The day job took me west to discuss problems of geriatric health with like-minded colleagues. Although I spent my fair share in dimmed conference halls soaking up knowledge or, hopefully, imparting it, the sun beckoned through tinted windows.
How the heck does anyone get anything done here?
Sure, I can see how washing down your gazillion-foot yacht might be an okay task, or driving the water taxi that takes you to and fro between San Diego and Coronado, or even serving at hostess at one of the uber-nice restaurants doting the harborside.
But seriously? Work?
We ate well, too well--sushi made with snow crab, grilled sea diver scallops, tapas of Rioja-braised ribs and vanilla-lacquered pork belly, house-made spinach and basil ravioli. Topped off with a pilgrimmage to Extraordinary Desserts (and no, I was with friends--we shared the two cakes, one a passion-fruit ricotta, the other a chocolated-up tiramisu cake. But the cappucino is all mine).
We traipsed to Balboa Park one afternoon, to visit the Marston House, one of the finest examples of arts-and-crafts architecture. Chock full of Stickleys and Rookwoods and Native American rugs and such. There, I found my dream writer's spot.
I found a sort of peace there, one that quelled a recent restlessness. A good trip, but happy to return home, or at least my family, as we join more family in chilly New England.
Have a restful and blessed Thanksgiving. Peace...