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Click here for Part One
MONDAY, MARCH 6
My brother Darren has lived in San Diego since 2003. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit there a few years ago, and my west-coast swing seemed like an ideal opportunity to stop by again for some good old-fashioned brotherly bonding, without the noogies.
Our 8:00 a.m. time of departure turned into 9:15ish on that sunny Monday morning, what with the last-minute packing and breakfasting and lingering wistful gazes out the condo's bay window. Though I am typically a stickler for a strict schedule, the delay was really okay with me. At 8:00 a.m., a good portion of the Palm Springs population would have been coming home from breakfast, or perhaps an early lunch, clogging up the roads and leaving their left blinkers on.
Eventually we left our glitzy little bungalow, and, aided by our trusty in-cabin navigational system, began the 131-mile trip to my brother's adopted San Diego home. Before getting on the expressway we stopped at a nearby gas station to top off the tank. As I reached into my wallet for my debit card, I felt the excruciating, sickeningly empty feeling most commonly attributed to the Ebola virus. My debit card was missing.
I performed the international symbol for "lost item" – absently slapping at my own body, as if the card were mysteriously and conveniently stuck to my chest. I triple-checked my pockets, opened the trunk, checked all my suitcase pockets, opened the suitcase and checked all of my other pockets, and, retracing my steps, I determined that I must have left it in the grocery store the previous day. In Albertson's. Inside the ATM machine.
J. graciously assumed responsibility for filling the tank as I took a few moments to calmly berate myself internally for being such a monumental moron. I called my bank to cancel the card – which, thankfully, had not been compromised or used for any embarrassing or overtly erotic purchases – theorizing that for the rest of the vacation I could account for my share of the expenses by using or obtaining a cash advance with my credit card.
American Express: Don't Lose Your VISA Without It.
The road west led us once again through creepy Windmill City, though I would later pine for the pacific spookiness of those windmills as I swerved at Mach 3 along the squiggly pathways leading over and around the San Bernardino and San Jacinto mountains. J., who is prone to motion sickness, actually appeared rather relaxed during these winding stretches. This appearance of calm helped foster the confidence I so critically needed, although I would later find permanent fingernail indentations in the car's plastic moulding.
The car's navigational system was a godsend, chirping out helpful instructions like "approaching freeway exit" and "Left. Turn. In. Point-five. Miles." Of course J. was also engaged in this process, consulting the screen and our growing collection of unfolded complimentary maps. But in retrospect, I think she began to feel a little jealous of my close relationship with the navigational system. I now feel guilty that I hurt her feelings by appearing to value the system's directions more than hers. But it's only because it's true. After all, the system is so good at its job; giving directions is its sole purpose, its reason for existence, and I am compelled to respect that. Besides, I knew that the system was totally focused on its work rather than occasionally scanning the horizon for windmills and cacti.
After about two hours, we hung a left at Temecula Creek and on to I-15, which would lead us through southern central California and directly into the city. I expected that any minute I would begin seeing celebrities driving by in their sports cars or luxury SUVs, talking to their agents on cell phones or perhaps being filmed for a VH1 reality series. Instead we saw mostly large trucks, probably filled with something boring and non-entertaining like lettuce, illegal immigrants or Jim Belushi.
We almost made it to our destination without any stops, but J. insisted on a bathroom break mere miles from my brother's place. The neighborhood was idyllic, in a quaintly suburban kind of way. It was different from his prior residence, which had been a stone's throw from Pacific Beach, and his residence before that, which was farther removed from the coast but still had a canyonside swankiness to it. In the short drive to his house we saw numerous school buses, parks and deciduous trees. It felt sort of like my hometown.
Darren welcomed us into his home – a Victorian palace occupied by Darren, his girlfriend, his friend and former roommate, the house's owner, the house owner's fiancée, and the house owner's gestating fetus. He gave us a tour, from the extra-large kitchen to the theater room upstairs, and invited us to relax in the den in front of his big-screen TV while he cooked our lunch. I was beginning to think of my own domicile as a glorified water closet.
Over delicious barbequed chicken and tomatoes, with white rice and asparagus, the Hammersla boys and their significant others had an honest-to-goodness conversation, about weather and politics, sports and the arts, travel and commerce. It was a sight my parents would have beheld.
You see, there was a time not terribly long ago that this summit would have been imagined as tantamount to Nixon's visit to China, or the Hatfields barbequing a chicken for the McCoys. Darren and I did not see eye-to-eye when were growing up. It was more like elbow-to-eye, and even that was on the days when we were actually communicating with each other.
