One of the perks of driving from Los Angeles to San Diego on the night of the 15th was that we got to sleep in the morning after. I awoke about 8:00 or so, having slept passably well on a soft bed in an unfamiliar room with airplanes flying over all night. Honestly, it reminded me of our old townhouse back in Alexandria, Virginia. We were practically within spitting distance of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Every three minutes or so, a jet plane would take off and climb into the sky with a dull, faint roar. They did that around the clock, every day of the week, morning, noon and night. I used to stretch out on my bed in my second-story room, facing west, watching these planes as they clambered into the black and starry night, lights winking merrily, their soft thunder muted by the glass windows, the distant rumble strangely comforting.
Ten years later, in San Diego, these airplanes didn't wake me up. But they might have kept me from sleeping as deeply as I should have.
To summarize, I didn't feel particularly rested on the morning of the sixteenth.
The free continental breakfast at the HoJo closed down at nine, so Alli and I got ready and headed down there about 8:37 or so. We broke our fast on cold cereal, toast and almost-ripe fruit. We took the opportunity to pull out the map of San Diego we'd picked up at the front desk and study it.
We'd chosen hotels wisely. We weren't but a few miles from SeaWorld. So, after we'd finished breakfast and checked out, we loaded up the Jeep, got on the road, made a few hectic right turns, stumped up for parking, and were walking through the park gates in the warm sunshine in less than a half-hour.
I'd been to San Diego a few times before. I used to have a great uncle living down there. Uncle Joe, we called him, but his real name was Alvin. He had a two-story, bungalow-esque sort of place about 15 minutes' walk from Ocean Beach Pier. His wife, Dee, passed away some years before he did, leaving him alone in that big old house in the palm-coated hills. It was a bit sad. At least he never had to deal with any hard winters. No matter what time of year we visited him, the temperature was always a uniform 80 degrees. Sometimes it got up to 82, but that was a heat wave, Joe would say. Of course, Allison and I visited S.D. in mid-December. The temperature had plummeted to something like, I don't know, 75 degrees, with plenty of warm sunshine and a sweet, cool sea breeze.
I claim to hate California, but I lovelovelove San Diego. It's one of only two places in my home state I'd actually consider living in for longer than two seconds.
We paid up, ducked back to the car to deposit a few contraband items (the lady at the gate was checking bags most assiduously), and entered SeaWorld San Diego.
Ahhhh, what a glorious day. See above.
The place was every bit as nice as I'd remembered, if not more nicer. There were Christmas decorations strung up everywhere, as there had been at Universal Studios. The 400-foot Skytower had been hung with gigantic strands of lights and capped with a huge star, dolling it up like an enormous Christmas tree. Hymns and carols issued softly from the park's speakers, and that wonderful sea breeze kept blowing, mingling with the happy laughter of children and the sounds of rushing water.
Maybe commercial entertainment ain't so bad after all.
Allison and I wandered about in semi-logical fashion, doing and seeing just about everything the park had to offer. We visited the sea turtles, petted the dolphins, chuckled at the sea lions, made a fuss of the penguins, touched the sea stars, fondled the stingrays, winced at the eels, and ate all the barbecued meat and fries we could get our hands on. It was a good, good day. Shamu was in fine form, too. The last show we saw before leaving the park was the big ol' killer whale extravaganza at 2:30. It was everything I'd remembered: some jumps, some big splashes, a whole lot of oohs and aahs, and quite a few fish.
Every time I go to a zoo or an aquarium, it's as if I'm seeing it for the first time. I never remember just how much is inside. We went to see the sea lion show (hence the chuckling), and whaddya know! It was abjectly different from the other one I saw before, with new gimmicks and new actors, human and pinniped alike. I'd completely forgotten about the freshwater aquarium, with its humongous bullfrogs and piranha swarms and see-through guppies. I got to pet the stingrays last time; this was the first time I'd ever petted a dolphin. THAT was COOL. They were friendly as all get-out, and swam right up to us, clicking and squeaking. They even seemed to enjoy a good pat on the head. Touching a dolphin was, somehow, even weirder than fondling a stingray. They were wet, of course, and extremely tough and rubbery, but not slimy as the rays had been. It was a fantastic experience. We happened to be standing near a zookeeper in a wetsuit, who was busy brushing away at the edges of the enclosure. He noticed what fun we were having, and introduced us personally to the dolphins who swam up (Captain and Bugs). He was friendly and knew his stuff. He even helped us call them over.
