San Diego: Drink it in..

A WHALE’S VAGINA

There:  I got the Anchorman reference out of the way nice and early. Now we can all move on with our lives. 

The face of San Diego

It took two hours to ride the Greyhound from Venice Beach to San Diego. For some reason that now evades me, I decided we'd depart LA at 7am- possibly to ‘get the best of the day’ having arrived in the new city. We therefore began in the addled blur that accompanies waking up at four in the morning after both our alarms failed to go off. I couldn’t tell you about the ride itself as I spent the best part of it snoring and wrapped around the Graduate in a way that afforded me the best possible comfort and left him with a pair of dead legs and a headache. When we pulled into the station, however, we found ourselves on the brink of a sea of people: as apparently the population of San Diego had also risen early to run some sort of rock-music marathon. Everywhere we went we saw people swathed in tin foil, gulping water and stretching out their hamstrings.

We stayed at the incredibly affordable Lucky D's Hostel, right on the border of the old Gaslamp Quarter: the hub for cheap drinks and young trendies. The deeply apathetic man on the front desk gave us the key to our room and told us we could check in- withholding the fact that the previous occupant was in fact still in residence, which was something of a surprise when I tried to get into the room.  Returning to the front desk we were unapologetically told to come back in four hours, but at least they let us dump our bags in the office. 

The Gaslamp Quarter is a medley of restaurants and bars that stretches for several blocks, marked by some ‘old’ iron streetlamps and an arched sign welcoming visitors and tourists. With so much local competition, this is the place to go when hunting for cheap drinks: the bars jostle each other for the best happy hour deals and cheap meals, and there’s something going on every night of the week.

Pecto Park, San Diego Padres vs. Toronto Blue Jays

 Lucky D's was right on the doorstep of the Petco Park stadium, so on the first night we attended our first ever Major League Baseball game: San Diego Padres vs. The Toronto Blue Jays. That we didn’t understand the league or the sport itself was nowhere near enough to deter us: after all, they had pulled pork sandwiches.  For $10 each we could sit on the grassy lawn on the far side of the stadium, so the field and the stands reared up in front of us, and the view- at least for two people who don’t know how baseball works- was perfectly clear. The game itself was about average in terms of exciting moments, but it was worth it for the moments when the cameras zoomed in on people in the audience, who displayed a plethora of reactions when they realised they were on display, my favourite being a middle-aged man, wearing only gold glitter from the waist up, who greeted the screens with a dramatic flourish and slow spin. It was so popular they replayed the clip for the rest of the evening.

As a city, I didn’t really know what to make of San Diego. It felt the most like a Sim City (designed by a fourteen-year old with no particular architectural merit) out of any place I visited: and the blocking system of houses and offices seemed more obvious than anywhere else I’d visited. But the public transport system was great: all Americans who tell you it’s impossible to survive without a car in SoCal are LYING, and much more affordable than San Francisco.

Outside the Old Town

 We took the metroline up to visit the historic Old Town, which was like the set of an old Western, full of small stores containing tobacco pipes and throwing knives; glass-fronted chocolate cabinets; a Wells Fargo Wagon; and shelf upon shelf of exotic dried teas. This small patch contained the origins of San Diego, where the Spanish settled and promptly left again, after finding there was very little fertile land there. With walking tours and lots of small exhibitions, it’s well worth a look. After a couple of hours exploring,we took a rattling bus up to the Cabrillo National Monument and Point Loma lighthouse: a perfect whale watching spot and outcrop that looks over the whole of San Diego, the naval aircraft hangers in the bay and the built up skyscrapers of the central district. It wasn't whale season, but there were a couple of fighter jets doing flybys over the Marina Bay, which in The Graduate’s books was just as exciting.

 

Speaking of jets, we also stumbled upon a small bar and grill called the Kansas City BBQ by the Marina, which was a filming location for Top Gun. The walls were full of paraphernalia, the ceiling was hung with bras, and we shared a rack of ribs with the cheekiest sparrows known to mankind.  

Silverback Gorilla at San Diego Zoo

Although Sea World was slightly crippling in terms of entry fee, we couldn’t leave without visiting the San Diego Zoo. We missed the pandas (the queue to get in to see them was ridiculous so if anyone has their heart set on the black-and-white beasts I’d suggest you get there as early in the morning as you can) but managed Gorillas, Tigers, and a very enthusiastic Polar Bear. If animals are your thing then set aside a full day to explore this extraordinary menagerie.

Of course, the people were all insanely friendly. On our last night we found a bar serving Tezcal beer for $1.75 and got chatting to a helicopter pilot. He was so delighted with our accents he rang his sixteen-year-old son and made me have a conversation with the poor boy- I could feel the awkwardness seeping out of the phone- and then bought us a pair of luridly blue shots and told us all about the collapse of his first marriage, and the time he flew over a dead lake in Nevada and accidentally interrupted the shooting of a porn film there. Then he offered us a free canoeing trip on his Uncle’s river in the Napa Valley. Only in America…

Next stop, Vegas. You stay classy. 