He spent his childhood being compared to me, which could not have been fun. Depending on who was talking, I was either a brainy boy scout or a clueless dork. I was too lofty to live up to and too lame to look up to. So he rebelled against me and pretty much everything else my parents liked. By the time he graduated high school, he was a blue-haired, bodily pierced, scowling, skateboarding ball of anger, fueled by death metal and gangsta rap and who knows what all.
Sometime between then and the time he graduated from junior college – so gradually that I didn't even notice it – he grew up. He discovered his passions, reconnected with our parents, spanked his inner brat and embraced the Zen, whatever. He found a girl and followed her to San Diego, then found a job and became really good at it. In a short while he's become a big shot in the field of premium audio-visual equipment installation, and besides that he learned how to barbeque a succulent chicken.
Darren's success brought our differences into stark relief, once again. An observer could argue that he is an example of achievement through hard work and integrity, whereas I am an example of futzing around aimlessly with my many talents. But the fact is, strength and commitment are talents, just two of many for my "little brother." I would like to be more like Darren. I'm so proud of him, it's sort of embarrassing.
After lunch, J. and I left to check in to our nearby hotel to freshen up. We were fortunate enough to secure accommodations at the Scripps-Poway Parkway Springhill Suites, where your room comes with a daily free hot breakfast, a complimentary USA Today and scenic views of Interstate 805's near-constant gridlock. Several of the rooms, including ours, appeared to have been designed by renowned architect I.M. Pei, he of the lifelong love affair with trapezoids. From above, the floor plan of our room would have looked like the spatial-relations portion of an I.Q. test.
That night, the four of us decided to take a pre-dinner stroll along Pacific Beach. Darren generously agreed to drive us, which is fortunate because to get anywhere in San Diego you need to navigate a complex network of 16-lane freeways, twisting and turning through southern California like so many strands of spaghetti. Going next door to borrow a cup of sugar requires a minimum of three lane changes. I felt overwhelmed in the back seat.
But in southern California, the destination is always worth it. Pacific Beach is a picturesque stretch of sand and surf populated by the hottest individuals our society has to offer. Even at dusk in early March, surfers and skaters were flaunting their tawny wares under the guise of exercise. As the sun set gently behind Coronado Island, I held on tightly to J. – not just because it was awfully romantic, and not just because the evening temperatures were plummeting, but because I was afraid she would be mesmerized by the parade of rock-hard abs glimmering with moisture.
On our way back to the car we stumbled upon an arcade, where I challenged J. to a game of air hockey. Despite my superior trash-talking skills, J. demonstrated superior air-hockey skills and vanquished me by a score of 7-4. I would like to point out that the table was crummy, my paddle was sticky and I was distracted by J's enchanting smile.
We then drove up to La Jolla (via Sacramento, judging by the length of the commute) for a Mexican dinner. This made total sense to me at the time, killing two birds with one stone: getting authentic Mexican food in one of the best cities for authentic Mexican food, and paying a visit to the glitziest, toniest stretch of San Diego – the city's salsa-flavored answer to Rodeo Drive. Of course, in retrospect, it probably would have been a more appropriate locale for a fancier dinner than burritos and enchiladas. It was sort of like going to France and ordering Taco Bell.
But it was a good meal, and I got to feel magnanimous by picking up the check. After dinner, Darren drove us to the lookout point on nearby Mount Soledad, Spanish for "mount only Dad." The 822-foot-high plateau itself boasts the 43-foot tall Easter Cross as part of a Korean War memorial. Despite this looming symbol of religious worship, the scenic vista, with the twinkly city lights below and the distant shushing of the Pacific Ocean, seems more conducive to recreational sinning.
When we had soaked in enough visual splendor, Darren drove us – via New Mexico –back to our hotel, where J. and I tried to rekindle the mood of Mount Soledad: I prayed for our continued automotive safety.
TUESDAY, MARCH 7
San Diego is famous for many things: exquisitely temperate weather, oodles of mission-colonial history and a reputation as a gaping portal for cheap immigrant labor. It is home to a multitude of recreational activities such as professional sports, Legoland, bikini shopping and systemic government corruption.
But the most popular area attraction – the one that looms over the rest, like Rosie O' Donnell over a brunch buffet – is the San Diego Zoo. Occupying more than 100 acres of the city's rolling southern hills, the zoo is home to more than 4,000 rare and endangered animals such as Visayan warty pigs, Tahitian blue lories and American liberal democrats.