It was one of the most marvelous things I've ever experienced, that's for dang sure.
Another reason that we chuckled at the sea lions was this: sea lions, in fact, possess similar gender discrepancies to humans.
Let me explain. We walked over to the sea lion exhibit after the show. The sea lions were separated according to sex: males in one pen and females in another. (Are female sea lions called sea lionesses? They ought to be.)
Picture this: the females are getting along swimmingly. They're sleeping in heaps, perfectly free and easy with each other.
Swing your head a few degrees to the left and look into the males' enclosure. You will observe the largest boy sea lion launch himself from the water and unceremoniously slap the smallest sea lion off a rock with his flipper. The smallest sea lion falls into the drink and sullenly swims off in search of a less coveted rock to lie on.
Yep. That's boys and girls for you, folks.
Alli and I both enjoyed ourselves immensely, but there was a tiny worry tinging my peace of mind. Allison was pretty quiet. She seemed, in fact, a little distant. I was agonizing insecurely over this perceived coolness. I honestly couldn't tell if she was just tired from all the sleep we'd missed thus far, or whether she'd soured on me in the wake of yesterday's car accident. And it was killing me.
I know, I know. 'Twas stupid of me to worry. She's a good friend, after all, and had told me that she didn't hold it against me. I should've just taken her word for it. But I guess I must be more fragile inside than I like to admit. I was convinced that her opinion of me had slipped a few notches, and I was, shall we say...concerned.
Next up on our to-do list: Ocean Beach. Allison had expressed a keen desire to walk on a beach, seeing as it was -16 degrees and snowing at her house. I figured Ocean Beach, with its fine sand, tidal pools, copious piles of flotsam, and huge pier (the longest on the West Coast) would suit just fine. The trick was getting there. We had to get on I-8 again for a bit, and that proved to be problematic from SeaWorld Drive. For me, anyway. As has already been proven, I'm a boneheaded driver. Despite Alli's best navigational efforts, I missed the exit, and had to come back and take another run at it. We made it the second time around, and found ourselves on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, searching for Niagara Avenue, which lead to (and, in fact, turned into) Ocean Beach Pier. We cruised through suburban San Diego in so doing. Alli commented that, "minus the palm trees," it looked rather like her aunt's neighborhood back home.
We reached Niagara and hauled right. By some amazing quirk of fate, we found a parking space. Some guy in a pickup was just pulling out as we came back down Niagara after a fruitless first run up. We parked. I paused for a moment to make a call to my insurance company; I'd meant to do it earlier, but hadn't. They'd actually been attempting to call me. The woman I'd hit had apparently already contacted her insurance company, who had gotten in touch with mine,pronto. I managed to get a hold of a living body and set up a time to get everything hashed out. Alli, decorous as ever, stepped out of the car to preserve my precious ego. I was nonetheless red-faced as I climbed out of the car to join her on the sidewalk. At this point, any reminder of the screw-up I'd committed was bound to bring my desire to turn into a pile of sludge bubbling back again.
I shook it off as best I could and the two of us moseyed up the gently sloping avenue to the pier.
The Pacific Ocean blossomed before us, lit by the westering sun.
Shame and concern were instantly swept away in that sacred glow. The clement sea air swirled gently about us like waves on the nearby sea, washing us free of travel grime, scrubbing out souls as it passed. The palm trees swayed in that magnificent breeze. The sky was an amalgam of purple and orange, feathered with the most delicate traces of cirrus clouds. Surfers in wetsuits wobbled on boards a few hundred yards offshore; the waves clamored merrily upon the sand; young men kicked soccer balls across the beach, while an electric guitar's tinny chords filtered out a boom box; hippies and freaks of every size and description wandered up and down the sidewalks, toting guitar cases or backpacks or dreadlocks or joints, gathering here and there in groups; joggers huffed steadily along the pier; and windburned fishermen looked to their lines, standing here and there by the rails. Everywhere were young couples strolling hand-in-hand. Sailboats scudded along the horizon.
