[By Nic Lindh on Saturday, 29 July 2017]
We live in Phoenix, where eight months out of the year are paradise and four months are a scorched hellscape. July in Phoenix is not only ridiculously hot but it’s also when the humidity kicks in, so there’s no more dry heat—it’s a wet heat, and oh yes, you might die.
Surfers waiting for waves off Pacific Beach.
The people of Phoenix, being somewhat rational, decide en mass that July is a good time to get the heck out, and geography being what it is, most of the mass decides to drive to San Diego.
So that’s what we did.
Surfers catching a wave off Pacific Beach. Note the lunatic not wearing a wet suit.
Turns out, Pacific Beach in July is packed. We booked a room at the Ocean Park Inn, a hotel we’d used before about ten years ago, which is decent and right on the beach. What we didn’t know is that sometime in the last ten years somebody opened a lounge called Firehouse right next to the hotel, and Firehouse has a truly, epically, loud sound system. We’re talking sub-effing-sonic earthquake bass.
Annoying? Meh, perhaps a little.
We couldn’t hear it in the room, fortunately, but leaving the hotel meant untz-untz-untz.
Surfers paddling for a wave off Pacific Beach.
Which made me realize I’ve aged out of Pacific Beach pretty severely. So many people. So loud. Get off my lawn.
Surfers waiting for waves in the sunset off Pacific Beach.
As a sidebar here, who decided it’s somehow socially acceptable to walk and bike around with a shitty, shitty little Bluetooth speaker blaring your tunes? I would like to speak to the manager, please.
But me being crotchety and old aside, Pacific Beach is gorgeous, the entire California coast is gorgeous.
This gentleman was blowing massive bubbles to the delight of children.