San Diego in early May was sunny, warm, and pleasant; everything one could ask for in a cross-country motorcycle respite. Stewbert and I stood, side by side at Point Loma, the sea breeze swirling up the cliffs. We could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment. The freezing mountains of Colorado, the endless expanse of Nebraska, and the searing heat of Arizona were all behind us, and all completely worth it.
I was instantly impressed with San Diego, most of all the array of opportunities available. Having never been to California, or the American Southwest, I had no idea what to expect. This was a playground of the best that America had to offer. The icing on the cake was the fantastic climate. Here we were, in shorts and T-shirts in early May, standing by the ocean and debating whether or not we should jump in.
My brother Dave lives with his wife and three children in a Spanish revival subdivision, not 15 miles from the Mexican border. On a clear night with good visibility, we would crest a hill to hear Dave exclaim, "See those lights? That's Mexico."
From Dave's house, practically every exploratory-worthy terrain is within easy reach. The beach is a short drive, along with the typical culture and scenes that decorate every developed saltwater shore. Equidistant are rolling hills of dry scrubland, perfect for off-road adventure riding, and textbook desert sand dunes for the dune buggy crowd, as well as mountains for hiking. It seemed to me that the possibilities of San Diego were endless. This was a place in which one could never be bored.
The culture of San Diego was equally vibrant. After touring the naval base, Dave took us to his favorite Mexican place. After ordering in Spanish, he presented us with a smorgasbord of fish tacos, fried chili enchiladas, and coconut-shrimp skewers. This was unlike any Mexican food I had ever tried before, and from a completely obscure hole-in-the-wall joint. Dave filled me in, "A couple of fighter jet pilots told me about this place, and now everyone goes here. Word travels fast on the base, especially when it comes to good food."
Our next stop was a Mexican confectionery. Here were entire display racks of candy I had never heard of, all advertised in Spanish. A local bilingual patron patiently explained what the candies were, and the best ones to try. If this experience is typical of Mexican confectionery, I can honestly say that the candy is only slightly sweet, with a spicy and peppery aftertaste. No chance of a schizophrenic sugar high - with Mexican candy, you'd better bring a glass of water.
With the coastal atmosphere also came a decidedly Asian influence. One night Dave took us to a Japanese restaurant. Sushi, flaming hibachi grills, and flamboyant Pacific décor made for a totally different experience than the Mexican district. For lunch on another day, we patronized a Mediterranean café. Nobody does lamb better than the Greeks; not even Australians. And that is saying a lot.
Wherever we went, the military presence in San Diego was obvious. Dave joined us for lunch in his flight suit. Of all the patrons, only Stewbert and I were in civilian attire. Despite the array of ranks and branches represented, the atmosphere was relaxed. I noted to Dave that I thought military personnel were supposed to salute each other, while in uniform. Dave replied, "Technically yes, but in a place like this, that's all we'd be doing. It's pretty relaxed."
Aside from her cultural influences, San Diego has held on to its historic roots. We ambled through Old Town San Diego, the smells and styles of yesteryear still alive and well. In Old Town, the employees wore period clothing, the buildings and restaurants offered historic fare. Above all, the subtle smell of wood smoke permeated the atmosphere. With the clear skies, pleasant weather, setting sun, and sweet aroma of wood fire combined with saltwater coast, I could not have imagined a more pleasant place to be.
Speaking of history, most notable was San Diego's preservation of her settlement era and indigenous past. On one pleasant evening we hiked to a local park, to the ruins of a 1700s Spanish missionary. The destination was not overly advertised, which means only those truly interested in the history make the venture. This reduces commercialization, and therefore vandalization, of the site. At the missionary, informative placards explain the relevance, and impact, of the settlement. Constructed on a stream, the original structure dammed the water, creating a constant supply of power. The main dam wall is remarkably preserved, the rocks and mortar still intact. The craftsmanship required to design and construct such a structure, able to withstand centuries of constant wear, is nothing short of awesome. I wondered what from our current civilization will still be here 300 years from now, and how will we be represented?
Saving the best for last, we picked our way down a dirt path, to a clearing in the brush along a creek. There in the hard rock riverbed were a series of Indian morteros, or grinding holes. It was here, right here on this site, that Native Americans ground grain, by hand, using rocks. Constant grinding over time created these small depressions.
Again I stood, taking in the scene, and the peace and tranquility the site had to offer. The morteros were not overly advertised, and blended in perfectly with the natural environment. Had I not known what they were, I may have walked right past.
