Itinerary

Friday Night

8:00 PM - Board flight to San Diego

9:30 PM - Land in San Diego

9:31 - 10:00 PM - Diddle around on the San Diego tarmac

10:02 PM - 10:17 PM - Wait for baker’s dozen of octogenarians to retrieve their bags from the overhead bins.

10:20 PM - 10:45 PM - Wait for Uber that’s supposedly “5 minutes away”

11:00 PM – Get to hotel

Saturday

7:00 AM - Get up and going

8:30 AM - Head to a La Jolla beach to watch surfing

10:00 AM - Walk over to La Jolla Cove to see the seals

12:00 PM - Head to The Taco Stand for Lunch

2:00 PM - Back to downtown San Diego

2:30 PM - 3:00 PM - Struggle to use Bird scooters

3:15 PM - Look at USS Midway

4:30 PM - Stop in for a drink on India St. in Little Italy

6:00 PM - Dinner at Civico 1845 in Little Italy

8:00 PM -  Gather bags and head to airport

10:30 PM - Board flight back to Chicago

Sunday Morning

4:30 AM - Arrive in Chicago

24 Hours in San Diego

My least favorite kind of weekend trips are those that, upon landing, remind you to check-in for your flight home the next night. You’ve just flown across the country to an exciting new place but 

“Don’t forget,” your phone kindly reminds you, “you’re flying right back in less than twenty-four hours.” 

It’s like eating just one Lay’s potato chip— you’re left hungry for more. The bag says you can’t eat just one, for crying out loud. Yet, I often have my most fond memories on these quick trips. Due to the absurd time-restriction, you end up with a triple-distilled, 100-proof version of a vacation. Or, the extreme jet lag, physical exhaustion, and dehydration experienced on these trips leave you in a state of surreal delirium wherein everything is better than it seems. I’m not sure which is true, and I’m not sure I care to know.

A late November day in San Diego encapsulates this style of traveling perfectly. I’d never been to San Diego (at least not that I can remember) and knew very little about the southern California city.  I saw that the flights looked good for a weekend getaway, and a Saturday night red eye home meant that we could save by spending the night on the plane rather than in a hotel. With no real expectations other than I could bust out my shorts and sandals, we set off around eight o’clock Friday night for San Diego, California.

We landed in San Diego around 10 PM and had no idea how we’d spend our day there. Fortunately, we had a secret weapon. A good friend of my girlfriend grew up in San Diego and loved the idea that we were going to visit her hometown. So much so, in fact, that she sent us a novella on all there is to do and see in San Diego and, further, at what time to do which activities. In short, she completely planned our trip for us— all we had to do was follow along her rather lengthy text message. As it turns out, we couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide.

Waking on the early side Saturday morning, we set off for the first stop of our tour, a beach out in La Jolla. The reason: to watch/photograph the early morning surf crew. Although I’m not the greatest surfer (see: hometown is Central Ohio), I’ve always had a fascination with board sports. I blame Tony Hawk. When I first saw surfing in Hawaii, I found it mesmerizing— I was completely hooked. After trying to surf a few times and reading William Finnegan’s seminal Barbarian Days, I developed a (perhaps dilettante) appreciation for the sport way of life. Despite being a textbook kook, I always enjoy watching real surfers go out and ride waves.

A short Uber ride later, we slipped off our sandals and made our way onto the beach. A steady offshore wind blew over a relatively empty beach. A few surfers waxed up their boards in a nearby cabana as the California sun bathed the beach with a warm white glow. About thirty yards from the shore, a few dozen surfers sat in a line-up, navigating the rolling waves in a semi-orchestrated, hypnotic dance. As one hopped off a wave another would drop in, and as one wiped out nearer to the shore, another would begin a similar journey on a new wave further out. The beach was a calming space, surfers practiced their craft, local joggers stopped to chat nearby, and the place remained devoid of tourists. This relaxed and unassuming atmosphere foreshadowed the rest of our experience in San Diego; a big city with an even bigger sense of chill.

After relaxing on the beach for a few hours, we unwisely decided we’d had enough of the laidback, local vibe. It was time to visit one of the most touristy spots in the entire city, La Jolla Cove, aka Seal Cove. I knew that La Jolla Cove would be filled with tourists, much like any notable spot in any city. However, nothing could have prepared me for the overrun cesspool I entered. 

Don’t get me wrong, the seals are adorable and I loved watching them, but La Jolla Cove was nothing short of hellish. Imagine a petting zoo: cute goats and such wander around a pen that feels one size too small. A child takes a bite out of one of the oddly-shaped “M&Ms” on the ground.  Think about the smell, a potent mix of fresh pig dung, llama spit, and unchanged diapers with notes of musty hay. You inhale deeply and try to hold your breath. Unfortunately, all you’ve done is drive that timeless, nostalgic, putrid odor deep into your lungs. Now you can taste it. Yummy. Now imagine that petting zoo is stashed in the middle of the Tsukiji fish market. That, in essence, was La Jolla Cove.

