I was last in San Diego in June (for the Americans for the Arts meeting) and you’ll recall that I really enjoyed it. I’m back again, and again thinking “why don’t I just move here?”
There is, of course, the fact that as a native Angeleno I’m supposed to think of San Diego as either mildly amusing or beneath notice, and that as an adoptive New Yorker I’m supposed to see a place like this as frivolous and its relaxed, happy people as dangerously un-vigilant re: whatever slop life’s bucket is about to dump on them.
All of that is true. And yet, more than most other places I’ve visited in the past few years, I look around San Diego and I think, “This would be a nice change.”
I think, “I could have a little house, or a nice big loft apartment in a perfect location, for 40% less than I’m paying now.” I think, “Here nobody gives a shit what you’re wearing, ever,” and I think “Is it 64 degrees and sunny every single day of the year here?” (yeah, pretty much, except when it’s 70), and I think “Oh, so that’s what a tortilla is supposed to taste like.”
San Diego isn’t London, or New York, or even Los Angeles. But nobody here cares. They’re fine with it. Why wouldn’t they be (see “64 degrees,” above)? And anyway, it’s big enough (hello! 3 million people). And did I mention nobody ever cares what you’re wearing? And the buses all have bike racks on the front?
Admittedly, sometimes it’s nice to look nice, and I’m annoyed by the inland West (which is where 75% of the tourists around here are obviously from), and bla bla bla. But. 64 degrees and sunny! A house! Tortillas!