It’s nice, alright, but it’s not my speed
So I am out in San Diego for the weekend and it’s a high school flashback for me. More than my 2002 visit, this time out I am reminded so much why I left Vero Beach, never to return. Like my feelings for Ile de Ngor in Dakar, I love the beach, it is in my blood, but it is not my whole life now. And San Diego is all about the beach.
From a view of it at the top of every hill, to the salt in the air, to the clothes everyone wears, this is a beach town. Okay, maybe Hillcrest can say its more hip and there is a definite military presence, but places like Pacific or Mission Beach attract everyone, especially on the weekends.
Now that’s not to say I couldn’t live here a while. Southern California does have its draw. Perfect weather, clock-stopping hot women, and a relaxed lifestyle cannot be argued with. The endless traffic, the need to drive everywhere, the myopic beach lifestyle focus, and the lack of rain can, and for me, do argue against it. I would need to buy a motorcycle (yes, Mom, with a helmet) and invest in a humidifier, but I could enjoy San Diego.
Or I could try, as a weekend there proved my underlying theory, San Diego isn’t fast enough for me. Where was the constant movement of a city? People, noise, action that I get just looking out my apartment window, sirens, alarm, screaming kids at night? Oddly enough, I love that, the sounds, smells, and sights that only real city-life can bring.
Where else can you watch the White House evacuate while the tourists snap shots of themselves in front of it? Or have Madeline Albright chew out a co-worker for parking in her spot? Or best yet, play kickball on the National Mall? And do all of that and more without a car or a care? Love ya, San Diego, but DC is my true home.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going outside to enjoy her…