We liked San Diego. We struggled to come up with a reason why anyone could be angry living in that city. And to be honest, we didn’t really encounter anyone who was anything less than absurdly jolly during our short visit to SoCal.
Our hotel, La Valencia, was breathtaking. It was built in 1908 and kept the quaint and historical vibe quite nicely. The doors were hand painted in gold cursive to announce the room number “Six Hundred Twenty Four”. It was all very glamorous.
We met up for a beer and burger in the Ocean Beach neighborhood at Raglan, with a Baton Rouge boy who now lives the California lifestyle, working on a catering company and running his new concept, Local Habit. He told us where the locals go, a small cove called “No Surf”. Despite the name, there were, indeed, surfers. We set up shop and enjoyed the view and the water for a couple of hours.
Martin and I ate dinner with my family in La Jolla at Whisknladle, while Monica and Jon enjoyed Nine Ten. We met back up with our Louisiana friend at his establishment and tried a great selection of California beers. We ended the evening in the strangest way possible. What we were told would be “live music” was a mini version of Burning Man, in a bar with carpet (hello bowling alley), and a hippie with tribal instruments this New Orleans girl ain’t never seen. We caught a brief glimpse of the true San Diego, but knew we were out of place when a long-skirted, dreadlocked, peace-preaching hippie hugged everyone in the bar except us. My platform heels and perfectly-coiffed sock bun were clearly not welcome.
The next day, we woke with sad faces, knowing we had to leave San Diego. Monica and I ate breakfast at Coffee Cup Cafe while the boys continued their week-long search for a Bait and Tackle t-shirt. We strolled the quaint streets of La Jolla and said goodbye to La Valencia with a final cocktail and view of the Pacific Ocean.
I am honestly already planning our next trip to California. First stop: San Diego.