I haven't been treated to a scene that beautiful in a long time.
Alli and I joined this menagerie of human life, walking slowly along the pier, past the fishermen and joggers, past the restaurant, out onto the very end of the pier. There we stood, and took in the ocean and all it had to say. Seagulls and pelicans soared over the waters, and that sky kept getting more beautiful by the minute. There was hardly any need to speak.
We stood there for a time, drinking it all in, wandering back and forth, snapping pictures and making comments. I remembered just how much I loved coming to this pier, even though poor old Uncle Joe had passed on. I had to admit, though, it was a million times better coming here with someone than just by myself, even if that someone had witnessed me backing into someone and then almost doing a runner.
The light was dying as we walked back down the pier, down the steps, and onto the beach...but not before we'd encountered this fellow.
He was nakedly interested in some of the fishermen's dividends. He was flapping from one side of the pier to the other, rail to rail, and darting furtive glances all about him, like an old man heading for the cookie jar.
Our prior visit to SeaWorld had gotten us both in the mood for a little beachcombing. So we strolled across the sand, past moldering piles of kelp, to the tide pools. We hopped among them, rather like the macaroni penguins we'd seen earlier, and peered into every puddle. We didn't turn up much. We found one large, mysterious, pulsating mass half-hidden inside a conch shell, and a tiny hermit crab. We didn't mind. It was something just being down there, twilight beginning to gather, the waves resounding with the incoming tide, sailboats wending their way out upon the open sea, the sky deepening its hues with the oncoming night, and the music from that boom box drifting idly across the beach.
If there's such a thing as heaven, I hope it's similar to what I've described above: serene and beautiful, with a few boom boxes thrown in.
We finally packed it in, walked slowly back up the stairs, down Niagara Avenue, and back to Roger. After a brief stop for fuel, we were back on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, looking for I-8. We found it easily...or rather, its terminus. That's right, I actually got to get on Interstate 8 right where it actually begins, just a few hundred yards from Ocean Beach, San Diego. How cool is that? I mean, people travel on interstate highways all the time, don't they? But how many of them actually get to the end?
We weren't on the 8 for long. It began to get choked up, so Allison suggested we dodge north on CA-163 instead of waiting. That sounded like a good suggestion to me, so we did. Unfortunately, when we actually merged onto the 15, I missed the carpool lane. So I had to sit there in traffic for an extra 20 minutes before things finally thinned out and we got back up to speed again.
(For those of you who may be unfamiliar with carpool lanes...they're these really neat highway lanes open to any vehicle with two or more passengers. They're meant to thin out traffic during rush hour, and encourage carpooling. Since I had Allison with me, I could legally use the carpool lane...only, for some reason, I kept forgetting to, which meant that I spent a LOT more time stuck in bloody traffic jams than I should have. Oh well.)
Darkness fell completely by the time we made it to Corona, where we'd promised to meet Allison's cousin, TJ, for dinner. By an amazing coincidence, Allison has a cousin who works with Young Americans (a song and dance troupe) and works in Corona. (But he lives in Long Beach. Ugh, I wouldn't fancy that commute. He said he had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to make it to work by 5:30. Eee-yuck.) So she called him, and, after a lengthy discussion of our plans, finally managed to make a date with him. We had a little difficulty locating the right exit, particularly in the dark, but after a few missed approaches and wrong turns, we were sitting in the Corona T.G.I. Friday's and ready for some wholesale meeting-up.
Presently, TJ and his Canadian girlfriend, Tara, came in. We rose to meet them, and spent the next two hours chatting and scintillating. We even called up Alli and TJ's aunt, Toots, who was having a birthday, and sang to her over the phone. It was one of the most interesting times I've had with a couple of complete strangers.
TJ picked up the tab, too. Great guy. Must be, if he's related to Alli.
And so, wearied from our two-day odyssey in La-La Land, Alli and I said our goodbyes, climbed back inside Roger once again, and headed for the open road. Traffic by this time was light. We reached home base in good stead, before the parents had retired to bed, and sacked out forthwith.
