As I drive west, one last time, a feeling of excitement and anticipation takes over me. This will be my third time now in the canyon oasis that we call San Diego. My mind and body dance in unison as my attention narrows onto the pavement; the rubber tires rotating on an axis thus propelling the Giulia towards my next destination, the air that is sucked into the engine and pushed as the gas burns.
I recall on my journey here from humble VA; the thousands of miles of pavement and space that lay between present me and who I was then.“What am I to experience here?” My imagination draws up many things. The eight hours between there and Flagstaff, AZ unfold and the hours quickly turn to minutes.
The oak and pine trees have lost their great heights and bold green. Yellow dust covered shrubs and bright green prickly cactus now make up the scenery. The ducks and deer are now hawks and lizards. The sky, losing more and more of it’s effervescent blue, infusing the air around me with a hazy and dull paleness. It’s a kind that makes you feel that time is frozen in place as no noticeable changes are noticed through your eyes as you continuously stare at the vast and emptiness of the high desert.
“One thing I can expect for sure” I tell my mind — “a fuck ton of protected fucking” (I can say this now because then was a girl and well she’s in the car).
I also knew, that (on a very different note), I’d have a brother, sister and two nephews all ready to be silly, eat well and drink better. And if that wouldn’t be enough, “here” life will say to me, and with it, a group of people you will call friends and who will call you, “Sancocho”. Life will continues on with its gifts and says, “And when you’re not busy being Sancocho, go futbol with these amigos/as who’ll embrace you as an equal and you them”.
And in between all that protected loving, go and explore the Missions, where Conquistadores established themselves up and down the golden coast. And go explore the weird metal statues of Borrego Spring and its salty Lake. And go cross the border to the city of Tijuana where you’ll eat delicious ceviche and not go to the strip clubs (it was 2020 after all). And do descend onto Blacks Beach and look up at Torrey Pines and the Pacific Ocean and go “Omm”. And give surfing a good ol’ college attempt and try not to break something.
The interstate has turned to a roller coaster of ups and downs as I-8 creeps through the rolling mounts of sand and Arizona state lines come to an end. The same mountains now turn to collections of van-sized boulders, all stuck together in every which way forming picturesque shades of silver, green, and yellow; each as unique as you and me. The temperature, like the altitude, continues to decline; the desert weather has been replaced by a sub-tropical temperate climate, or paradise.
After celebrating the holidays with most of the family and staying with them, I got myself a tight apartment for a couple of months on Island St, two blocks from the infamous Mission Beach. I was convinced that waking up at six a.m. and catching waves was going to be my new lifestyle. “Silly man” my body said to me, quickly reminding me of all the places that hurt. The acceleration that I felt as I catch up with the wave, brace for impact, and, (try to) stand up is unforgettable. Hopefully someone out there caught some of my fails because they were surely epic to witness. My last attempt to fully stand up involved my body hurled forwards, surfboard also in the air twice as high as me, and falling face first onto the withdrawing floor that will soon meet my face.
Once I admitted to my ego that surfing was not in our foreseeable future, I did the reasonable thing and go myself a less expensive Airbnb not two blocks from the beach. In the living room, the largest sectional I’ve ever seen with an equally enormous area rug and a skinny 60-inch screen TV. The kitchen, fully equipped and with a gas stove and whatever little thing else you could possibly need, like a salad spinner. And because it does get better, (and I don’t make the same mistake twice) in unit washer and dryer. Oh, and private gated parking? Here is my money.
Three-and-a-half months I ended up staying in Cortez Hill, Downtown SD, where the gates that separate me from the busy city are pointy on top — you know, like they’ll probably hurt if you try and climb over it. The crew would come to love this place and some would dance on the row of stripper-like beams that support the building. A family friend, who would come to introduce me to said crew, first time he visited exclaimed, “Dude this is sick! Can I take a video?”. I laughed followed by a casual “Go ahead man”, downplaying the sickness of this gem I’ve landed. After all the great, good and not bad Airbnbs this place truly felt like someones home instead of the default hotel-like accommodation.
I’ll later admit that I too took a video of this loft when I first walked down the steps and looked far into the loft, with all of it’s exposed red bricks, and, cool gray flooring decorated with exquisite touch and many places to do it. The loft was so sick I took ANOther video right before I gave the keys back and drove away towards my next destination (actually all the gates and doors were all through codes, three of them in total, but you get what i means).
That should’ve been the last straw there, a cry of attention for my awareness to notice that perhaps leaving San Diego was not quite in alignment with what’s in my best interest. Or perhaps is perfectly in tune? Either way, before I leave, dear friends, please let me invite you to feast on a sancocho at Sancochos, a night where Sancocho (with your help) makes a sancocho.
When my mother makes this dish for family and friends the end result is always the same, a food-comma induced from over indulgence in the tantalizing and complex food; the source, sancocho (are we still talking about food here?). A combination of foods that sometimes gets the name Siete Carne or Seven Meats is not for the weak of Will. The meats are cooked, slowly, on a stock. Alongside the meats some starchy carbalicious roots. All served with corn, rice, avocado and hot sauce. “We ain’t doing no seven nothing!” they protest.
We settled on beef and chicken and it was on. I put my sad heart aside and put my mind and soul to work as some genius strikes the top of my dome. Inspired from the various cooking classes from my past travels, and because this loft has SO MUCH SPACE, I drew up stations for my guests and sue chefs to prep the food. The plantains were to be peeled, as was the yucca, then halved and sliced . The corn was to be chucked. The garlic and the onion to be chopped. The meats were browned (cause we like the flavor). Sooner than a flash the stew is cooking and comes time to forget about it.
As I taste and critique, Fear comes knocking as it does — “What if it sucks? This is your first time doing this (alone) after all”. Fear keeps on yapping as I continuously taste our creation. “Fear is a suggestion, not a direction” I tell it. My sweat dissipates from my forehead and my confidence grows. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of making Sancocho night. It ended up being a party for eleven and on Easter of all days. Perhaps the bodies that laid out cold, shifting its energy onto the stomach, is an indication that maybe, just maybe, some of the crew did too.
San Diego is not a place where you come to grief. Imagine trying to sulk in your depression for days on end, you know, when the week mark begins to creep up, and the whole time, right outside your little bubble of self-imposed grief; bright reds and dull yellows with crispy blues and greens along with nothing but sunny days — all filled with a pleasant salty ocean breeze topped with a semi-arid desert heat.
After disappointment and that same girl triggering all of my past hurts at once, the amazing loft that I was calling home was starting to feel as temporary as the attention I hoped would be forever. My subconscious began to default to my old patterns of dealing with trauma and the only thing that kept coming up to my conscious mind was to run. And so I ran, North to be precise. All that to say that the fact that I got dumped didn’t really stick for me, something just didn’t add up in this equation I’ve been calling love.
“Wait you’re leaving San Diego?” was a common response amongst my circle of friends and acquaintances I’ve now come to make. It’s as if they were in complete awe to hear that someone they knew was actually leaving paradise. According to some locals there is a curse that takes over anyone who moves here. The curse says that once you enter the canyon you are incapable of leaving it’s oasis. “How can you leave paradise?” they all said. My thoughts exactly.
