San Diego is very far. Five hours of flying. Passengers eating tasteless sandwiches and drinking thin coffee. Tea is being retrieved from the back of the cabin. The flavor of tea brewed in an otherwise coffee pot. My homemade Finn crisps with goat cheese, capers, and basil have gone slightly soggy. Still tasty. I crunch my pre-prepared mix of walnuts, almonds, and cranberries and polish off “Stories from around the World” while my neighbors simply nod off.
The taxi has an antiquated meter. It’s not far to the hotel in the Gaslamp district. The hotel has giant concrete pastel arches surrounding a three-story tall obelisk reminiscent of a miniature Miami-fied version of the Washington Monument emerging out of a bright blue base of painted dolphins. One almost forgets that there is a giant Macy’s on one side and the local NBC headquarters on the other.
The reception woman tells me that my colleague has just asked whether I’ve checked in yet. I deposit my bags in my preferred guest deluxe king size bedroom with partial city view and duck my head out the building and onto the street. I’m searching for dinner downtown at a late hour.
I quickly loop through the Gaslamp district, where the receptionist recommended a few restaurants. It doesn’t take long to realize two things: firstly that referring to any part of such a small downtown area as a district is awfully conceited, and secondly that downtown San Diego is a close vision to an urbanite’s worst nightmare. The downtown consists of several blocks of restaurants and bars, all packed with pretty dolls dressed up and their drunk backward baseball hatted companions. Perhaps a college party town… after all, Tijuana is only a few miles away. Several restaurants are clearly marketing with the expectation of a country bumpkin potato face party crowd, such as Urban Bar & Grill.
Sitting down at a Mexican restaurant on a relatively mellow side-street, I comfort myself with the tipsy singing of the Mexican customers at the bar. They look different here. Seemingly more integrated into the fabric of the city. Middle-class and comfortable eating and drinking downtown like anyone else. They’re also bigger and whiter looking than their conspicuously Mexican-looking counterparts in New York. I’m sure this is a generalization that wouldn’t last if I were staying more than three nights.
The fish is delicious with a Venezuelan sauce and decent guacamole. Octavio is making sure I’m satisfied by bringing more Dos Equis. They say Mexican food is different here.