(The San Diego Zoo is directly affiliated with, but geographically separate from, the 1,800-acre Wild Animal Park in Northeast San Diego. According to brochures, it's a fun adventure for the whole family where you can load up the SUV, bring your own rowdy little kiddies and feed them to bears.)
Since I hadn't visited the zoo on my previous trip to San Diego, I was determined to see it this time. Darren picked J. and me up from the hotel at 10 a.m. and we arrived at the park a half-hour later. Even at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, the parking lot was surprisingly full. Darren parked the car in one of the far-away lots, denoted by a sign with a series of letters that looked like a string of amino acids.
The admission prices were reasonable for an attraction of such size and stature – $32 per person for the “Best Value Admission,” (as opposed to the standard $22) which provides access to the zoo as well as the Guided Bus Tour and unlimited use of the Express Bus and the Skyfari Aerial Tram. These extra transportation options would prove valuable in light of the zoo's square footage and steep inclines, presumably designed so that the deadly animals housed in the park's valley would become physically exhausted trying to escape.
I eagerly handed over my $32, a relatively small expenditure for me, though I worried about the poor family of four who would have trouble enjoying the wonders of the San Diego Zoo without the benefit of competitive scholarships.
Once inside, our first order of business was to board a guided bus tour – one of those double-decker outfits – so we could get a sense of the zoo's sprawling size and layout. It only occurs to me now how big the park was; most normal zoos, like the one in Washington D.C., would not be large enough to accommodate a gigantic bus barreling up and down the concourses, although now that I think about it, it would be kind of fun to watch all of the dazed tourists and stroller jockeys scrambling out of the way of a diesel-fueled behemoth.
We had been blessed with fantastic weather that day, perhaps a bit chilly in the shade but quite comfortable in the sun, so we took our seats on the top level of the bus, which we also figured would help us to avoid injury from ground-level gorings, stampedes or airborne feces. Our tour guide, in fact, kept raving about how wonderful the weather was for animal-watching, with even the most introverted beasts making themselves available for viewing. And indeed, they did not disappoint.
The animals were entertaining, like the miniature gazelles bouncing back and forth, instinctively chasing each other in 100-yard dashes for no reason in particular; their incessant galloping was so animated that you could swear you heard a "boing" noise with every bound.
The animals were awe-inspiring, as when we spied a 500 lb. gorilla mountain gorilla sitting in a corner against the viewing glass, gently and quietly playing with a tiny green lizard. It was an astonishing sight, this enormous son-of-Kong – ostensibly built for pure destruction – studying the fragile animal in his leathery palm, as the fearless (or clueless) little lizard calmly indulged the giant's curiosity, allowing himself to be handled and, occasionally, picked up by the tail and examined. It made me wonder if maybe the Earth would be just fine without the irrational cruelty of humankind, which has given us such societal blights as holy wars, the fur industry and MTV.
And the animals were educational, such that we learned how to differentiate African elephants from Asian elephants (Asian elephants are better at math); that the leatherback sea turtle can reach swimming speeds of 22 miles per hour, or roughly the land speed of the Palm Springs Cadillac; and that Ethiopia is noted for its wild ass.
We attended the "Wild Ones - Legends & Lore" show at the zoo amphitheater, where knowledgeable zoo staff "delve into the legend and lore of both predators and prey from around the world and witness the mystery of their natural behaviors." A number of strange and unusual creatures were then paraded before us for our amusement, accompanied by extremely loud music peppered with circus sound effects. Sadly, I do not remember the names of most of the animals in the show, just that they looked like weird combinations of other animals – like a cheetah crossed with a housecat, or a hedgehog crossed with a camel, or an otter crossed with a Backstreet Boy. I do remember that they showed us a badger, which I immediately recognized by its ill-conceived passing attack.
The most educational – and most vivid – display of animal behavior was that of the two-ton hippopotamus. First, we watched him with mild curiosity as he slowly lumber out of his private lagoon and over to the chain-link fence by the sidewalk. And then, without an iota of shame or hesitation, he did what all hippos and people and animals must do from time to time: he relieved himself.
