Travel Biography - Week 65.

A comparison Between Two Different Towns.

Note: All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

In the week between writing last week's blog and today, my wife Alex and I spent five days in Exeter, Devon, primarily to see a longstanding friend, Dave Rogers, one of the leaders of a church there. Interestingly, the street plan in the centre of this cathedral city is laid out in a near-symmetrical grid form. This was no surprise to me, as the original settlement of Isca was built by the Romans from 55 AD onwards. Not far from the Cathedral, remnants of the Roman Wall are still standing. This is what remains of a typical Roman playing card-shaped fort that was always unique to them.

The Californian Dream. At Mission Beach, 1995.

On one of the days of our holiday, we took a local train to Exmouth. As the name suggests, the resort developed on the Devonian coastline east of the River Exe Estuary, around ten miles south of the city, where the River Exe cuts a valley west of Exeter, and the same valley shared with the main railway connecting Penzance in Cornwall with London Paddington. After we arrived back home, I joked with Dave via Facebook that Exmouth should be nicknamed "Spaghetti Town."

Comparing Exmouth to San Diego, 1995. A Visit to the Western Old Town.

I believe that the description of two contrasting English towns based on their history is relevant here. San Diego, like most American towns and cities, is laid out in a symmetrical grid pattern, with just one straight road connecting the Greyhound Bus terminal with the YMCA building and the harbour - the Broadway. Also, both towns are coastal. Thus, as I will mention again below, a walk along a lonely road back to the AYH hostel from four miles out of downtown San Diego late in the evening turned out to be straightforward, without getting lost. In Exmouth, the walk was considerably shorter, but we still lost our way from the station to the seafront.

Earlier this week, we arrived at Exmouth terminus station. However, heading for the seafront was difficult due to inadequate signage and not having a street map of the town. The street layout was typically English, a tangle of intertwining streets enabling us to lose our way and the need to ask directions from passersby on a couple of occasions, adding up to an extra half-mile to our walk to get there. When the weather is hot and muggy - the heat combined with the high humidity and eventually soaking my tee-shirt with body sweat - such walking dampens the holiday experience, both literally and mentally.

Old Town, San Diego.

One afternoon, after a recommendation from a fellow hosteller, I boarded a bus to the Old Town, four miles or 6.5 km north of San Diego city centre. Upon entry, which had free access, I saw that the difference between the modern city and the Old West was staggering enough. Along the traffic-free street, a horse-drawn wagon was parked next to the Blackhawk Smithy and Stable. The street was also lined with old-style houses, including the First San Diego Courthouse, the Mason Street School, the Seeley Stables, Racine & Laramie 19th Century tobacconists, the Casa de Machado y Silvas, I believe, notorious for its haunting by the ghost of its former owner, and many more that could have been a delight to Hollywood filmmakers, and I had gotten the impression that I had stepped back in time and was expecting a cowboy riding in swinging a lasso, the same way I felt when I was in Phoenix, a few days earlier.

However, the attraction I found most delightful was the bazaar, a market selling garden utensils and furniture, along with an abundance of tropical plants. The large enclosure was graced with an alfresco stage, just like in Tulsa and in Phoenix. A group was performing a Mexican dance to music that delighted the small crowd that had gathered to watch the performance. Unfortunately, my arrival at the site coincided with the end of the show, for I only enjoyed the last few minutes of music.

A Wagon parked in the Old Town.

I felt exuberant as I strolled around the bazaar. Stalls selling tropical plants abounded, but what grasped my attention were the working miniature fountains on display for sale. Although I say miniature, some had heavy clay bowls as large as a dinner plate, and therefore, more suited for the garden than indoors. But I reasoned to myself that it would have been so desirable to have a fountain of that size to grace my apartment back home in England. Except for two reasons. One is that the bowl was actually of real earthenware and not a plastic imitation. Hence, carrying that in my rucksack would have been a heavy burden, especially if it came with its own packing, making the item also too big for my rucksack.

The second reason for ruling out buying such a unit was the incompatibility of power voltage. In the States, the domestic output is 120 volts. Here in the UK, it's 240 volts. Thus, unless the fountain comes with a voltage adaptor, the motor driving the fountain mechanism would blow. Hence, how unwise it would have been to have bought it.

Yet, I spent a long time just gazing at one of them, the one with the dinner-plate-size bowl of real earthenware, and wishing that I lived locally. I would have snapped up the item without any hesitation.