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Venice Beach: sun, sand, and- more sand.

The Los Angeles I’d heard of was the one I visited last January: the shimmering expanses of tarmac, the somewhat jaded Sunset Boulevard and the kitschy Universal Studios. The Graduate and I saw none of that having finally flown from San Francisco. Instead we marooned ourselves in the bohemian outlet of Venice Beach, Santa Monica’s sketchier sibling.

You can’t mention a trip to LA these days without singing the praises of the Megabus. If you’re trying to get around America without a car (and I can now confirm that we’ve managed a very successful three-week roadtrip without one) then Megabus would be one of the first go-to places I pointed you. While it currently has a limited repertoire, only ferrying to LA and Sacramento from San Francisco or Oakland, it’s crazy promotions means that if you book early enough you can get impossibly cheap rides. Our eight hour trip down the coast to LA cost us five bucks each- less than a return fare on the San Francisco BART. And the bus wasn’t even sketchy: we had all-too-effective air conditioning (I wore two jumpers the whole way down and was still shivering like a leaf) free moderately-effective wifi, and some good reclining seats. We were even sitting next to a thirty-something Dungeons and Dragons master called Greg, so the conversation was lively.

When we eventually stepped off the bus, The Graduate balked and hissed ‘let’s get away from the engine, it’s boiling at this end’. It was only having hauled ourselves a few feet away that we realized the overheating bus engine was not at fault, but that this was simply the temperature at this end of California. Having heard about LA’s somewhat limited public transport (you Americans are way too used to your cars: get on a bus sometime) we were at a slight loss as to how to get from the Union Station to the beach, when Greg the Dungeonmaster stepped in and offered to give us a ride down in his car. Then Graduate responded with enthusiasm, I with slight trepidation that increased as he led us us past several haphazardly parked police cars and a street liberally roped off with yellow police tape.

“It’s totally fine,” Greg said cheerfully. A helicopter buzzed overhead.

We did make it down to the beach in one piece, reminding me again that most Americans are actually just friendly, and arrived at the Samesun Venice Beach Hostel. In lieu of a doorman there was a slightly addled chap in a dirty vest, who shouted “DO YOU SMOKE WEED? DON’T LIE TO ME, I KNOW YOU TAKE THAT SHIT,” as we walked past him.  

Murals at Venice Beach

Despite the initial alarming reception the hostel was great, but we didn't spend too much time in there because we were out on the sand. The Venice Beach boardwalk is sandwiched between Santa Monica and Muscle Beach: a space full of mad graffiti, street artists and skateboarders. The long flat expanse of tarmac on the edge of the sands is a perfect place for spending a lazy afternoon, and there’s always something going on. Take, for example, the numerous ‘Green Doctor’ booths dotted amongst the buskers and tourists, where for the advertised price of only $40.00, Americans could be diagnosed as stressed out or depressed and given a medical marijuana permit by a man in a green tracksuit and matching baseball cap. I don’t know what I was more amazed by, the mere presence of the booths, or the fact that they were never empty. Head far enough North or South, and you’ll reach the slightly more upmarket Santa Monica, with it’s pier and shopping district, or the Marina, which feeds into the Venice Beach canals and some big ol’ yachts.

Anyone feeling stressed?

Hitting the beach was the best way to stay cool in the middle of the day. The Samesun hostel had a cupboard full of boogie boards for the residents to take out (there are also any number of places to rent bikes, surf boards, and boogie boards along the boardwalk), and a couple of volleyballs. The Graduate and I amused ourselves with one of these for several hours, gaining looks of askance from the local muscle beach inhabitants who take the game very seriously- one man even came over just to tell us how terrible we were.

The food was amazing all week; there are lots of boardwalk bars and affordable restaurants on the edge of the sand, and more upmarket jobs with valet parking at Abbot Kinney, a few roads deep from the beach. The only thing we could feasibly afford there was some upmarket deli pizza.

Margaritas at Casablancas

I've been hearing all year that the further south you get in California, the better the Mexican food becomes, and for anyone thinking of heading the Venice Beach way my strongest foodie recommendation would be to walk to Lincoln Boulevard until you get to a very run-down looking roundabout next to a Whole Foods. On the roundabout  and go for a Margarita and a Calamari dish at Casablancas. It's an amazing little place, where flour Tortillas are thrown together on a flattop stove in the middle of the restaurant, and a maitre’d pushes an old fashioned drinks cart between the tables, throwing together hand-crafted cocktails as he goes.

So yes, we missed the Hollywood sign, the studio tours and Beverly Hills, but didn't regret it for a second. If you’re heading to LA for a summer weekend, hit the beach. You won’t be bored.

Sunset at Venice Beach

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