The monotany of modern travel wears on you until you leave an airport glazed in a sullen malaise. Such was the state I found myself in riding the downward escalator of the arrivals terminal. My companions and I stood silently, pulled toward the teethed steel grates. As you reach the bottom and walk toward the sliding doors, a current of warm humid air is there to great you. That and your ride, hailed from the cell phone waiting lot.
It was upon this backdrop I made my way to the rental. Its white walls cast against the dark cloudless sky. The upstairs window set forth a light; a marker of the prearrivals. A homely sight. A lighthouse come to vantage for weary sailors, voices made horse by the repetion of some seatime shanty. The front door made way to the living room. A welcoming and warm room made warmer by the greeting of those came before. The television is mounted upon grey stone slab. Smooth. Like some great monolith left to be wondered before the time of man.
The sound on the tv doesn’t really work real good though. It keeps, like, mismatching the sound with the picture. Like, do you remember those awfully dubbed kung fu movies? Or Kung Pow: Enter the fist? Or MXC? Like that but not as funny.
The backyard is secluded. It is your own. A boiling sun warms the rubber beneath the artifical grass and so the sand of the beach falls from the soles of your feet. The cornhole boards are of good quality. A slick white plastic reflecting the light of the moon, laying claim to our night and so many others. The hot tub boils you to the precipice of hysteria, setting forth vapor into the night. Rising pale against the dark night, dancing in the passing currents, only to disappear into the void out beyond man’s knowing. A firepit flickers and plays host to those gathered around her sharing stories of time since past.
The city is loathe to shake its heritage and nor should it. Taquerias dot the streets leading toward the bay. Cheap and filling. May their fare come to pass for all the world. It is not, however, a good sports town. Michigan and University of Southern California flags hang from like windows. There is a patriots bar downtown. That would never fly in Philly. Perhaps that is why the Chargers left and why they are widely regarded to be a cursed franchise.
A sunset is a must during your time here. Along the short walk to the beach, the passing cars kick aside gravel and the finer sand. Up ahead, a curve in the road sets forth another pair of