With only a few days remaining in San Diego, Ashley and I were careful to divide our time. Although the purpose of the trip was to spend Christmas with the family, we felt a desire to explore the city on our own, as well.
We ambled through San Diego's Gaslamp District, the historic heart of the city. Development of this sector began in the mid-1800s, and was the original downtown. As progress spread elsewhere, this area fell into decay. It was not until the 1990s that an urban renewal took place. Now, the Gaslamp District is a thriving, vibrant, social hub of San Diego, boasting restaurants, nightclubs, and shopping. One could spend an entire summer exploring what the Gaslamp has to offer, and it reminded me of the incredible things that are possible when great cities rejuvenate their urban decay. It was not too long ago, that Soho in New York City, and the Docklands in Melbourne, were decrepit wastelands.
After a nominal search we found a coffee shop, and enjoyed a light snack. I imagine that if I were in my early 20s, this would be the place to socialize. Beneath the tidy shops, inviting cafes, and enticing restaurants, there was an obvious nightlife. I could see it in the blackened doorways that nocturnally descended to flashing lights and bass thumping beats of incoherent tunes; places where strangers become momentarily acquainted. I could even detect the smell of stale, spilled beer. In a previous life, I'm sure I'd just love the Gaslamp at night. In all honesty, I'm even happier that I've outgrown it.
Being careful to divide our time, we visited a more group-friendly locale. On one particular evening, Ashley and I met my brother and entourage at Old Town, San Diego. Considered the birthplace of California, Old Town can trace its roots back to 1769, when the first of many Spanish missions was established. By the 1820s, a small Mexican community had formed, and in 1846 the US flag was hoisted above the plaza of what is now Old Town. Today, Old Town boasts a delectable variety of artisan shops, cafes, restaurants, and museums.
Being the positive role model that I am, I gave my nephew a shoulder ride through the rustic streets. Here, there were tasteful re-enactments and proprietors in period clothing. After a delicious supper at a Mexican restaurant, we explored. Ahead, I noticed a cigar and wine bar, and had this exchange with my wife: "Hey, it's a beautiful evening; do you mind if I sit outside and have a cigar?"
She replied, "Sure, as long as you never breathe on me ever again."
Instead, we sampled wine and decided on a 10-year tawny port from Portugal. As a matter of fact, I just may open it as soon as this article is completed.
The one thing I've failed to mention about San Diego was the phenomenal weather. Like elsewhere, late December can be notoriously unpredictable. We were blessed with sunny skies and temperatures consistently hitting 75 degrees. Appropriately, our final day in Southern California was spent at the beach in Coronado.
On this day I ditched the rental car and traveled via the sightseeing trolley. We disembarked at Coronado, and walked along the beach. Since it took awhile longer for my brother and entourage to shower, get dressed, and make the drive, Ashley and I had some time to ourselves. We walked barefoot in the sand, hand in hand. The frigid waters numbed my ankles, but I didn't care. We sat on the sundeck of the Hotel del Coronado, listening to the waves, soaking the sun, and enjoying a drink (especially since they cost 15 bucks - I enjoyed the hell out of mine.) As always, at times like these, I squeezed her hand and commented on how grateful I was that we're able to experience such things together.
Then my brother and entourage arrived. We ate lunch, walked along the beach, and spent the afternoon with family. It was just as nice to share the experience with everyone.
In fact, the phenomenal weather only carried one downside. We here in Wisconsin are spoiled - the frigid winter temperatures tend to eliminate one particular source of irritation. I was reminded of this, on our scenic trolley tour of San Diego.
While we were underway, a trio of bikers pulled alongside the trolley. I won't mention what kind they were - you already know. They were loud. I mean seriously, the motorcycles were unnecessarily, egregiously, and stupidly loud. One could not even maintain a subconscious thought process while in their presence.
I noted how prim and proper the drivers appeared. Their leathers were perfectly cleaned and pressed, as though their mothers had just ironed them. Not a bug splotch marred the gleaming chrome. Even their helmets and sunglasses were straight out of Abercrombie and Fitch. Hilariously, the lead driver had his radio blaring; some AC/DC song. I'm not sure which one; every single AC/DC song sounds precisely like all the others. The music was even louder than the motorcycles - which by the way, what a concept. Putting a radio on a motorcycle is like installing a DVD player on a horse.