My concerns about what Alli thought of me were far from fading completely. But, as I lay on my cot in the solacing dark of the family room, I thought they'd faded at least a little.
That was good. I'd need all my concentration to survive what would come next...an all-nighter in the world capital of sin, vice, and dreams brought to life...
...Las Vegas, Nevada.
One evening earlier this week I was sitting in my best friend John's room at his parent's house, nursing a Blue Moon and a virulent case of cabin fever. The two of us had finished watching a few episodes of Neon Genesis Evangelion and were listening to a little music on John's souped-up surround sound system. As we sat there in reflective silence, John, who'd been having some girl troubles, suddenly perked up at the corners. He asked me if I was free on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.
I told him I was. I had nothing on the docket except possible flying lessons, but I hadn't scheduled those yet. "Want to go on a road trip?" John asked, a characteristically mischievous grin on his face. Let's review. I had cabin fever. I spent every day sitting in my room trying to force myself to write banal travel articles that always came out like travel brochures. Apart from that I was doing little but editing a few daily pages of my nascent novel manuscript and reliving my irresponsible college days with some rediscovered video games.
So of course I said yes.
Hell yes. John fetched some maps and atlases and, after some brief indecision about which direction to go, we settled on Arizona. It was proximal. I'd never been to the Grand Canyon, and John had only been once, when he was too young to remember. That clinched it. We'd take the scenic route to the finest geological formation in the States, and camp there. With a clear sheet of plastic laid over the Arizonan atlas page, we traced out our route with a marker. We'd take off sometime around noon and spend a few hours on the road, spending the first night in the town of Yuma, Arizona, just over the border. The second day we'd traverse the state, passing through Phoenix, Prescott, and Flagstaff, to reach the Grand Canyon before dark and set up a tent. The third day we'd break camp, scout out the canyon, and head home on Interstate 40.
We held a brief reunion on Tuesday night to compare tents. My mom loaned me a little orange two-person Marmot that she'd taken along on a bicycling trip across North Dakota. It turned out to be a bit small for John's lanky, six-foot-four frame. John's family, on the other hand, had a three-person Hillary that, though it was a tad complicated to assemble, was admirably spacious. We split, packed, assembled what gear we could from our families' respective stores, and met up at my house at 10:00 a.m. Wednesday morning, to load up and hit the road. After a quick stop in Lucerne Valley for my half of the groceries (bagels, peanut butter, strawberry jam, cheese sticks, fruit, and some batteries), we headed southeast down old Highway 247.
We got into the rhythm of the thing right away. John had a black notebook in his backpack that we rapidly came to refer to as "the log." Whenever anything noteworthy happened—say, we passed by a palm tree farm, or neared a natural landmark, or got stopped by the Border Patrol—I would enter it in the log. In this way, we recorded our passage through Yucca Valley, where we switched to California Highway 62; our subsequent traversal of Morongo Valley, and our merger with Interstate 10 East; and our eventual connection to Interstate 8, after a little meandering on State Highways 86, 78 and 111. During this languorous tour of the Southern Mojave, we passed the impressively vast Salton Sea (none of my pictures of which came out very well). We also drove through the tiny, grubby town of Brawley, near El Centro, where every third person's immigration status was cast into severe doubt. Here we appropriately stopped to go to the bathroom. Eventually we entered upon I-8 and headed east toward Arizona. The weather was fine: 70s and 80s, with a light breeze and broken clouds. John's iPod was hooked up to his Chrysler Concorde's superb stereo, and a steady stream of country and contemporary tunes was wafting out of the speakers. Both of us had our sunglasses on and were feeling freer by the minute. Our minds had been heavy. My financial situation was deteriorating rapidly, and John was having some personal relationship problems of his own. A road trip was just what the doctor ordered. We execrated every jerk who passed us, commented on the scenery and the music we listened to, and made masculine small-talk.
And so, after a few short hours of sand dunes, creosote bushes, scant farmland, and a nominal encounter with the Border Patrol (they asked us if we were American citizens, and then let us through), we found ourselves in Yuma, Arizona. We signed into the nearest Motel 6, dumped off our heavier suitcases, and sallied forth once more into the gathering dusk. John had to get himself an adapter cable for his iPod. As an employee of Geek Squad, he was dumbfounded by the minuscule size of Yuma's Best Buy. It was cramped and laid out illogically, he said. He found his cable while I checked Facebook on the nearest Snow Leopard.
