to bask in the sun, and I found myself calling them "ed-did-da-boo" like they were all mine. It took everything in me not to hug them and tell them I loved them.
Amy pointed over to a flight of black birds clustered on the bluffs. They were cormorants; I ID'd them from seeing them in Monterey. We were snapping photos of them when a pelican cruised by. I have always wanted to see a pelican with its pouch extended gobbling up hundreds of fish like the cartoons. No such entertainment occurred but we were not disappointed. It was time for our pre-game appetizers and drinks with Gracie and the volleyball parents, and we enjoyed the open windows and duck fat pretzel bites before the game.
University of CA San Diego had a cool vibe. Students sat in class at 6:30 pm on a Friday in the Engineering building. A fantastic school band, clad in blue, roared from the stands as the Tritons warmed up. Not to my surprise, I ran into an Illinois mom in the bathroom whose son, one of Marty’s opponents in high school, is currently a freshman at UCSD. We gushed over each other’s son’s talents, as we both knew them well, and I may have reminded her how Marist beat her son's Glenbard West for the State title. I don’t remember.
After the game, a three-set blowout, we searched southern California for a place open for business which is no easy task. We used our Google Maps and found a brewery. It was strange. An odd menu made up of fried delicacies of shrimp tacos, mozzarella sticks, french fries with some weird garlic sauce, and hot dogs greeted us next to a freezer of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. Gracie scanned the beer list and located a yummy beer called Cali Creamin Vanilla Cream Ale so we ordered a pitcher. She played some Grateful Dead and Phish on the jukebox while Marty devoured chicken tenders and a pint of Mediterranean Mint gelato before wrapping up our visit.
Goodbyes are never fun, but the time had come for me to head back home. I gobbled the orange we had picked for breakfast, hugged Brownie goodbye, and ordered a Lyft. Coincidentally, I was on the same flight home as the Lewis volleyball team. I watched as these darling young men shimmied their enormous legs into coach seating for a four-hour flight. I will never complain about leg space on an airplane again.
And I hope to be on many more airplanes to cheer the Flyers to victory, connecting with family and friends to fill the stands.
I imagine it like this. "So we're thinking of a show where you travel all over Europe, do as the locals do, eat their food, describe the muscle tone in their art, all with a hint of condescension? And then you can write books where you tell Americans what wrinkle-free pants to buy. Think it over."
San Diego is everything it's cracked up to be and almost everyone I know has been to San Diego. This is my second trip; this time Lewis volleyball gave me a reason to come back.
The night of my arrival I connected with my friend Amy, a transplant from Chicago, who now resides in Burbank. The next day we picked up my niece Gracie before heading to lunch. We pulled up and I immediately noticed two orange trees - one next to her apartment and one across the street. I got out of the car and picked one, peeled it and ate it. It was freeging delicious. Amy was a little shocked by my behavior, for I hadn't asked permission to pick from the tree. I felt like an impish character in some Harper Lee novel, stealing fruit from a tree on someone's personal property only to be chased away by a woman with a broom.
"Who cares, dude? It's not like they're going to eat all these oranges. You want one?" She laughed and I commanded her to eat it. We found two handfuls of napkins to sop up the juice before it bled all over her seats. Gracie came out and laughed at us. Amy is two inches taller than me, so I ordered her to pick two more oranges for tomorrow's breakfast before we drove off.
We proceeded to lunch at Waterbar. Located on the Pacific Ocean in Pacific Beach, I embraced being the tourist, as opposed to the traveler. We ordered the fishbowl of white sangria for the table, presented in a gold, matte-frosted bowl with a brass ladle, oranges, blackberries, and a floating orchid. Cheers! Amy ordered the crab cake and I ordered the ahi tuna sandwich: three mini seared ahi tuna fillets crusted with black sesame seeds served on toasted Hawaiian rolls with spicy cucumber pineapple salsa and smashed avocado. I hadn't eaten in about 14 hours so I Hoovered them as slowly as possible while the breeze gently blew my hair into the smashed avocado. I was the perfect model for a Rip Curl ad.