It was so loud that all conversation stopped. Even the driver had to suspend his narration. Finally the trio belched into the distance. In that strategic moment of silence before conversation resumed, I turned to my wife and loudly remarked:
"That's what a mid-life crisis sounds like."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
We ambled through San Diego's Gaslamp District, the historic heart of the city. Development of this sector began in the mid-1800s, and was the original downtown. As progress spread elsewhere, this area fell into decay. It was not until the 1990s that an urban renewal took place. Now, the Gaslamp District is a thriving, vibrant, social hub of San Diego, boasting restaurants, nightclubs, and shopping. One could spend an entire summer exploring what the Gaslamp has to offer, and it reminded me of the incredible things that are possible when great cities rejuvenate their urban decay. It was not too long ago, that Soho in New York City, and the Docklands in Melbourne, were decrepit wastelands.
After a nominal search we found a coffee shop, and enjoyed a light snack. I imagine that if I were in my early 20s, this would be the place to socialize. Beneath the tidy shops, inviting cafes, and enticing restaurants, there was an obvious nightlife. I could see it in the blackened doorways that nocturnally descended to flashing lights and bass thumping beats of incoherent tunes; places where strangers become momentarily acquainted. I could even detect the smell of stale, spilled beer. In a previous life, I'm sure I'd just love the Gaslamp at night. In all honesty, I'm even happier that I've outgrown it.
Being careful to divide our time, we visited a more group-friendly locale. On one particular evening, Ashley and I met my brother and entourage at Old Town, San Diego. Considered the birthplace of California, Old Town can trace its roots back to 1769, when the first of many Spanish missions was established. By the 1820s, a small Mexican community had formed, and in 1846 the US flag was hoisted above the plaza of what is now Old Town. Today, Old Town boasts a delectable variety of artisan shops, cafes, restaurants, and museums.
Being the positive role model that I am, I gave my nephew a shoulder ride through the rustic streets. Here, there were tasteful re-enactments and proprietors in period clothing. After a delicious supper at a Mexican restaurant, we explored. Ahead, I noticed a cigar and wine bar, and had this exchange with my wife: "Hey, it's a beautiful evening; do you mind if I sit outside and have a cigar?"
She replied, "Sure, as long as you never breathe on me ever again."
Instead, we sampled wine and decided on a 10-year tawny port from Portugal. As a matter of fact, I just may open it as soon as this article is completed.
The one thing I've failed to mention about San Diego was the phenomenal weather. Like elsewhere, late December can be notoriously unpredictable. We were blessed with sunny skies and temperatures consistently hitting 75 degrees. Appropriately, our final day in Southern California was spent at the beach in Coronado.
On this day I ditched the rental car and traveled via the sightseeing trolley. We disembarked at Coronado, and walked along the beach. Since it took awhile longer for my brother and entourage to shower, get dressed, and make the drive, Ashley and I had some time to ourselves. We walked barefoot in the sand, hand in hand. The frigid waters numbed my ankles, but I didn't care. We sat on the sundeck of the Hotel del Coronado, listening to the waves, soaking the sun, and enjoying a drink (especially since they cost 15 bucks - I enjoyed the hell out of mine.) As always, at times like these, I squeezed her hand and commented on how grateful I was that we're able to experience such things together.
Then my brother and entourage arrived. We ate lunch, walked along the beach, and spent the afternoon with family. It was just as nice to share the experience with everyone.
In fact, the phenomenal weather only carried one downside. We here in Wisconsin are spoiled - the frigid winter temperatures tend to eliminate one particular source of irritation. I was reminded of this, on our scenic trolley tour of San Diego.
While we were underway, a trio of bikers pulled alongside the trolley. I won't mention what kind they were - you already know. They were loud. I mean seriously, the motorcycles were unnecessarily, egregiously, and stupidly loud. One could not even maintain a subconscious thought process while in their presence.
I noted how prim and proper the drivers appeared. Their leathers were perfectly cleaned and pressed, as though their mothers had just ironed them. Not a bug splotch marred the gleaming chrome. Even their helmets and sunglasses were straight out of Abercrombie and Fitch. Hilariously, the lead driver had his radio blaring; some AC/DC song. I'm not sure which one; every single AC/DC song sounds precisely like all the others. The music was even louder than the motorcycles - which by the way, what a concept. Putting a radio on a motorcycle is like installing a DVD player on a horse.
It was so loud that all conversation stopped. Even the driver had to suspend his narration. Finally the trio belched into the distance. In that strategic moment of silence before conversation resumed, I turned to my wife and loudly remarked:
"That's what a mid-life crisis sounds like."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