We were also at a loss for a camping stove. My family possessed several, but during that morning's trials, all had proved to be either inoperable or undetectable. So John and I had ventured forth that morning resolving to stop at the soonest Wal-Mart or Target and purchase a stove instead. Serendipitously, as we exited the Best Buy, we spotted the telltale Target logo across the street. We entered just as the red sun's last dying rays lit the storefront, the voice of Taylor Swift still ringing in our ears. We located a small
$28 stove and a bottle of propane, purchased both, recrossed the highway, stopped for cabbage at Wells Fargo, and finally set our minds to the problem of nourishment. There happened to be a tasty-looking Mexican restaurant a few yards from our motel. This being Yuma, within shouting distance of the border, we figured we couldn't go wrong with Mexican food this night. The restaurant's name was Chretin's, after Señor Chretin, a World War II veteran who constructed the eatery in 1946. Since then, apparently, the venue has entertained some of the most famous names in America: everyone from John Wayne to Kim Basinger to George Bush the Elder has eaten there, according to the guest list hung on the wall. The food bore that litany out. Consisting of fresh vegetables and meat, accompanied by homemade tortillas and chips, the beef enchiladas were far more authentically Mexican than anything else I've sampled. John's tacos, he said, were incredible. Moreover, the service was excellent. Neither of us ever lacked for drinks. Speaking of drinks, we adjourned to the bar after paying our bill. I had an Ultimate Margarita (mixed by the lovely new barmaid, Leah, late of Huntington Beach) and John sipped a beer. We cast occasional glances at the World Series on the TV, and I flirted a little with Leah, competing with the middle-aged, polo shirt-wearing man a couple of seats down. Leah took it all in good grace, I with a few grains of salt on the rim of my margarita glass.
Concluding our after-dinner libations, John and I settled up and retreated to Room 245. There we watched a nameless Bruce Willis flick (in which the aging warrior faces down both a trio of petty crooks holed up in a rich man's home, and a shadowy gang of masked conspirators seeking a mysterious DVD). During the commercials, John fired up some music on his laptop and introduced me to Mathisyahu, a full-bearded, hat-wearing, card-carrying young Jew who nonetheless can reggae like a professional. He regularly performs live, and his beatboxing is nothing short of miraculous. Take that, Muhammad. Then we turned in for the night.
Allison and I wandered about in semi-logical fashion, doing and seeing just about everything the park had to offer. We visited the sea turtles, petted the dolphins, chuckled at the sea lions, made a fuss of the penguins, touched the sea stars, fondled the stingrays, winced at the eels, and ate all the barbecued meat and fries we could get our hands on. It was a good, good day. Shamu was in fine form, too. The last show we saw before leaving the park was the big ol' killer whale extravaganza at 2:30. It was everything I'd remembered: some jumps, some big splashes, a whole lot of oohs and aahs, and quite a few fish.
Every time I go to a zoo or an aquarium, it's as if I'm seeing it for the first time. I never remember just how much is inside. We went to see the sea lion show (hence the chuckling), and whaddya know! It was abjectly different from the other one I saw before, with new gimmicks and new actors, human and pinniped alike. I'd completely forgotten about the freshwater aquarium, with its humongous bullfrogs and piranha swarms and see-through guppies. I got to pet the stingrays last time; this was the first time I'd ever petted a dolphin. THAT was COOL. They were friendly as all get-out, and swam right up to us, clicking and squeaking. They even seemed to enjoy a good pat on the head. Touching a dolphin was, somehow, even weirder than fondling a stingray. They were wet, of course, and extremely tough and rubbery, but not slimy as the rays had been. It was a fantastic experience. We happened to be standing near a zookeeper in a wetsuit, who was busy brushing away at the edges of the enclosure. He noticed what fun we were having, and introduced us personally to the dolphins who swam up (Captain and Bugs). He was friendly and knew his stuff. He even helped us call them over.
It was one of the most marvelous things I've ever experienced, that's for dang sure.
