Fond Goodby to High-Spirited San Diego : Many Memories Accompany Writer as She Heads Farther South

For 12 years I’ve lived here without ever really meeting San Diego. I suppose I never wanted to. Why question Camelot?

But a recent sojourn in Australia has greatly improved my eyesight. Southern California is not far enough south for me.

So I’m saying goodby to San Diego--absorbing as much as possible in these last few moments. Getting enough of a “fix” to sustain me until my new life in Australia affords me the luxury of overseas travel. Knowing, should I return, that San Diego won’t belong to me anymore.

I’ve learned more about you in the past two months than in all the years I was too close to see. San Diego is no longer a sleepy seaside retreat. You are moving into the fast lane--becoming a haven for the creative, the eclectic and the entrepreneurs. Just keep in mind that the questionable characters got off on the same bus.

In taking this long last look, I must admit to flaws in your beauty. Your canyons are being blemished with buildings. You’ve caught up with high tech, but will your Golden Triangle become a graveyard for PCBs? Wealth abounds, though it’s shamelessly squandered--uptown still has a down side. Your bay is first rate, while your education standards slip away. Growth planning is erratic, the traffic is congested and the growing pollution is painful to see. Can you maintain the spark and splash of your cultural amenities and still be “home town” to those who never had one? My parting advice might be--stop trying to be what you’re not. You’ll never be chic, you’re doomed to be fun.

I laugh now at the games we have played, pretending the smog blows down from L.A., acting surprised when Mission Valley floods and wearing woolens as if there were a winter. Yet your magic works on me as I slowly, sadly remove myself from your midst.

They were glory days, our time together. A dozen years of idyllic existence--living your full-time fantasy. The wee hours at the Hotel del Coronado found me slow-dancing in the coastal fog. My memories will be of sailing your bays, diving your coves, fishing in your lakes and camping by the starlight of your desert sky. I’ve shared the screams of 50,000 Charger fans on any given Sunday . . . taking personal pride in a well-executed play. And where else but here could the anomaly of Over the Line exist?

The 70,000 miles I’ve covered in the last two years hasn’t shown me a city as special, as warm and witty, as high-spirited as San Diego. If you’re bored in San Diego, you’d better check your pulse.

But the American Dream died for me in San Diego. Had I stayed, I would never own my solitary cottage on a deserted beach, working in my chosen profession at an honest salary. However, when I thirst for margaritas and am malnourished for lack of Mexican food, I’ll momentarily regret my prodigal status.

Like the perfect loving parent, you’ve spoiled me rotten, but you’ve taught me well. Now you’re sending me off with your blessings, while I look longingly over my shoulder at you. It’s sad knowing that I must learn to leave you behind. You’ll follow in my memories and my laughter and--to the annoyance of Australians--in my speech.

The holidays, my favorite San Diego season, will now fall in the middle of the hot tropical summer. For me the sun will be setting over land. The North Star is being replaced by the Southern Cross. And, thanks to you, I’m already trained for the art of living in Paradise.

And so, San Diego, seductive city of mine, our paths now take different directions. Ah . . . perhaps not! I imagine you’ll be trying to take back the America’s Cup from the Royal Perth Yacht Club in ‘87? I’ll catch up with you there.