Getting Our Feet Wet

Our trip to Harbor Ave (down the streets from the airport) took half as long as the trip from the airport to the hotel, and cost $4 less. As we boarded the California Princess, we were greeted with champagne. We drank wine and ate a classy salmon dinner while circling the harbor, watching downtown buildings and impressively guarded military ships, some part of which made me feel a little seasick Our choice of the high-end open bar option allowed us not only one more drink than the other passengers (two for Jill), but prime seating at the front of the boat.

9-10pm was the designated dancing hour, but between my queasiness and the boogie-hangover still lingering from our wedding reception, Jill had a hard time dragging me upstairs to the dance floor. Not settling for the DJ's Tony Braxton-Boyz II Men style, Jill chose most of the muic, finally docking the ship with "Billie Jean," to which she danced shamelessly alone, to the applause of the other guests.

As a result of an unexpected but required 18% gratuity on the entire cost of the cruise, we were forced to walk about six blocks in search of an active ATM (Holiday Inn sent us to Hampton Inn; Hampton sent us to a shady 7-Eleven). Jill was neither wearing walking shoes nor particularly sober, so the trip was not an easy one, but I was able to take out enough cash to call a cab with confidence that I could pay for it. Our cab ride home was twice as fast again, and another $4 cheaper. We went to bed around midnight, after another dip in the pool and hot tub, and slept for almost ten woderful hours.

Tuesday, May 2

Breakfast at the Bahia was less impressive than Monday's, as our waffles were probably intended for the 7:00 diners. Our meal was cut short so the crew could set up for a BBQ lunch. We were briefly locked out of our room after breakfast, but upon picking up new room keys at the front desk, were rewarded with Jill's license and a few wedding pictures, thanks to Linda.

We hopped on the bus to La Jolla down the street from the hotel. Cafes and tanning salons start using the La Jolla moniker several blocks south of the famously ritzy downtown area, so our initial impression was that La Jolla was not unlike Pacific Beach- a Mexican-inspired, college-friendly tourist-time share hotspot. By the time our bus was rearended a block from downtown, we knew we were wrong. The driver was almost eerily composed, handing out witness cards to all the passengers before even checking on the driver of the car that hit us.

At Warwick's bookstore, I found Graham Greene's "Brighton Rock" rather serendipitously (I had been looking for it without knowing the author, and for somer reason, wanted to stumble upon it in a romantic setting), and Jill picked out the journal in which we chronicled our trip (in part) for the benefit of this blog. We passed by posh shops and extravagant galleries, finally finding the Karl Strauss brewery, where we ate lunch, sampled beers, fell in love with Red Trolley Ale, and I bought Jill a t-shirt.

After lunch, at a quaint bookshop/gallery, the store clerk couldn't answer Jill's questions about L. Frank Baum's whereabouts (he must have been from San Diego, given their obsession with his work), but suggested that Dr. Seuss had lived nearby. For a cross-eyed Val Kilmer lookalike, he had very little information. None of the locals we asked elsewhere could confirm that Dr. Seuss had lived in La Jolla, let alone in the neighborhood. Star-smitten LA lies 120 miles north on Route 5, but it's a world away from La Jolla.

We did, of course, hit another public library in La Jolla, where we learned that the Sox had beaten the unspeakables, 7-3, and looked at wedding photos Colleen had emailed. On the return bus ride, we ran into a UCSD student who had been on the bus that was rearended earlier. He had nearly missed his vector calculus class as a result of the accident, and vowed that afternoon to put an end to his hour-and-a-half-each-way commute from Ocean beach and buy a car. He sat next to Jill and me and recommeded restaurants and attractions, but couldn't compete in volume or exuberance with our bus driver, a Georgia native who knew every hot spot, but hadn't eaten at a better place than Luigi's (which he called Loogy's).

Upon our return, we bought six Red Trolley Ales and six Anchor Steams and drank them with less-than-delicioso Mexican food from Roberto's (another favorite of our bus driver friend). We ended the evening with another trip to the hot tub, still unable to stay up past twelve, but quite satisfied with days one through three.

Back to Jill