But really, "relieving himself" is far too genteel a term for the exhibition we witnessed. First, there was the urinating, which spewed forth from the generously male animal like a pressurized fire hose, digging a small channel in the earth below him and kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt. But that was mere prelude to his next act, an explosive bowel movement that shot from the animal like fire from a rocketship, discharging with such raw force that it appeared his massiveness would almost necessarily be projected forward through the air. Not only did the dark spray, by itself, mark a wide swath of territory, but its total range was further and farther amplified by the swatting motion of his tail, which flapped aggressively through the blast zone and flung stray bits and pieces into and beyond the walls of his sizeable pen.
Darren, J. and I watched this demonstration of Nature from safely within the aquarium portion of the hippo's den, but others outside were not so lucky; suffice it to say, what the hippopotamus obviously felt to be a great relief was viewed as something much less than that to unwitting passersby.
Thankfully, we had already eaten our lunch at one of the convenient concession stands in the park. The menu items, I should note, were fairly typical – cheeseburgers, nachos, salads, burritos and the like – but the food prices were so totally out-of-whack with corresponding prices in the outside world that I assumed the dishes were seasoned with tasty remnants of an extremely endangered animal.
We were pretty exhausted by the time we strolled through our final exhibit, the Polar Bear Splash, nestled near the very base of the park. (There was actually very little splashing going on. We could only see one polar bear, and he was lying on a rock in a manner that suggested he had just eaten Thanksgiving dinner.) By then – about 5 p.m. – the zoo was just about closing, and we had to get all the way to the other end of the park before we were locked inside and officially declared food.
We had the option of taking the Skyfari Aerial Tram, a ski-lift-like contraption that transported patrons along the length of the park, but we ended up hitching a ride with the Express Bus, which was perhaps less scenic but certainly warmer and much closer to the safe, safe ground. Unfortunately, it did not take us all the way to Darren’s car.
After a brief stop to pick up Darren’s girlfriend, we debated dinner. I suggested seafood, and Darren suggested the old world charm of Del Mar, a small hamlet on the northern coast populated mostly by senior citizens and marina workers. I was expecting something warm and casual, like Red Lobster without the barnacles. But from the moment my brother pulled up to the mandatory valet parking stand, I knew he had brought us someplace very fancy, too fancy, the kind of place you take your prom date because you don’t know any better.
The meal was almost as impressive as the menu, and after our last bites Darren tried to pick up the check, perhaps as a symbolic gesture of manhood, or possibly as a kind courtesy for the previous night’s Mexican feast. I had just enough cash left over to afford to dissuade him of that notion, but J. and I thanked him for the offer and for carting us all over his fair city. We all shared hugs as they dropped us off at our hotel and wished us well for the rest of our trip. Somewhere, my mother was updating a conspicuous sign that read “184 Consecutive Weeks Without an Argument.”
J. and I adjourned to our room for the evening and packed for what seemed like the sixth day in a row. Our itinerary called for a 7:30 a.m. departure for Dana Point, CA, en route to island paradise – where, hopefully, there would be no wild hippopotami.
MONDAY, MARCH 6
My brother Darren has lived in San Diego since 2003. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit there a few years ago, and my west-coast swing seemed like an ideal opportunity to stop by again for some good old-fashioned brotherly bonding, without the noogies.
Our 8:00 a.m. time of departure turned into 9:15ish on that sunny Monday morning, what with the last-minute packing and breakfasting and lingering wistful gazes out the condo's bay window. Though I am typically a stickler for a strict schedule, the delay was really okay with me. At 8:00 a.m., a good portion of the Palm Springs population would have been coming home from breakfast, or perhaps an early lunch, clogging up the roads and leaving their left blinkers on.
Eventually we left our glitzy little bungalow, and, aided by our trusty in-cabin navigational system, began the 131-mile trip to my brother's adopted San Diego home. Before getting on the expressway we stopped at a nearby gas station to top off the tank. As I reached into my wallet for my debit card, I felt the excruciating, sickeningly empty feeling most commonly attributed to the Ebola virus. My debit card was missing.
I performed the international symbol for "lost item" – absently slapping at my own body, as if the card were mysteriously and conveniently stuck to my chest. I triple-checked my pockets, opened the trunk, checked all my suitcase pockets, opened the suitcase and checked all of my other pockets, and, retracing my steps, I determined that I must have left it in the grocery store the previous day. In Albertson's. Inside the ATM machine.
J. graciously assumed responsibility for filling the tank as I took a few moments to calmly berate myself internally for being such a monumental moron. I called my bank to cancel the card – which, thankfully, had not been compromised or used for any embarrassing or overtly erotic purchases – theorizing that for the rest of the vacation I could account for my share of the expenses by using or obtaining a cash advance with my credit card.