Gracie, also a Chicago transplant, was the best host we could ask for: she knew which store to bop into, where to watch the surf and surfers, how long it would take us to swim to Tijuana. But when it came to food, her South Side Chicago roots were firmly intact. "I'll have a plain cheeseburger with a side of tater tots."
After a walk on the pier and shopping, we visited Gracie's work, a boutique-style dispensary with everything from CBD bath bombs to THC lollipops. I loved the smell of one of the soaps and decided that would be a fun purchase from my visit. Until one of the employees told me it destroys your plumbing. I gingerly placed the bar back on the shelf.
Amy could not have been more hospitable and graciously drove us to all our destinations. We were staying at a Hilton in Carlsbad, and as anyone knows who has been to California, you need to get on the highway to get anywhere, and like Chicago, there is usually traffic. Need an ATM? Jump on 5 and head south. Coffee? Jump on 5 and head south. So we decided to head back at a reasonable hour. We bid our farewell to Gracie who insisted on jumping on a segue to cruise home.
Similar to my arrival on the first night, the entire town was shut down and sealed up by 10, and the only place to grab food was In-N-Out Burger. Overrated. Been there, done that. Anything served with Animal Sauce gets a quick no from me. Day 1 complete.
Day 2. I ambled off to breakfast by myself and enjoyed some chicken chilaquiles bathed in salsa verde topped with a couple of poached eggs. I could have finished the whole plate, but made the wise decision to eat half. Amy and I then headed south to La Jolla.
La Jolla. The day of the sea lions. Lazy sea lions loafing along the shore lifted my spirits and launched me into laughter! We leaned into their barking and tiptoed down to the rocks to get a better look. They were not the charcoal or spotted sea lions I had seen in northern California, but buff-colored sweetie-pies with cream faces and whiskers as long as porcupine quills. They plopped on rocks as if they just unbuckled their belts after a five-course meal with Tony Soprano. They reminded me of Ringo when he sprawls out on the backyard cement to bask in the sun, and I found myself calling them "ed-did-da-boo" like they were all mine. It took everything in me not to hug them and tell them I loved them.
Amy pointed over to a flight of black birds clustered on the bluffs. They were cormorants; I ID'd them from seeing them in Monterey. We were snapping photos of them when a pelican cruised by. I have always wanted to see a pelican with its pouch extended gobbling up hundreds of fish like the cartoons. No such entertainment occurred but we were not disappointed. It was time for our pre-game appetizers and drinks with Gracie and the volleyball parents, and we enjoyed the open windows and duck fat pretzel bites before the game.
University of CA San Diego had a cool vibe. Students sat in class at 6:30 pm on a Friday in the Engineering building. A fantastic school band, clad in blue, roared from the stands as the Tritons warmed up. Not to my surprise, I ran into an Illinois mom in the bathroom whose son, one of Marty’s opponents in high school, is currently a freshman at UCSD. We gushed over each other’s son’s talents, as we both knew them well, and I may have reminded her how Marist beat her son's Glenbard West for the State title. I don’t remember.
After the game, a three-set blowout, we searched southern California for a place open for business which is no easy task. We used our Google Maps and found a brewery. It was strange. An odd menu made up of fried delicacies of shrimp tacos, mozzarella sticks, french fries with some weird garlic sauce, and hot dogs greeted us next to a freezer of Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream. Gracie scanned the beer list and located a yummy beer called Cali Creamin Vanilla Cream Ale so we ordered a pitcher. She played some Grateful Dead and Phish on the jukebox while Marty devoured chicken tenders and a pint of Mediterranean Mint gelato before wrapping up our visit.
Goodbyes are never fun, but the time had come for me to head back home. I gobbled the orange we had picked for breakfast, hugged Brownie goodbye, and ordered a Lyft. Coincidentally, I was on the same flight home as the Lewis volleyball team. I watched as these darling young men shimmied their enormous legs into coach seating for a four-hour flight. I will never complain about leg space on an airplane again.
And I hope to be on many more airplanes to cheer the Flyers to victory, connecting with family and friends to fill the stands.
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