My voyage down south

A few disclaimers: I do not have a thrilling and exciting job, I have no plans to do something fun outside the country, I have yet to truly rekindle a friendship or encounter anything grave, and I've only doinked one Israeli soldier. But my trip to San Diego was fun nonetheless.

The cast of characters includes myself and three of my friends from high school: Mike C, a perpetual womanizer and serial monogamist who has been my best friend for years, Mike D, the host of an indie music show at Brown whose caustic and pessimistic outlook on life is strangely balanced by the fact that he's always happy and joking around, and Mike G, the elfish-grinned editor-in-chief of the Badger Herald (University of Wisconsin) and a man so blind to the many faults of Manny Ramirez that he once suggested the man deserved a gold glove. The differences between them are not extraordinarily important in the context of this blog post.

I arrived at the San Diego airport after a perilous episode of skyscraper-dodging (those who have flown to San Diego know what I mean and those who haven't--it's intense) and walked over to the other terminal to pick up Mike C. We saw that the flight the other two kids were taking had been delayed until midafternoon, so we decided to walk downtown, having heard it was both doable and pleasant.

The city has a remarkably blue harbor for a major shipping port and naval base and palm trees lining tourist traps all along the waterfront. The airport is only about half a mile from civilization, and everything in between is both scenic and bustling with transit by foot, wheel, and rudder. Once we hit the main drag of Harbor Ave, we walked until we found the USS San Diego monument which consists of three marble slabs of names (including my late uncle Joseph Fitzgerald's) and battle accomplishments (most decorated ship in US Naval History) and a stone-and-bronze map on the sidewalk of the route to and from each battle the ship fought--a scale representation of the South Pacific. One of the cooler monuments (as the USS San Diego never lost a man to enemy combat, it was not a memorial) I've seen--and I've seen plenty. When the rest of our party landed, we walked to the Days Inn downtown and hopped a parked train that started moving just after we crossed it. Not a smart move, that one.

Around five o'clock we wandered downtown and endeavored to find the most authentic Mexican place we could. It was fantastic. The game was everything we'd hoped, from the gorgeous stadium (complete with palm trees and a beach in center field) to the crowd (largest in park history, more than half cheering for Boston) to the result (a 2-1 victory from the visitors, marked by dominant Daisuke Matsuzaka). After the game we headed home, as my compatriots had been awake since about 5 am EST for the most part.

We missed the continental breakfast the next morning and set out to the Gaslamp Quarter, the historic district that surrounds the ballpark in search of lunch. After turning down three places because we decided against getting "New York Style" Pizza in San Diego, we settled on a brewery around one and sat down to eat. At some point after we'd order our beers and pulled pork sandwiches, a man of about six-two with a menacing stare came back from the bathroom and sat at the table next to us. A quick but hushed lunch table conference concluded that it was Red Sox reliever Mike Timlin. I looked back at the table and identified another Red Sox pitcher, Tim Wakefield, and Mike G pegged a third as catcher Doug Mirabelli. Apparently this $10/plate wannabe Applebee's was ground zero for Red Sox players. A solid half hour of trying not to talk about what was happening was interrupted when we saw, walking out the door, a second party--pitcher Josh Beckett and his wife, who may have been the most attractive woman I've been within fifteen feet of in my entire life. The meal concluded with Wakefield and Timlin splitting a bike cab to the park. We shook their hands and wished them good luck. The waitress came over, asked us if we knew who they were, said "That explains why they were such jerks," showed us the bill complete with tip (25%), and shared a few anecdotes. Apparently they liked 300. Who knew?

Next up was a trip to the Padres pro shop, whereabout I bought a whiffle ball and bat -- the better to play home run derby next to the train tracks with. We played ball for about two hours, walked into the park, and saw the Red Sox get their asses kicked 6-0. This time our section was filled with Padres fans and a lot more sober. Apparently that happens in the nice seats. We spend the time after the game at a bar near the park where Mike C kept playing a game he likes to call catch-and-release. You can imagine how that goes if you are so inclined. Let's just say he's like a less-cultured Anthony with straight hair. Upon returning to the hotel we reminisced about the halcyon days of our youth until about four or five AM.

We missed the continental breakfast the next morning. We grabbed lunch at a pizzeria that didn't serve New York style and went to the game. A 4-2 Red Sox win accompanied by a Yankee loss made the weekend more successful than our previous jaunts to New York (0-3), Baltimore (1-1), and Seattle (0-3). Thank god. We were going to have to stop doing this if they couldn't start winning. After the game we napped for about two hours and spent our last night in San Diego in Little Italy. We had a meal at a little ristorante that you had to walk through a grocery store to get to and the meal was filled with very few frills--just delicious meats, cheeses, and pastas under fantastic marinara sauce and Parmesan cheese. The ravioli was wonderful and the service was even better. The meal was made a little awkward when the waitress, with her back turned, asked a question and heard Mike C say to Mike D "You bet your sweet ass I do," but we left a nice tip and, as far as I know, didn't get sued. Afterward we went to a noisy bar full of 35-year-old women and turned in early to catch our flights. The continental breakfast was just donuts, orange juice, and coffee cake (with coffee). Nothing special.