This weekend, Mousie and I made our first visit to San Diego. Apparently, we were the only people in Arizona who had never been there before.
It was rawther nice, reminiscent of Santa Monica, but more city-ish: bigger and grittier, with wider streets and more shops for the average tourist. As happens every time I visit California, I am amazed that it can be someone’s everyday. Walking past surf shops on the way to the beach, or elsewhere, because if the ocean’s right there all the time, a movie or the mall might be more exciting. Having to be told “No Rollerblades in the Lobby,” following the tsunami evacuation route part of the way to Balboa Park, where there are so many museums, it’s a puzzle trying to find the one you wanted to visit. For me, California has always been a plane unto itself, a surreal sort of place that you tumble into and whirl about breathlessly for a weekend, reality hitting as you cross the state line, roll down your window, and get walloped with a facefull of Arizona oven air.
Oven air. I guess that’s a little surreal for most people too.