San Diego
Preface: I just discovered in footnotes (which I try so hard not to read, but always end up getting sucked in) that San Diego is another name for Santiago, (Yago = Saint James Moor killer) This has no relevance whatsoever to this post, but seemed appropriate with reference to the title of the unfolding narrative.
Friday Evening 9:00 pm.
“Let’s go. Let’s go.”
“Your not even ready, you haven’t put that damn computer away.”
“I’m just waiting for you, you just got out of the shower, are you packed?”
“I’m packing.”
“Isabella, are you ready?”
“I wanted to take an airplane… why can’t we take an airplane?”
“We’re just going to San Diego, we don’t need to take a flight.”
“…”
“Get your shoes on baby.”
“I want to see Bobie, why didn’t she come with Zadie?”
Simple. A weekend trip, four hour drive south. No sweat. Famous last words. Now for those of you who actually know me, or have been tracking my virtual wandering for more than a few months, you will know that there is always an adventure. Doesn’t matter how simple and straightforward a trip purports to be, there is always some sort of massive unexpected noteworthy glitch. See here, or here, or here, or here, or here for examples from this year alone. This weekend was no exception to the rule.
In order to avoid the semper fidelis treacherous LA traffic we decided to wait until night fell, but we didn’t count on car trouble, especially because we filled up on all appropriate fluids before leaving town. Just as we were passing Irvine the car begins to vibrate violently (I made a comment to my students that if I wasn’t in class on Monday, it was because I had had an accident, of course I said this only half-jokingly). We pulled over, 12:30, called my father who was keeping vigil at his hotel for our arrival, and checked all tires for possible explanations. I had this sinking feeling that it was going to be something terrible and expensive like a broken drive shaft or a cracked axle, but nothing seemed visibly amiss. So we put the hazards on and carefully, slowly crept along the 5, until the vibrating began to rattle our brains and good sense got the better of us.
“We can’t keep going like this.”
Sign: San Clemente, 64 miles to San Diego.
“So, pull over?” (Said with best Jewish grandmother voice… I am devolving into my mother, Ughh.
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t have an answer for you!”
“What should I do?”
“Pull over here, at the Denny’s” Gotta love places that are open 24 hours. (Aside, when I was 12 and my collarbone was broken in a violent flourish, from a striker of the opposing team on the very day my parents were moving house, after my teammate Chrissy’s father dropped me off, at the new house, we went to the hospital and the only place that was open at 2 am was a Denny’s. In later teenage years it was the only place open after midnight that we could go hang out and smoke cigarettes until the wee hours – so I didn’t smoke – after long hours at the pool halls, or after mid-summer gigs – I was the “groupie” then.)
Grumble grumble. Stress, anger, nastiness, Grumble, grumble. I call AAA, yes they can tow us to San Diego, but it will be another hour or so, and they might not be able to accommodate all three of us in the truck’s cabin. Whatever. I walk back over to the car, where the babe sleeps and the father waits.
“They said it’ll be about an hour until they come.”
Would you look at that, as if by magic, the AAA truck materializes pulling into the far end of the Denny’s parking lot at 2 am. I flag him over.
“Are you here for us?”
“Umm. I don’t know.”
“I just got off the phone with AAA, they said you’d be about an hour.”
“I don’t think so, let me see,” he calls his dispatcher, “oh, yep, just got the call, 1984 BMW 7 series. I was actually just coming for breakfast.”
Unbelievable, this is the second time in three months that a tow truck comes, as if guided by or divine intervention, to our rescue. We discuss options, he needs to stay in the area for the next hour, because the other truck is out in LA. Sure, no problem, he goes for breakfast, we go in to eat something, have a cup of coffee, and of course, to observe the fauna of the witching hour that come wiggling their way out of the woodwork. Strange beasts they are, these midnight prowlers, some drunker than skunks, others it would seem, fresh from a Southern Baptist Church service, dressed in the Sunday best (only it was Friday night). The waitress calls us sweetie, and asks, “what can I get for you kids?” Her voice is cheerful, if raw, perhaps from years of smoking and late night waitressing. She is the quintessential diner-lady, like the Llanarch lady that Jenny so dearly loved, and who I only got to meet on the rare occasion that they could drag me out of my dorm room on a Saturday night, away from the safety of my books. (I have always been a “vaga” but sometimes I need convincing).
