Travel Biography - Week 97.

San Diego - Hostel Life.

After arriving in San Diego following a 13-hour Trans-Pacific flight from Sydney, then a short 30-minute hop from Los Angeles, I approached the hostel where I would stay for the next ten nights, the HI AYH San Diego Downtown. Since 1995, the hostel has moved from the third floor of the YMCA building on Broadway to an unoccupied three-storey block on Market Street, in the heart of the Gaslamp District. Since the hostel owners, consisting of two or three young men in a business partnership, no longer had to share the building with another organisation, they imposed their own rules. This included a new security system. Instead of a metal key that gave me access to the bedroom, a code was typed onto a keyboard fixed outside the main entrance door, along with a bell for first-time arrivals.

Horton Plaza, San Diego.

Sandy the Tyrannosaur, Horton Plaza.

Sandy's mate, Horton Plaza.

Another change made was a curfew imposed in the hostel member's kitchen. Instead of 24-hour access, as was with the former site, the kitchen closed for the night around 11.00 pm and opened at 7.00 am.* There was even talk among them of introducing a duty for all members, but this was scrapped. With competition, especially from rivals Rucksackers North America with their Banana Bungalows, introducing a morning duty would have eventually paralysed the business.

And all this I became aware of due to forming a good standing with the owners, one whom I befriended. Hence, I was able to ask questions, including why they decided to move. His answer was that the YMCA building was a hundred years old, and they were concerned about how much longer could the building have been useful. In addition, I was the only guest who was shown the unoccupied 2nd floor. During normal use, the elevator never stopped at this level. Instead, everyone was lifted to the 3rd from the 1st-floor reception. In 1997, AYH San Diego Downtown was a single-floor hostel as was its previous site on Broadway.

By showing interest in the business, one of the owners led me to the lift, and I watched him unlock the second-floor push button. The elevator halted at the second storey and its doors opened to reveal an unfurnished floor consisting of a central aisle leading off to rooms on each side. The bareness of the interior indicated that it hadn't been used for some time, and it was like looking into a new house immediately after being given the keys.

The room I bedded down in was a typical hostel dormitory like most other hostels. Sharing the room was a young Dutch backpacker, around half my age, and like me, travelled solo. However, after crossing the States by Greyhound, he was due to take a bus to Los Angeles Airport to board a flight to Hawaii. I had to admire him for covering such distances at a young age. In 1973, when I was twenty, my parents allowed me only by the skin of their teeth to backpack on my own to Italy, and that was with the persuasion of a family friend (Week 3 of this Biography.)

This young Dutchman, I assume a student, was quiet, kept himself to himself, and apparently a loner. However, one evening, he opened up to me and recommended the indoor swimming pool and sauna located in the basement of the YMCA building on Broadway. Indeed, I knew the place, as I had already visited twice in 1995. But for his benefit, I pretended that I knew nothing of it and asked him to throw some light on the facility, so I too could visit. Like in 1995, and two years later, I paid another visit to the sauna, then thanked the student afterwards for suggesting it to me. Indeed, in 1997, the basement facility was still there before closing down permanently a few years later.

In all, the atmosphere in this new hostel on Market Street never held a candle to the 1995 experience in the old YMCA building. There was less camaraderie in this new place than in the old. In 1995, I made friends easily as they suggested various local venues to visit. Locations such as Mission Beach, SeaWorld, the Old City, and even Little Italy were all suggested by different people, all in the member's kitchen and adjoining dining room. I hadn't forgotten the Australian builder and two Scottish brothers, whom I played table football with. Also, I haven't forgotten the young Jewess whom I protected on the bus journey from San Diego to Santa Monica.

But here, the guests kept themselves to themselves and I was left to fend for myself. Fortunately, there was a wall advert for La Jolla and I was already aware of the zoo at Balboa Park.

Another view of Horton Plaza.

This species of Palm Tree seems unique here.

A U.S. Navy ship is a Public Museum.

New Plans, New Sights - And Trouble.

Since 1995, I have rated San Diego as one of my favourite cities, along with Jerusalem in Israel. Abundant with palm trees, some species seemed to be unique to southern California. The weather was warm and balmy and contrasted with the winter coolness of Sydney. Especially in clothing. Gone were the tracksuit bottoms and woolley tops. They were packed away in my rucksack. At last, shorts and button-up summer shirts or tank tops became the norm once again, the same dress style I wore in Singapore and Northern Queensland.