As the afternoon gave way to evening, I remained at the heritage park until dusk, with much of the time admiring the tropical vegetation and the working fountains furnishing the stalls. Other stalls displayed a miscellaneous collection of trinkets and niceties, including coloured wax candles. On one of the stalls, a notice was placed next to a jar of candles. It read:

I don't itch. So please, there's no need to scratch me.

Most amusing. Yet the message was clear enough. Why some had a habit of scratching candles remains a mystery to this day.

At dusk, I made my way to the exit and approached the bus stop for the return ride. After waiting a while, alone and with no one else waiting with me, I realised that the last bus of the day had already been. I was stuck outside the heritage park, four miles outside the city. With the far-off city lights illuminating the sky above, I began the ninety-minute walk towards the city. On the way, there was a souvenir shop, open but with no other customers. On the shelf was a collection of drinking mugs, each with a personal name from both genders. On the side of one of them was my name, Frank, while beneath my name was a picture of a yacht sailing across a sunset over the Pacific Ocean. I bought it and carried it back to the hostel. It's still with me to this day.

Along Mission Beach.

I carried on walking along the quiet, almost traffic-free road. There was no threat of gangs lurking around, nor any other pedestrian or dog walker. Yet, I knew that I wasn't lost. I watched as the city skyline illuminating the sky drew closer.

Back at the hostel, and after carefully placing the well-wrapped ceramic mug inside my rucksack, I made my way to the kitchen.

The visit to Mission Beach.

One morning, again after someone advised me in the hostel dining room, I boarded a bus to Mission Beach, also north of the city. It was further away from the city Centre than the Old Town was and on the same latitude as SeaWorld. The strip of sand formed a peninsula almost enclosing Mission Bay into a lagoon lay north of the Coronado, hence the west side of the beach faced the open ocean, which was unlike the city harbour enclosing San Diego Bay, the larger of the two coastline lagoons. On the east side of the beach, a seemingly endless line of private homes fronted a combined cycle/footpath. Hence, while I was at Mission Beach, I was unable to see the theme park on the other side of the lagoon. The enclosure was accessible for boats through a narrow inlet with two piers jutting out to sea, one on each side of the harbour.

Mission Beach has its own shopping precinct to the south of the peninsula, along with Belmont Park, the site of a roller coaster. There was something I loved about the whole area, its tranquil sub-tropical climate allowing palm trees to flourish in abundance. This was my version of paradise.

I didn't swim in the sea, as if my instincts warned me not to venture in. This was confirmed when I sauntered along the main pleasure pier, also used by fishermen. My attention was caught when a group of fishermen let out a whoop when one of them reeled in his line. Dangling at the end of his line, a small shark was flapping vigorously!

I have found it to be amazing when just strolling along the beach without a care in the world, how quick time goes by. I spent time watching some surfers ride the waves. Fearing a shark bite? Maybe that was why these surfers were clothed with a full bodysuit despite the warm weather. In situations like this, I ask the question: Where is the line drawn between bravery, cowardice and foolhardiness? I'm referring to swimming in the sea, something I always do when I arrive at a beach. Like at Mission Beach, I didn't swim in the sea at Santa Monica either.

Palm Trees at Mission Beach.

A similar set of feelings kept me away from the roller coaster at nearby Belmont Park. But these were very different feelings. Rather than bravery versus cowardice, the struggle was between a strong desire to ride the roller coaster on my own and without a child for company against that instinctive feeling a prat!

Indeed, travel was meant to let go of any inhibitions and enjoy the facilities to the fullest. After all, nobody knew me outside the UK, but there was always that nagging feeling that someone was watching me while peering around the corner. And that turned out to be true. After arriving back at the hostel, the two brothers from Scotland whom I spent the evening with previously, along with the Aussie roommate, came up to me while I was cooking a meal in the kitchen, and basically declared that I was seen at Mission Beach by them that day.

Mexican Dancers at the Bazaar, Old Town.

Therefore, I felt relieved by not paying for a ride alone on the roller coaster, yet, why am I missing out on something that would enhance my enjoyment? Yet, had these two brothers gone on a ride, the very fact that they would have shared their experience made all the difference. Therefore, I waited for another two years, that is in 1997, and on my second visit to Mission Beach, I finally let go of my inhibitions and boarded the car at Belmont Park.

The latter part of the day was taken up by meditating whilst standing at the end of the Harbour mouth pier that juts out into the ocean. The ocean itself wasn't that far below where I was standing, and I watched the waves break as they approached the shore. Before dusk, I boarded the bus to take me back to the city.

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Next Week: I cross into Mexico before heading to Santa Monica.