William was the driver’s name, he came back with a flatbead truck because the right front tire had a bubble the size of my fist and was about to explode at any moment. He drove us and cheerfully gave us tourist tips for San Diego, he had a girlfriend (M. thought he was gay, I just thought he was an effeminate heterosexual. I won) whose baby was due in two weeks, but when I asked him if he was ready, he said they didn’t talk much. I guess it was an ex-gf and he didn’t feel like explaining (maybe M. wins after all). He pointed out the snipers on the roof of the nuclear power plant. M. snores as I. silently takes in the scenery. I try to converse, but sleepiness wins and I doze in that “I’m just resting my eyes” sort of way.
Saturday Morning 4 am: we arrive in San Diego.
At 9:30 a fire alarm shakes us from sleep. My father has gone to his conference, M. doesn’t want breakfast, so I. and I go up to the Penthouse (Dad has his Starwood preferred platinum membership for all the travel he does) for yogurt, fruit and croissant.
We swim in the pool by the Marina.
Despite the beauty, I am appalled by the conspicuous consumption (it would seem that 90% of the boats are used less than a week a year. I am sickened when I think of the millions of dollars wrapped up in these little wooden toys, and what a huge difference they could make just 15 miles down the road over the border… ). We go to the car with the intention of driving it carefully the 3 miles to the tire shop.
“Look mommy, a flat tire.”
“No sweetie, it’s not flat.”
“Oh yes it is…”
And so it would seem we are required to invoke the gods of Automobile Association of America once again, this time, to our chagrin, no flatbead, and a driver who lacks in basic problem-solving skills. He can’t tow us because the front wheel is flat. He can’t change the tire because, it would seem, it exacts too much effort on his part. He can’t try filling up the tire because… who knows? M. asks as he is about to drive off, saying that AAA will call us and that another truck will come in 2 hours, if he could at least try to fill up the tire, and lo, it holds air, and he follows us to the tire store.
What’s the damage? Four new tires, with lifetime balance, rotation and puncture insurance $300. So, I. stayed behind with her Zadie, and we go off in search of nourishment for the body and what we find is nourishment for the soul. Greek/Lebanese food (reasonable, not spectacular) paintings on the wall, fabulously uplifting. As we sit and eat we notice that the walls are covered with colorful, moving, somewhat naïf painting that evoke everything that is wonderful about urban dwelling and human nature. We wander around, and ask about the artist. The waiter/owner says, “I am.” We ask about one painting on the wall behind the buffet, it looks like Jerusalem, it is. “That’s where I was born.” The warmth radiates from him. “You know about art, yes? I can tell by the way you were talking about it even though I couldn’t understand you.” (I wouldn’t go so far as to say I know about art, not in any real way, M. on the other hand practically grew up at the Esmeralda, and the INBA schools, and has it coursing through his veins - and his estranged father is one of the fortunate few sponsored for life by the Mexican government no matter how much or little he produces).”
“My brother lives in Jerusalem,” I venture, “I’ve never been, I’d like to.”
“Oh, you should, you should, it is a beautiful place.” We sit, continue eating.
M. says to me, in Spanish “I wouldn’t be announcing that your brother lives in Jerusalem, they’re Arabs, y tú tienes toda la cara de judía.”
“So? I believe that we should embrace one another for what we are, and not hide behind pretensions of what we are not.”
He comes back. “You have beautiful hair. Like my daughter, only lighter.” We follow him around the restaurant, he tells us about different murals that he’s done, we compare the cultural life of cities, he says Beirut in the 80’s was amazing. I believe it. We comment on the light, and vibrance of his vision, he says he believes that there is enough sadness and tragedy in the world, that his art should be about the opposite. He has designed murals for the peace museum in Jerusalem. I tell him my name, he doesn’t flinch, I knew he wouldn’t, his was Ibrahim. He hugs M. and then me as we leave. I am left with a feeling of deep peace, if only for a brief and fleeting moment. There is still goodness in the world, there still are human beings that believe in our shared humanity before our difference.
