Let's just continue it: Discovered by the Germans in 1904, they named it "San Diego," which, of course in German means "a whale's vagina." - Ron Burgundy
The projected length of Sunday's drive meant an early up-and-out from Las Vegas, regardless of the effects of the previous night's alcohol. A nondescript trip through the high deserts of southern Nevada and southeast California was punctuated by my inability to locate my phone after the second gas stop. I had to pull over and confirm that it was in the car; fortunately, it was. The place where I stopped, a for-rent office building, struck me as probably similar to many other structures in the so-called "Inland Empire." With that scare taken care of, I continued south. In fact, just about as far south and west as you can go. I made for Border Field State Park in Imperial Beach. When I reached the gate, I found it to be closed. On the one hand, this saved me admission to the park; on the other, it meant I'd have to hoof it all the way to the shore and the border. Yes, I was simultaneously looking at both the Pacific Ocean and Mexico. At the shore's edge, the border demarcation shrinks to nothing more than some poles. This wasn't a problem, thanks to the continual presence of U. S. Customs and Border Protection. They were everywhere. In contrast, their Mexican counterparts were - as expected - nowhere to be found. Once I'd taken care of that, I headed into downtown San Diego, and for the fourth time thus far on the trip, checked into a Hampton Inn.
I kept it close for dinner, eating along the street at a place called Buon Appetito in Little Italy. The food was quite good. After a brief respite back at "home," I headed for the Gaslamp Quarter. I walked about the place for a bit and finally settled on a place called Whiskey Girl. It was a nice scene. There was enough there to keep me interested, while at the same time the place was sufficiently uncrowded that I had no problem ordering beers. The highlight of the night was when some of the place's off-duty bartenders came in, already completely gone, but intent on going some more. One of them mentioned Cornell's loss to Syracuse in the men's lacrosse championship game. (I was wearing a Cornell long-sleeved tee.) I was only slightly peeved at having that memory brought back to the surface; I was much more appreciative of the fact that he recognized the event. Of course, given our location and respective states, we traded lines from Anchorman ad nauseum.
I ended up being there until last call, after which I got myself back to where the trolley should have been, but wasn't. I knew that the Hampton was right along the track's route, so I followed it - until a trolley came along at America Plaza, and I could hop aboard and save my feet a little pain. On this first night of the six in California, the nights when we put Tupac's theorem ("California knows how to party") to the test - the Golden State repped itself nicely.
Pictures: Day 13 (San Diego)