Again I wondered, centuries from now and after we are long gone, how will our civilization be represented?
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I was instantly impressed with San Diego, most of all the array of opportunities available. Having never been to California, or the American Southwest, I had no idea what to expect. This was a playground of the best that America had to offer. The icing on the cake was the fantastic climate. Here we were, in shorts and T-shirts in early May, standing by the ocean and debating whether or not we should jump in.
My brother Dave lives with his wife and three children in a Spanish revival subdivision, not 15 miles from the Mexican border. On a clear night with good visibility, we would crest a hill to hear Dave exclaim, "See those lights? That's Mexico."
From Dave's house, practically every exploratory-worthy terrain is within easy reach. The beach is a short drive, along with the typical culture and scenes that decorate every developed saltwater shore. Equidistant are rolling hills of dry scrubland, perfect for off-road adventure riding, and textbook desert sand dunes for the dune buggy crowd, as well as mountains for hiking. It seemed to me that the possibilities of San Diego were endless. This was a place in which one could never be bored.
The culture of San Diego was equally vibrant. After touring the naval base, Dave took us to his favorite Mexican place. After ordering in Spanish, he presented us with a smorgasbord of fish tacos, fried chili enchiladas, and coconut-shrimp skewers. This was unlike any Mexican food I had ever tried before, and from a completely obscure hole-in-the-wall joint. Dave filled me in, "A couple of fighter jet pilots told me about this place, and now everyone goes here. Word travels fast on the base, especially when it comes to good food."
Our next stop was a Mexican confectionery. Here were entire display racks of candy I had never heard of, all advertised in Spanish. A local bilingual patron patiently explained what the candies were, and the best ones to try. If this experience is typical of Mexican confectionery, I can honestly say that the candy is only slightly sweet, with a spicy and peppery aftertaste. No chance of a schizophrenic sugar high - with Mexican candy, you'd better bring a glass of water.
With the coastal atmosphere also came a decidedly Asian influence. One night Dave took us to a Japanese restaurant. Sushi, flaming hibachi grills, and flamboyant Pacific décor made for a totally different experience than the Mexican district. For lunch on another day, we patronized a Mediterranean café. Nobody does lamb better than the Greeks; not even Australians. And that is saying a lot.
Wherever we went, the military presence in San Diego was obvious. Dave joined us for lunch in his flight suit. Of all the patrons, only Stewbert and I were in civilian attire. Despite the array of ranks and branches represented, the atmosphere was relaxed. I noted to Dave that I thought military personnel were supposed to salute each other, while in uniform. Dave replied, "Technically yes, but in a place like this, that's all we'd be doing. It's pretty relaxed."
Aside from her cultural influences, San Diego has held on to its historic roots. We ambled through Old Town San Diego, the smells and styles of yesteryear still alive and well. In Old Town, the employees wore period clothing, the buildings and restaurants offered historic fare. Above all, the subtle smell of wood smoke permeated the atmosphere. With the clear skies, pleasant weather, setting sun, and sweet aroma of wood fire combined with saltwater coast, I could not have imagined a more pleasant place to be.
Speaking of history, most notable was San Diego's preservation of her settlement era and indigenous past. On one pleasant evening we hiked to a local park, to the ruins of a 1700s Spanish missionary. The destination was not overly advertised, which means only those truly interested in the history make the venture. This reduces commercialization, and therefore vandalization, of the site. At the missionary, informative placards explain the relevance, and impact, of the settlement. Constructed on a stream, the original structure dammed the water, creating a constant supply of power. The main dam wall is remarkably preserved, the rocks and mortar still intact. The craftsmanship required to design and construct such a structure, able to withstand centuries of constant wear, is nothing short of awesome. I wondered what from our current civilization will still be here 300 years from now, and how will we be represented?
Saving the best for last, we picked our way down a dirt path, to a clearing in the brush along a creek. There in the hard rock riverbed were a series of Indian morteros, or grinding holes. It was here, right here on this site, that Native Americans ground grain, by hand, using rocks. Constant grinding over time created these small depressions.
Again I stood, taking in the scene, and the peace and tranquility the site had to offer. The morteros were not overly advertised, and blended in perfectly with the natural environment. Had I not known what they were, I may have walked right past.
Again I wondered, centuries from now and after we are long gone, how will our civilization be represented?
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