Most of the day has been spent, we pick up the girl, as my father has to go out to a dinner meeting, and we head to old town. It is, of course, a cleaned-up, disneyfied version of what it once was, but the old buildings are beautiful nonetheless, despite the crass tourism and exploitation of “Mexicanness” that goes on about these parts. We wander about, exploring the old school house and the peeling paint, and the local flora.
We decide against crossing the border because we are tired and it doesn’t seem worth the hassle for the few hours that we would be there. Night falls, silently, uneventfully, we retire to the hotel room to ignore one another, to slip away into ourselves.
In the morning my father and I take I. to the pool, we all go out, to explore Balboa Park. Apparently there was a Panama-America expo in 1915 and then a world’s fair in 1935. The buildings that abound are beautiful, mostly occupied with different museums, albeit with the air of falsity that seems rampant on this coast. History here seems invented, on a whim, to satisfy the philanthropists ideas of what California should be, which rarely coincides with the reality of what California was. I am amused by the persistent similarities, though, between St. Augustine (the first Spanish city in the country) and San Diego, the final frontier, settled haphazardly in an attempt by the Spanish crown to beat out the English pioneers.
We walk around the park, reflecting at the reflecting pool, stopping in the botanic gardens.
We visit the Museum of Man, which is housed in the 1915 replica of the Catedral de Tepotzotlán, which, in Mexico, to the north, just nestled among the most egregiously industrialized section of the urban sprawl, houses its own Museo del Virreinato (where we visited and then got horrendously trapped in traffic in Ecatepec – avoid at all costs- on our way to Teotihuacan… but that is a story that has already been told in my non-virtual diary, and may one day be transferred to this one.)
Last stop before returning, is across the bridge to Coronado beach. It sort of reminded me of all the resort towns I have ever known and loved, escpecially Miramar, Mar del Plata, Acapulco, Benidorm, and Miami Beach.
The soporific effects of the afternoon sun are immediately reversed by the refreshing 72 degree pacific waters. We splash about, and I. jumps over waves, as per her usual beach-going behavior, and dives under, like the merchild that she is. Dinner at a Pan-Asian restaurant up the street can only be topped by the most spectacular gianduia gelato straight from Downtown’s Little Italy. And then, after we drop Dad at the Airport to catch the red-eye back to the east coast, I. cries herself to sleep and we make an uneventful return trip in under four hours.
Friday Evening 9:00 pm.
“Let’s go. Let’s go.”
“Your not even ready, you haven’t put that damn computer away.”
“I’m just waiting for you, you just got out of the shower, are you packed?”
“I’m packing.”
“Isabella, are you ready?”
“I wanted to take an airplane… why can’t we take an airplane?”
“We’re just going to San Diego, we don’t need to take a flight.”
“…”
“Get your shoes on baby.”
“I want to see Bobie, why didn’t she come with Zadie?”
Simple. A weekend trip, four hour drive south. No sweat. Famous last words. Now for those of you who actually know me, or have been tracking my virtual wandering for more than a few months, you will know that there is always an adventure. Doesn’t matter how simple and straightforward a trip purports to be, there is always some sort of massive unexpected noteworthy glitch. See here, or here, or here, or here, or here for examples from this year alone. This weekend was no exception to the rule.
In order to avoid the semper fidelis treacherous LA traffic we decided to wait until night fell, but we didn’t count on car trouble, especially because we filled up on all appropriate fluids before leaving town. Just as we were passing Irvine the car begins to vibrate violently (I made a comment to my students that if I wasn’t in class on Monday, it was because I had had an accident, of course I said this only half-jokingly). We pulled over, 12:30, called my father who was keeping vigil at his hotel for our arrival, and checked all tires for possible explanations. I had this sinking feeling that it was going to be something terrible and expensive like a broken drive shaft or a cracked axle, but nothing seemed visibly amiss. So we put the hazards on and carefully, slowly crept along the 5, until the vibrating began to rattle our brains and good sense got the better of us.