Another reason that we chuckled at the sea lions was this: sea lions, in fact, possess similar gender discrepancies to humans.
Let me explain. We walked over to the sea lion exhibit after the show. The sea lions were separated according to sex: males in one pen and females in another. (Are female sea lions called sea lionesses? They ought to be.)
Picture this: the females are getting along swimmingly. They're sleeping in heaps, perfectly free and easy with each other.
Swing your head a few degrees to the left and look into the males' enclosure. You will observe the largest boy sea lion launch himself from the water and unceremoniously slap the smallest sea lion off a rock with his flipper. The smallest sea lion falls into the drink and sullenly swims off in search of a less coveted rock to lie on.
Yep. That's boys and girls for you, folks.
Alli and I both enjoyed ourselves immensely, but there was a tiny worry tinging my peace of mind. Allison was pretty quiet. She seemed, in fact, a little distant. I was agonizing insecurely over this perceived coolness. I honestly couldn't tell if she was just tired from all the sleep we'd missed thus far, or whether she'd soured on me in the wake of yesterday's car accident. And it was killing me.
I know, I know. 'Twas stupid of me to worry. She's a good friend, after all, and had told me that she didn't hold it against me. I should've just taken her word for it. But I guess I must be more fragile inside than I like to admit. I was convinced that her opinion of me had slipped a few notches, and I was, shall we say...concerned.
Next up on our to-do list: Ocean Beach. Allison had expressed a keen desire to walk on a beach, seeing as it was -16 degrees and snowing at her house. I figured Ocean Beach, with its fine sand, tidal pools, copious piles of flotsam, and huge pier (the longest on the West Coast) would suit just fine. The trick was getting there. We had to get on I-8 again for a bit, and that proved to be problematic from SeaWorld Drive. For me, anyway. As has already been proven, I'm a boneheaded driver. Despite Alli's best navigational efforts, I missed the exit, and had to come back and take another run at it. We made it the second time around, and found ourselves on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, searching for Niagara Avenue, which lead to (and, in fact, turned into) Ocean Beach Pier. We cruised through suburban San Diego in so doing. Alli commented that, "minus the palm trees," it looked rather like her aunt's neighborhood back home.
We reached Niagara and hauled right. By some amazing quirk of fate, we found a parking space. Some guy in a pickup was just pulling out as we came back down Niagara after a fruitless first run up. We parked. I paused for a moment to make a call to my insurance company; I'd meant to do it earlier, but hadn't. They'd actually been attempting to call me. The woman I'd hit had apparently already contacted her insurance company, who had gotten in touch with mine, pronto. I managed to get a hold of a living body and set up a time to get everything hashed out. Alli, decorous as ever, stepped out of the car to preserve my precious ego. I was nonetheless red-faced as I climbed out of the car to join her on the sidewalk. At this point, any reminder of the screw-up I'd committed was bound to bring my desire to turn into a pile of sludge bubbling back again.
I shook it off as best I could and the two of us moseyed up the gently sloping avenue to the pier.
The Pacific Ocean blossomed before us, lit by the westering sun.
Shame and concern were instantly swept away in that sacred glow. The clement sea air swirled gently about us like waves on the nearby sea, washing us free of travel grime, scrubbing out souls as it passed. The palm trees swayed in that magnificent breeze. The sky was an amalgam of purple and orange, feathered with the most delicate traces of cirrus clouds. Surfers in wetsuits wobbled on boards a few hundred yards offshore; the waves clamored merrily upon the sand; young men kicked soccer balls across the beach, while an electric guitar's tinny chords filtered out a boom box; hippies and freaks of every size and description wandered up and down the sidewalks, toting guitar cases or backpacks or dreadlocks or joints, gathering here and there in groups; joggers huffed steadily along the pier; and windburned fishermen looked to their lines, standing here and there by the rails. Everywhere were young couples strolling hand-in-hand. Sailboats scudded along the horizon.
I haven't been treated to a scene that beautiful in a long time.
Alli and I joined this menagerie of human life, walking slowly along the pier, past the fishermen and joggers, past the restaurant, out onto the very end of the pier. There we stood, and took in the ocean and all it had to say. Seagulls and pelicans soared over the waters, and that sky kept getting more beautiful by the minute. There was hardly any need to speak.
