THE NOMADIC LIFE

San Diego, One of My Happy Places

 Chapter 32

San Diego will always remain one of the happiest memories I carry with me.

Strangely enough, I never heard much about the city. By the mid-90s, its once-held popularity had faded. The sports teams weren’t making headlines, and the city didn’t seem interested in selling itself as a tourist destination. I had no idea of the vibe, the people, or the community, if it even had any. But all the mystery was part of the draw.

As I board the short flight from San Francisco, nerves flutter in my stomach. On this trip, the unknown really bothers me. Though I know enough to ask the cab driver to drop me off at a gay bar where I can ask locals about the “scene,” that does not necessarily mean that area of town is predominantly gay. This lack of information can be both exciting and unnerving.  

At the airport, I climb into a yellow cab with my one bag in tow and ask, “Can you take me to a popular gay bar?”

“Sure thing, buddy,” the driver replies flatly.

No banter, no warmth, just efficiency.

He drops me at the corner of University and 5th, smack in the heart of Hillcrest. I pay the fare and step onto the sidewalk, cautiously optimistic. Music blares from a nearby bar, its windows and front doors thrown wide open to the street.

Before I can get my bearings, I hear a sharp clap, clap, followed by a voice piercing the air:

“No, no, no! It’s step pivot, kick, step, step, twirl.”

As I walk into the bar a thin man continues to yell at a chorus of men, some wearing wigs but all wearing heels and pumps. He is in full drag and clearly exasperated. “Girls, we only have a few hours left to get this number down. Sharon, keep your distance from Auntie. Girl, you’ve got the longest arms of anyone I’ve ever seen, and you keep smacking that poor old queen in the head every time you twirl!”

Now, I’ve seen my fair share of drag shows, but never have I witnessed a rehearsal. The wigs and gloves were off. The tension, high, and the drama? Delicious. Though it is absolutely none of my concern, I later learn that Sharon Cher-Alike, and Auntie Social had once dated the same man, an unforgivable offense in drag diplomacy. The bitterness had long since seeped into every rehearsal. Things grow so tense and uncomfortable; I cannot finish my beer. I have never felt so out of place.

Just next door I find something completely different. A small, welcoming coffee shop, one that becomes my home base for the week, and the place where most of my friendships will be formed.

It is unassuming at first glance, and the heart of it lives outside. The welcoming and inviting patio is where the real magic happens.

The mismatched tables are occupied by people from all walks of life, engaging in whispered conversations. Above them, an awning to keep the direct sun from blinding the customers. The warm, flawless and enticing Southern California sun welcomes everyone without exception. People gather daily with their coffees, pastries, and cigarettes, talking about everything and nothing. The energy is relaxed, inclusive, real.

Looking around for a vacant table, there is none. I am about to walk farther down the sidewalk as I hear the scraping of metal chair legs on concrete. A group of ladies stand, drawing everyone’s attention as they leave. I rush to claim the vacant table. I sit quietly for a few minutes before heading inside to order a late’.

Within minutes, someone asks to join me. I motion for them to have a seat, and a generic and polite conversation begins. I explain I am visiting for a week from San Francisco. The look on the person’s face is priceless. I forget my southern accent, though tempered from years of travel, is still there. I realize clarification is needed. “By way of Mississippi,” I hastily explain. With that, our conversation abruptly ends as his friends arrive. “Nice talking with you,” he says before excusing himself.

The coffee shop is owned by a kind man who had opened it in memory of his partner, lost to AIDS a few years earlier. A framed mission statement hangs near the entrance: a commitment to raise funds, foster community, and offer a peaceful refuge to those navigating the grief and fight that AIDS has brought to the LGBTQ+ community.

This is a place of love and support, and I am glad to know it is not a corporate space built for profits. This establishment was forged out of love and devotion, and it shows.

San Francisco had its own queer spaces, of course, coffee shops, restaurants and bars, but none felt quite like this. Not one had this patio, this sun, this peaceful simplicity.

I inhale deeply, the scent of roasted beans wrap around me like a hug, and I slowly exhale with a smile. I love it here.

My good fortune continues. Right next door is The Hillcrest Inn. Gay-owned and operated, affordable, and most importantly convenient. The desk clerk is sweet and cute, too. After checking in, I flop down on the bed, my mind buzzing from the overload of warmth and positivity I have experienced in such a short amount of time. This city has something. What it is exactly, I do not know, but I can feel it.

Later, I wander across the street to a small drug store for some snacks and a few bottles of soda. My room is equipped with a microwave, mini-fridge, and even a little convection oven. Everything a nomad needs to survive. Oddly, there are no pamphlets or takeout menus in the room. No ads for local hotspots, not even a matchbook with the hotel’s name on it. The lack of local advertising does not bother me, instead, it gives me an excuse to visit the front desk again.

Of all nights to land in a new city, Tuesday is not ideal. San Diego, unlike San Francisco, has a more laid-back vibe. Even though it is a large city, it still feels small-town cozy, and on weeknights, that means quiet streets and sleepy bars.

Still, I am not about to waste my first night in my hotel room. I saw an advertisement for a leather bar earlier in the day and decide to go there. I am told not to expect much, especially on Tuesday. “If anyone goes out, it won’t be until after 10,” the friendly hotel clerk warns.

But I figure, why not?

I throw on my leather vest. It is not much in the way of a fashion statement, but I do not want to feel completely out of place.

The theme for the night was something like “Inferno” or “Heat,” but honestly? There was nothing hot or exciting about the atmosphere. A few patrons trickle in but do not stay long. The bartender is friendly enough, though not exactly what I expected to find behind the bar at a leather joint. He is slim, soft-spoken, a little on the flamboyant side, but makes for a generous host. He helps me feel welcome, and that counts for a lot when you are a stranger in a new town.

As the night drags on, I find myself growing tired and ready to leave. That is until a tall, stocky man walks in. He is not what I consider conventionally handsome, but he has a presence. Motorcycle jacket, boots, and a crisp flat-top haircut.

At this late hour we are the only two patrons left, and the bartender, clearly familiar with him, introduces us. I learn his name is Doug and he just turned 50 the day before.

I buy him a beer and wish him a happy belated birthday, and, for some reason, I still don’t quite understand, offer to take him out to dinner the following night. Being alone in a new city perhaps I wanted to make a local connection or maybe it was the mood. I am not especially attracted to him, but he seems nice enough.

By the end of the evening Doug offers to drive me back to my hotel. During the ride, I learn he lives in La Mesa with his mother and just recently lost his job, though he explains his mom does not know yet. “What a stroke of bad luck, and lousy birthday surprise,” I say.

A grunt is his only response.

I am not certain of Doug’s expectations as he pulls up to the hotel, but I end the evening with a polite handshake and a casual, “think about where you’d like to eat tomorrow night. I’ll be at the coffee shop at 6 pm waiting for you.”

He nods and says he will be there.

Truthfully, I am not sure I am looking forward to it. From first impressions, this man does not strike me as someone I would normally want to become friends with.

But life has a way of surprising you.

Quite unexpectedly, over time Doug and I grow close. Ours becomes a turbulent friendship, sometimes more. At times, I truly believed one of us may not survive it, but we did, and over the years became stronger people for having known each other.