“We can’t keep going like this.”
Sign: San Clemente, 64 miles to San Diego.
“So, pull over?” (Said with best Jewish grandmother voice… I am devolving into my mother, Ughh.
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t have an answer for you!”
“What should I do?”
“Pull over here, at the Denny’s” Gotta love places that are open 24 hours. (Aside, when I was 12 and my collarbone was broken in a violent flourish, from a striker of the opposing team on the very day my parents were moving house, after my teammate Chrissy’s father dropped me off, at the new house, we went to the hospital and the only place that was open at 2 am was a Denny’s. In later teenage years it was the only place open after midnight that we could go hang out and smoke cigarettes until the wee hours – so I didn’t smoke – after long hours at the pool halls, or after mid-summer gigs – I was the “groupie” then.)
Grumble grumble. Stress, anger, nastiness, Grumble, grumble. I call AAA, yes they can tow us to San Diego, but it will be another hour or so, and they might not be able to accommodate all three of us in the truck’s cabin. Whatever. I walk back over to the car, where the babe sleeps and the father waits.
“They said it’ll be about an hour until they come.”
Would you look at that, as if by magic, the AAA truck materializes pulling into the far end of the Denny’s parking lot at 2 am. I flag him over.
“Are you here for us?”
“Umm. I don’t know.”
“I just got off the phone with AAA, they said you’d be about an hour.”
“I don’t think so, let me see,” he calls his dispatcher, “oh, yep, just got the call, 1984 BMW 7 series. I was actually just coming for breakfast.”
Unbelievable, this is the second time in three months that a tow truck comes, as if guided by or divine intervention, to our rescue. We discuss options, he needs to stay in the area for the next hour, because the other truck is out in LA. Sure, no problem, he goes for breakfast, we go in to eat something, have a cup of coffee, and of course, to observe the fauna of the witching hour that come wiggling their way out of the woodwork. Strange beasts they are, these midnight prowlers, some drunker than skunks, others it would seem, fresh from a Southern Baptist Church service, dressed in the Sunday best (only it was Friday night). The waitress calls us sweetie, and asks, “what can I get for you kids?” Her voice is cheerful, if raw, perhaps from years of smoking and late night waitressing. She is the quintessential diner-lady, like the Llanarch lady that Jenny so dearly loved, and who I only got to meet on the rare occasion that they could drag me out of my dorm room on a Saturday night, away from the safety of my books. (I have always been a “vaga” but sometimes I need convincing).
William was the driver’s name, he came back with a flatbead truck because the right front tire had a bubble the size of my fist and was about to explode at any moment. He drove us and cheerfully gave us tourist tips for San Diego, he had a girlfriend (M. thought he was gay, I just thought he was an effeminate heterosexual. I won) whose baby was due in two weeks, but when I asked him if he was ready, he said they didn’t talk much. I guess it was an ex-gf and he didn’t feel like explaining (maybe M. wins after all). He pointed out the snipers on the roof of the nuclear power plant. M. snores as I. silently takes in the scenery. I try to converse, but sleepiness wins and I doze in that “I’m just resting my eyes” sort of way.
Saturday Morning 4 am: we arrive in San Diego.
At 9:30 a fire alarm shakes us from sleep. My father has gone to his conference, M. doesn’t want breakfast, so I. and I go up to the Penthouse (Dad has his Starwood preferred platinum membership for all the travel he does) for yogurt, fruit and croissant.
We swim in the pool by the Marina.
Despite the beauty, I am appalled by the conspicuous consumption (it would seem that 90% of the boats are used less than a week a year. I am sickened when I think of the millions of dollars wrapped up in these little wooden toys, and what a huge difference they could make just 15 miles down the road over the border… ). We go to the car with the intention of driving it carefully the 3 miles to the tire shop.
“Look mommy, a flat tire.”
