My exploration

I realize our road trip was made for neither tourism nor exploration. We were the non-existent travelers, whose only purpose in crossing the country was to get to the other side in the shortest possible time.

Or were we? And was it? Had that been the case, we would have taken a higher-numbered Interstate and driven through far greater extents of nothingness – possibly even paid much less in room and boredom.

So we weren’t tourists but we weren’t U-Haulers. We weren’t travelers, voyagers, but we still were not insensitive to the surroundings. Especially when it came to California. There was only one plan after our breakfast in San Diego (one of the maybe only two meals we had in non-chain restaurants): hit the beach, touch the ocean, get sand on our toes and not be bothered if it stuck there until the end of the trip.

August 11. Just half an hour of bliss at Coronado, in the company of families and six-year-old future surfers, under the shadows of low planes landing at the military base nearby. For a moment I thought I wouldn’t be able to drag Matt (or myself, for that matter) out of there in time for our motel check-out.

The ocean was such a symbol of our arrival (although the trip wasn’t over yet) that after our lunch in Tijuana, before getting sucked into the traffic of northbound Interstate 5, we had to make another stop – Pacific Beach, this time, whose name, location and population (including those people who were sipping beers on their sunset-exposed patios) couldn’t but increase both our satisfaction and our envy, in spite of the of the colder breeze and the overcast coastline.