After a final pineapple juice-soaked carb-high session of late night poker, we left Surf City on a high note and headed still farther south to San Diego via La Jolla.
We couldn’t miss La Jolla since a close friend spent a couple of expat years there with his family after considerable extensive research to identify the best place on earth to enjoy an adult gap year. We were naturally consumed with curiosity to see this Eden, and driving in to see the surreal blue skies and lush vegetation, it was easy to be seduced. A delightful unpretentious lunch of simple grilled meats and salad on paper plates at a not unreasonable cost set us up for a stroll down to the bay and a spot of bird watching.
Bird watching was cut short however by some scary Hitchcockian avian posturings by flying beasts with terrifyingly long beaks making seagulls look like kittens.
And the visit generally was cut short as we failed to find a coffee bar open at 3 serving anything other than decaff. Yes, we were obviously not looking hard enough in the right streets. Still, it was a sharp knock to the idyllic allure of the place, and we hit the highway again for San Diego.
Which is brilliant.
A retro sort of buzz. A sunny Chicago, a dry heat New Orleans. We like it. We feel we’ve time-travelled back fifty years after a visit to the picture house in the Gaslamp district with its old wooden escalators; a browse in Bettie Page clothing; and now sitting in the ice-cream coloured environment of Sweet Things frozen yogurt outlet listening to old Beatles hits.