“No sweetie, it’s not flat.”
“Oh yes it is…”
And so it would seem we are required to invoke the gods of Automobile Association of America once again, this time, to our chagrin, no flatbead, and a driver who lacks in basic problem-solving skills. He can’t tow us because the front wheel is flat. He can’t change the tire because, it would seem, it exacts too much effort on his part. He can’t try filling up the tire because… who knows? M. asks as he is about to drive off, saying that AAA will call us and that another truck will come in 2 hours, if he could at least try to fill up the tire, and lo, it holds air, and he follows us to the tire store.
What’s the damage? Four new tires, with lifetime balance, rotation and puncture insurance $300. So, I. stayed behind with her Zadie, and we go off in search of nourishment for the body and what we find is nourishment for the soul. Greek/Lebanese food (reasonable, not spectacular) paintings on the wall, fabulously uplifting. As we sit and eat we notice that the walls are covered with colorful, moving, somewhat naïf painting that evoke everything that is wonderful about urban dwelling and human nature. We wander around, and ask about the artist. The waiter/owner says, “I am.” We ask about one painting on the wall behind the buffet, it looks like Jerusalem, it is. “That’s where I was born.” The warmth radiates from him. “You know about art, yes? I can tell by the way you were talking about it even though I couldn’t understand you.” (I wouldn’t go so far as to say I know about art, not in any real way, M. on the other hand practically grew up at the Esmeralda, and the INBA schools, and has it coursing through his veins - and his estranged father is one of the fortunate few sponsored for life by the Mexican government no matter how much or little he produces).”
“My brother lives in Jerusalem,” I venture, “I’ve never been, I’d like to.”
“Oh, you should, you should, it is a beautiful place.” We sit, continue eating.
M. says to me, in Spanish “I wouldn’t be announcing that your brother lives in Jerusalem, they’re Arabs, y tú tienes toda la cara de judía.”
“So? I believe that we should embrace one another for what we are, and not hide behind pretensions of what we are not.”
He comes back. “You have beautiful hair. Like my daughter, only lighter.” We follow him around the restaurant, he tells us about different murals that he’s done, we compare the cultural life of cities, he says Beirut in the 80’s was amazing. I believe it. We comment on the light, and vibrance of his vision, he says he believes that there is enough sadness and tragedy in the world, that his art should be about the opposite. He has designed murals for the peace museum in Jerusalem. I tell him my name, he doesn’t flinch, I knew he wouldn’t, his was Ibrahim. He hugs M. and then me as we leave. I am left with a feeling of deep peace, if only for a brief and fleeting moment. There is still goodness in the world, there still are human beings that believe in our shared humanity before our difference.
Most of the day has been spent, we pick up the girl, as my father has to go out to a dinner meeting, and we head to old town. It is, of course, a cleaned-up, disneyfied version of what it once was, but the old buildings are beautiful nonetheless, despite the crass tourism and exploitation of “Mexicanness” that goes on about these parts. We wander about, exploring the old school house and the peeling paint, and the local flora.
We decide against crossing the border because we are tired and it doesn’t seem worth the hassle for the few hours that we would be there. Night falls, silently, uneventfully, we retire to the hotel room to ignore one another, to slip away into ourselves.
In the morning my father and I take I. to the pool, we all go out, to explore Balboa Park. Apparently there was a Panama-America expo in 1915 and then a world’s fair in 1935. The buildings that abound are beautiful, mostly occupied with different museums, albeit with the air of falsity that seems rampant on this coast. History here seems invented, on a whim, to satisfy the philanthropists ideas of what California should be, which rarely coincides with the reality of what California was. I am amused by the persistent similarities, though, between St. Augustine (the first Spanish city in the country) and San Diego, the final frontier, settled haphazardly in an attempt by the Spanish crown to beat out the English pioneers.
We walk around the park, reflecting at the reflecting pool, stopping in the botanic gardens.
