The Hills Are Alive With Signs of Urban Growth

My wife and I went down to San Diego recently for a weekend of culture. I would have thought there was enough culture in Los Angeles, but my wife belongs to an energetic group--the Committee of Professional Women for the Philharmonic--who seem to enjoy mixing the rigors of travel with the delights of opera, theater, and the dance.

A year or two ago we went with the committee to Santa Fe, N. M., to see Mozart’s “Cosi fan Tutte” and Wagner’s “The Flying Dutchman” in that city’s outdoor auditorium. “The Flying Dutchman” was accompanied by a thunderstorm that heightened the grandeur of Wagner’s music.

We drove down to San Diego with Steve and Nona Baer in their Mercedes-Benz, a Mercedes being more comfortable for a long trip than my wife’s Nissan Maxima.

We left from the Baers’ apartment in Pasadena, Baer driving. He either did not know the way, or he enjoys meandering. He took what seemed like back roads or strange freeways through Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside and San Diego counties.

Riverside and northern San Diego counties are geologically curious, consisting mostly of low brown hills studded with enormous weathered boulders. We were astounded, however, by a new growth. Thousands of houses, in neat tract streets, side by side, climbed all over what only a few years ago were pristine hillsides.

We passed through Temecula, whose urbanization I discovered a few months ago when I drove down to visit the library. This once tiny stage stop has become home to thousands of new residents in new houses on old hills.

I have always believed that Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps base that commandeers the coastline for 19 miles from San Clemente to Oceanside, was the only thing that kept one massive metropolis from growing fungus-like from Santa Barbara to San Diego.

By going down the back way, we discovered that that metropolis is surreptitiously materializing inland. One of these days, before long, Southern California will grind to a halt in one massive traffic jam.

I believe it was Ross Macdonald’s Lew Archer who said that as he drove though Malibu he could smell money burning. I could smell money burning as we drove through Rancho Santa Fe, an island of wealth just inland northeast of Del Mar.

We drove past walled mansions and into the pretty town and stopped at a place called Quimby’s for lunch. I had never heard the name Quimby before except in “Captain Quimby’s Bird Atlas,” in the Pogo comic strip. (Or was it Captain Quamby?) Our neighbor Dalton-Coonradt used to cite Captain Quimby in identifying strange birds on Mt. Washington.

Baer had misgivings about Quimby’s. It had old-fashioned wooden dining room chairs and tables and the waitresses were young. Baer said it was a rule of thumb with him that when the waitresses were schoolgirls the restaurant wasn’t any good.

Happily, Quimby’s proved him wrong. Our waitress was charming and efficient, and the food was good. Since I wasn’t driving, I even had a glass of wine.

I picked up a copy of the local paper, as I always do. It’s the best clue to the nature of a town one is passing through. The main story was about a Rancho homeowners association banning the press from its meetings. The last 18 pages of the paper were real estate ads. The cheapest houses advertised were $755,000. Most were between $1 million and $3.9 million. The pictures were of large houses in various styles, usually with pools and extensive gardens.

San Diego is perhaps as pretty a city of its size as there is in the nation. Its own residents, alarmed by what they call “Los Angelization,” probably don’t appreciate it enough. Its downtown has new high rises, but many of the elegant buildings of the 19th Century have been preserved. Side by side, they give the city a beautiful texture. A breeze was coming in off the bay. The graceful Coronado bridge shone like a silver thread. Sea gulls soared.

We were staying with the Philharmonic group at Horton Park Plaza Hotel, a small, Parisian-like hotel at 5th and E streets in historic Gaslamp Quarter. Alas, the bar and grill were closed for remodeling.

Finding the Old Globe Theater that evening in Balboa Park was rather an adventure.