The cove itself is simply a rocky outcropping, upon which the seals rest. Above this rocky outcropping, a walled pathway winds down the coast for viewing the seals at a distance. Walking through the park towards the cove, the first thing we noticed was the crowd. Lining the pathway, tourists loitered around, some leaning over the edge of the path for a better view of the seals. By the time we fought our way to the end of the sidewalk— where a narrow trail leads down to the seals themselves— you could hardly walk without bumping into someone else. 

As we entered the mob of seal-lovers, strange new smells began to waft through the air.

“Did I just fart?” I found myself wondering. 

The smell was something like if I had eaten week-old gas station sushi with raw eggs for dessert and then contracted diphtheria.

“No, the abhorrent odors emanating from this crowd couldn’t have come from a regular human, I assured myself. “Only the bloated corpse of the spawn of Satan himself could puff out an odor so vile.” I checked around, scanning for people that matched the description; no obvious perps. 

Suddenly, I felt something warm ‘n’ sticky flow between my toes. I really hoped they weren’t filming Sexy Seal Sluts 3: Curse of the Black Pearl Necklace. Looking down, I found my foot dipped in what looked like your average tide pool, if tide pools filled with sewage. Dark brown and as warm as a newborn with a fever, I tried my best to shake this mystery liquid out of my sandals. Despite my best efforts, with each subsequent step I felt my toes stick to the bottom of my sandal and then peel off again. Nevertheless, I persisted and continued down the path. Surveying the scene, I recoiled at what lay before me— hundreds of these little poop-pools filled any little dent in the rocky cove. The place was covered in fishy crap water. Worse yet, the seals were rolling in the stuff.

Disgusted, I tip-toed around each dip-spit-colored pool closer towards the seals and their tourist paparazzi. Reaching a small refuge— no poop water within a square foot— I looked up and checked my bearings. No less than a hundred iPhone-toting people crammed around the seals. I understood the excitement, how often do most people get to see “zoo animals” outside of the zoo? It’s the same wild experience that causes traffic jams and bison charges at Yellowstone. After all, it’s not like there’s a world-famous zoo in San Diego where you can see seals.

Perhaps most startling, the people at the seal cove were only a couple feet away from the seals. Never mind the fact that seals might become used to human presence, and ignore that the seals are wild animals that might harm you, most people were trying to get as close as possible to the seals for their Instagram selfies. 

That’s when I saw it. In the middle of the herd of tourists, a squat and chicly-dressed Asian man reached out and poked a seal. 

“Holy bucket hats and crocs, BATMAN! Did I really just see that?!”

I did a double-take, unable to believe what I saw; never have I seen anyone touch wild animals. Surely, I thought, one of the nearly hundred people surrounding this ill-intentioned seal-fondler would step in and say something. Instead, a wave of seal molestation swept the crowd; everyone started rubbing the seals.

“Why!?” I fruitlessly wondered. “Has no one noticed how bad the seals smell? And has no one stopped to wonder why they smell like a fishy turd factory?”

Before I could say anything, a Mrs. George from Mean Girls look-a-like appeared from the tourist mob and asked me to take a photo of her and her family. She’d spotted my camera. Still in shock from the rapidly-spreading seal-rubbing epidemic, I absent-mindedly agreed to take her photo. Wanna-be Ms. Poehler stood a safe-distance from a sleeping seal, so I turned around to get a better angle. The next thing I knew, Ms. Poehler sat on top of this poor seal; she’d teleported herself into the worst possible spot. Rather than composing a nice photo of this lady with the seals safely in the background, I now shot a mall-Santa Christmas card; the seal was Santa and, essentially in its lap, sat Mrs. George.  Thus, I too, became an accomplice in the rash of seal molestation rapidly sweeping over La Jolla cove.

Disgusted with myself and with my foot in need of a serious cleaning, I took some half-hearted photos of the seals and hurried away from the treacherous stink-hole known as Seal Cove.

The remainder of the day was a blur of tacos, failed attempts to ride Bird scooters, and fantastic people-watching. Despite the horror of La Jolla Cove, our short time in San Diego did have some redeemable qualities, namely the food. We had lunch at the well-known The Taco Stand, which served every kind of taco imaginable, including cactus tacos. Standing in line— which extended out the door and around the block— proved well-worth the wait; I had some of the best tacos of my life. As strange as it sounds, the cactus tacos were the highlight, being both a novelty and tasting fantastic. Similarly, our dinner at Civico in Little Italy was immaculate. The atmosphere was cross between a white-washed hipster barn and a kitschy Italian cucina.  Despite having the outward appearance of a place that’s trying a little too hard to fit in with the latest chic restaurant trends, the food was delicious. In fact, the Ravioli All'aragosta ranks high among the lobster raviolis I’ve had. Likewise, the laid-back vibe of the restaurant welcomed all walks of life and several families with small children. Unlike most fancy restaurants filled uppity waiters and snooty diners, you could relax and enjoy your meal at Civico.

Full from dinner, we picked up our bags and returned to the airport. Falling in and out of sleep on my red-eye flight home, I deliriously recalled our time in San Diego; for me, I will always remember my twenty-four hours there as a blend of world-class tacos, gorgeous scenery, and poop-covered seal molestation. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.