We visit the Museum of Man, which is housed in the 1915 replica of the Catedral de Tepotzotlán, which, in Mexico, to the north, just nestled among the most egregiously industrialized section of the urban sprawl, houses its own Museo del Virreinato (where we visited and then got horrendously trapped in traffic in Ecatepec – avoid at all costs- on our way to Teotihuacan… but that is a story that has already been told in my non-virtual diary, and may one day be transferred to this one.)
Last stop before returning, is across the bridge to Coronado beach. It sort of reminded me of all the resort towns I have ever known and loved, escpecially Miramar, Mar del Plata, Acapulco, Benidorm, and Miami Beach.
The soporific effects of the afternoon sun are immediately reversed by the refreshing 72 degree pacific waters. We splash about, and I. jumps over waves, as per her usual beach-going behavior, and dives under, like the merchild that she is. Dinner at a Pan-Asian restaurant up the street can only be topped by the most spectacular gianduia gelato straight from Downtown’s Little Italy. And then, after we drop Dad at the Airport to catch the red-eye back to the east coast, I. cries herself to sleep and we make an uneventful return trip in under four hours.
posted by ilana at 6:37 p.m.
7 Comments:
ya te echábamos de menos pero bien valió la espera! La próxima vez que vaya a LA haré el firme intento de ir a San Diego. No he pasado de San Capistrano. Es tan cierta esa sensación de que Cel sur de California nunca tuvo historia y debe ser tanta tanta
Pues ya que lo decís vos, mejor me venís a visitar aquí cerquita:)
¡Excelentes vacaciones, Ilana! Me siento relajado tras leer (y ubicar gracias a las fotos) tus aventuras. Tu "post" fue mi AAA para el alma (andaba alicaído por un problema de censura... pero ahora vuelvo a sonreír). // ¡Saludos!
Se me olvidó mencionarte lo que hace uno de mis amiguitos (con respecto a los murales y el conflicto en oriente medio).
Yuré,
Tengo una teoría sobre la censura (como para todo, ¿verdad?) y es que la autocensura es siempre mucho peor que la censura que nos puedan hacer otros. Claro, a nadie le importa lo suficiente lo que hago yo para que valga un pito en el mundo de la censura real, pero, en fin... Lamento que andabas por el suelo, y felizmente hago mi parte para levantarte el ánimo:)
Sin embargo he estado pensando ultimamente que me hubiera gustado que a esta blogósfera le hubiera entrado un tantito disfrazada ya que mi vida "pública" y "privada" sufren de contagios indebidos. Hasta la fecha ningún alumno ni profesor mío me ha encontrado, pero estoy temiendo el día. Por otro lado creo que no me disfrazo justamente porque me gusta desafiar a la autoridad y me gustaría el pleito de defender mi derecho de expresión, o me gustaría morir en la lucha... de nuevo, nunca pasará porque carezco de importancia y evito la política por razones de fiaca más que nada... pero no me deja de excitar la idea de que podría en algún momento estar ofendiendo a algún lector invisible (Patriot, por supuesto) o que la FBI podría tenerme clasificada como subversiva. Ja ja ja:)
Ilana, en la revista People del 8 de agosto viene un reportaje sobre personas que han sufrido laboralmente cuando sus blogs han sido descubiertos (una aeromoza que describía la ropa interior que usaba en el trabajo, un empleado de Google -los dueños de Blogger- que fue despedido por describir su ambiente de trabajo, etc.). A darn good fight!
Me encantó tu relato y las fotos, me encantaría visitar esos rumbos. Algún día será...
Gracias por lo que uds. llamarían piropo literario (que para mí es otra cosa, pero bué. Si me interesa ese asunto de la censura laboral, pero en el fondo pienso que no hay mucho que me pueda perjudicar (oficialmente) porque como es mi filosofía de vida y de enseñanza, la intención es siempre hacer bien, y nunca obro con afán de hacer daño a nadie (ni hablo de indiscreciones más allá de las mías). En fin, si algo hemos aprendido de la historia del mundo es que si alguién tiene ganas de joder, no faltan motivos ni maneras de hacerlo... así que sigo mi vida como si nada:)
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