Having visited San Diego already, it was easy to revisit the popular sites again, such as the SeaWorld and Mission Beach, as well as the Old City. However, I also wanted to visit somewhere new, some "virgin" locations I have yet to see. North of San Diego, for example, is the coastal town of La Jolla (pronounced La Hoya) and the city's zoological gardens, an area of outstanding beauty. The hostel also hires out a bicycle, and renting it for the day was also on the cards, but this time without the soaking I received from the stormy weather at Byron Bay. 

I have yet to visit other locations outside San Diego, including the town of San Luis Obispo with its coastal Arroyo Beach, a ten-mile cycle ride from the town. Also, Santa Barbara with its wide, sandy beach backed by the mountains of Rattlesnake Canyon with its hiking trail and a creek with the same name.

In the city itself, there has been little change since 1995. Except for one issue. The railroad track that runs through the gardens and which was easy to cross was now fenced off on both sides. I could imagine youths playing on the track, even walking along it and putting their lives at risk. A tram could appear suddenly and with hardly any warning, as these carriages tend to run quietly. 

However, it was one afternoon while I was walking along the Embarcadero that fronts Ruocco Park that I saw something extraordinary. That is, stones balancing precariously on a beach sloping into Tuna Harbour. A very skilled artist created these stacks with remarkable ease and I watched as he balanced one stack after another. There was nothing magical about these stones nor any adhesive used. Each stone was balancing on another.

Horton Plaza on Broadway was a colourful square that once included a superstore where I did my grocery shopping in 1995. However, two years later, after some searching, I saw that the store had closed down, but the surroundings had retained its beauty. It was a few hundred metres from the YMCA building. When I paid another visit to the plaza, there was a huge sand model of a Tyrannosaur. Hence, I nicknamed the model, Sandy the Tyrannosaur. Next to it was a sand model of another lizard, along with a few other models.

It is those artistic skills that delight the eye and have made San Diego unique, along with its abundance of Palm trees, all flourishing in balmy subtropical sunshine. But should the reader begin to think that Paradise Lost was at last found in southern California, unfortunately, there was a bit of a dark side, mainly at Ruocco Park, a small area of greenery west of Market Street and fronting the stony beach at Tuna Harbour, south of the main wharf.

One evening, I was walking along the wharf towards Tuna Harbour as I was making my way back to the hostel. In the park were several police officers standing around, talking on their phones. However, lying on the ground were some youths, handcuffed and protesting as the officers kept them under restraint. Whether they were tourists or locals, I couldn't tell, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were local. Then again, British tourists, especially football fans, always had a shady reputation whilst overseas, tainting all of us with a UK passport with the same tarbrush.

What they did to attract the attention of the Police, I would never know, for I had no right to ask or to interfere with their duties. Neither had I learned of the fate of those arrested. Therefore, I kept a safe distance and minded my own business as I made my way to the hostel to prepare dinner.

It amazes me, coming to think of it, that there are those in a group under arrest, and the Dutch backpacker sharing our hostel dorm. Both were very much the same age, yet their behaviour and their fates couldn't have been more different. As the Dutch backpacker prepares to fly to Hawaii, these young men could be facing a least a night in a cell. And so, the ins and outs of international travel.

However, it was on another evening, long after dark, that I was taking a walk along the wharf. It wasn't very late, but as I arrived at Ruocco Park, I saw how deserted it was. I paused to look around. Presently, a police officer approached to ask me some questions. He wanted to know my name, where I came from, and where I was staying. I gave them my name and explained that I was staying at an AYH hostel on Market Street.

Did you know that you're on privately owned property? And the park is now closed for the night? the officer asked.

Of course, I never knew. During the day the park was open to the public. I was trembling inside. Would I end up like those men did the other night?

When the officer learned where I was staying, he told me to beat it, and I was free to return to the hostel. I had already eaten earlier, before the late evening walk, and all I wanted to do was relax in the lounge, safe from whatever was happening outside. I suppose these officers were well-trained to tell the difference between ignorant innocence and deliberate trespassing.

These stones were carefully balanced.

The artist performs his skill.

Then again, funny things could occur with the authorities in San Diego. On the same evening after arriving from Australia, I was strolling casually along Broadway, feeding memories of my previous visit two years earlier and pitying the closure of the YMCA hostel I loved so much. Walking a few metres in front of me was a uniformed security officer with a large bag of popcorn. Suddenly, and perhaps believing that nobody was looking, he threw the bag onto the sidewalk and carried on, leaving the food abandoned and in good condition.

I waited a moment to see if he would return for it or whether another passerby would pick up the bag. But neither occurred. So, I picked up the bag of perfectly good popcorn and enjoyed a feast free of charge!

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*This was in 1997. According to the Internet promotion, the hostel has come a long way since then.

Next Week: A cycle ride to La Jolla.