We stood there for a time, drinking it all in, wandering back and forth, snapping pictures and making comments. I remembered just how much I loved coming to this pier, even though poor old Uncle Joe had passed on. I had to admit, though, it was a million times better coming here with someone than just by myself, even if that someone had witnessed me backing into someone and then almost doing a runner.
The light was dying as we walked back down the pier, down the steps, and onto the beach...but not before we'd encountered this fellow.
He was nakedly interested in some of the fishermen's dividends. He was flapping from one side of the pier to the other, rail to rail, and darting furtive glances all about him, like an old man heading for the cookie jar.
Our prior visit to SeaWorld had gotten us both in the mood for a little beachcombing. So we strolled across the sand, past moldering piles of kelp, to the tide pools. We hopped among them, rather like the macaroni penguins we'd seen earlier, and peered into every puddle. We didn't turn up much. We found one large, mysterious, pulsating mass half-hidden inside a conch shell, and a tiny hermit crab. We didn't mind. It was something just being down there, twilight beginning to gather, the waves resounding with the incoming tide, sailboats wending their way out upon the open sea, the sky deepening its hues with the oncoming night, and the music from that boom box drifting idly across the beach.
If there's such a thing as heaven, I hope it's similar to what I've described above: serene and beautiful, with a few boom boxes thrown in.
We finally packed it in, walked slowly back up the stairs, down Niagara Avenue, and back to Roger. After a brief stop for fuel, we were back on Sunset Cliffs Boulevard, looking for I-8. We found it easily...or rather, its terminus. That's right, I actually got to get on Interstate 8 right where it actually begins, just a few hundred yards from Ocean Beach, San Diego. How cool is that? I mean, people travel on interstate highways all the time, don't they? But how many of them actually get to the end?
We weren't on the 8 for long. It began to get choked up, so Allison suggested we dodge north on CA-163 instead of waiting. That sounded like a good suggestion to me, so we did. Unfortunately, when we actually merged onto the 15, I missed the carpool lane. So I had to sit there in traffic for an extra 20 minutes before things finally thinned out and we got back up to speed again.
(For those of you who may be unfamiliar with carpool lanes...they're these really neat highway lanes open to any vehicle with two or more passengers. They're meant to thin out traffic during rush hour, and encourage carpooling. Since I had Allison with me, I could legally use the carpool lane...only, for some reason, I kept forgetting to, which meant that I spent a LOT more time stuck in bloody traffic jams than I should have. Oh well.)
Darkness fell completely by the time we made it to Corona, where we'd promised to meet Allison's cousin, TJ, for dinner. By an amazing coincidence, Allison has a cousin who works with Young Americans (a song and dance troupe) and works in Corona. (But he lives in Long Beach. Ugh, I wouldn't fancy that commute. He said he had to get up at 3:30 a.m. to make it to work by 5:30. Eee-yuck.) So she called him, and, after a lengthy discussion of our plans, finally managed to make a date with him. We had a little difficulty locating the right exit, particularly in the dark, but after a few missed approaches and wrong turns, we were sitting in the Corona T.G.I. Friday's and ready for some wholesale meeting-up.
Presently, TJ and his Canadian girlfriend, Tara, came in. We rose to meet them, and spent the next two hours chatting and scintillating. We even called up Alli and TJ's aunt, Toots, who was having a birthday, and sang to her over the phone. It was one of the most interesting times I've had with a couple of complete strangers.
TJ picked up the tab, too. Great guy. Must be, if he's related to Alli.
And so, wearied from our two-day odyssey in La-La Land, Alli and I said our goodbyes, climbed back inside Roger once again, and headed for the open road. Traffic by this time was light. We reached home base in good stead, before the parents had retired to bed, and sacked out forthwith.
My concerns about what Alli thought of me were far from fading completely. But, as I lay on my cot in the solacing dark of the family room, I thought they'd faded at least a little.
That was good. I'd need all my concentration to survive what would come next...an all-nighter in the world capital of sin, vice, and dreams brought to life...
...Las Vegas, Nevada.