American Express: Don't Lose Your VISA Without It.
The road west led us once again through creepy Windmill City, though I would later pine for the pacific spookiness of those windmills as I swerved at Mach 3 along the squiggly pathways leading over and around the San Bernardino and San Jacinto mountains. J., who is prone to motion sickness, actually appeared rather relaxed during these winding stretches. This appearance of calm helped foster the confidence I so critically needed, although I would later find permanent fingernail indentations in the car's plastic moulding.
The car's navigational system was a godsend, chirping out helpful instructions like "approaching freeway exit" and "Left. Turn. In. Point-five. Miles." Of course J. was also engaged in this process, consulting the screen and our growing collection of unfolded complimentary maps. But in retrospect, I think she began to feel a little jealous of my close relationship with the navigational system. I now feel guilty that I hurt her feelings by appearing to value the system's directions more than hers. But it's only because it's true. After all, the system is so good at its job; giving directions is its sole purpose, its reason for existence, and I am compelled to respect that. Besides, I knew that the system was totally focused on its work rather than occasionally scanning the horizon for windmills and cacti.
After about two hours, we hung a left at Temecula Creek and on to I-15, which would lead us through southern central California and directly into the city. I expected that any minute I would begin seeing celebrities driving by in their sports cars or luxury SUVs, talking to their agents on cell phones or perhaps being filmed for a VH1 reality series. Instead we saw mostly large trucks, probably filled with something boring and non-entertaining like lettuce, illegal immigrants or Jim Belushi.
We almost made it to our destination without any stops, but J. insisted on a bathroom break mere miles from my brother's place. The neighborhood was idyllic, in a quaintly suburban kind of way. It was different from his prior residence, which had been a stone's throw from Pacific Beach, and his residence before that, which was farther removed from the coast but still had a canyonside swankiness to it. In the short drive to his house we saw numerous school buses, parks and deciduous trees. It felt sort of like my hometown.
Darren welcomed us into his home – a Victorian palace occupied by Darren, his girlfriend, his friend and former roommate, the house's owner, the house owner's fiancée, and the house owner's gestating fetus. He gave us a tour, from the extra-large kitchen to the theater room upstairs, and invited us to relax in the den in front of his big-screen TV while he cooked our lunch. I was beginning to think of my own domicile as a glorified water closet.
Over delicious barbequed chicken and tomatoes, with white rice and asparagus, the Hammersla boys and their significant others had an honest-to-goodness conversation, about weather and politics, sports and the arts, travel and commerce. It was a sight my parents would have beheld.
You see, there was a time not terribly long ago that this summit would have been imagined as tantamount to Nixon's visit to China, or the Hatfields barbequing a chicken for the McCoys. Darren and I did not see eye-to-eye when were growing up. It was more like elbow-to-eye, and even that was on the days when we were actually communicating with each other.
He spent his childhood being compared to me, which could not have been fun. Depending on who was talking, I was either a brainy boy scout or a clueless dork. I was too lofty to live up to and too lame to look up to. So he rebelled against me and pretty much everything else my parents liked. By the time he graduated high school, he was a blue-haired, bodily pierced, scowling, skateboarding ball of anger, fueled by death metal and gangsta rap and who knows what all.
Sometime between then and the time he graduated from junior college – so gradually that I didn't even notice it – he grew up. He discovered his passions, reconnected with our parents, spanked his inner brat and embraced the Zen, whatever. He found a girl and followed her to San Diego, then found a job and became really good at it. In a short while he's become a big shot in the field of premium audio-visual equipment installation, and besides that he learned how to barbeque a succulent chicken.
Darren's success brought our differences into stark relief, once again. An observer could argue that he is an example of achievement through hard work and integrity, whereas I am an example of futzing around aimlessly with my many talents. But the fact is, strength and commitment are talents, just two of many for my "little brother." I would like to be more like Darren. I'm so proud of him, it's sort of embarrassing.
After lunch, J. and I left to check in to our nearby hotel to freshen up. We were fortunate enough to secure accommodations at the Scripps-Poway Parkway Springhill Suites, where your room comes with a daily free hot breakfast, a complimentary USA Today and scenic views of Interstate 805's near-constant gridlock. Several of the rooms, including ours, appeared to have been designed by renowned architect I.M. Pei, he of the lifelong love affair with trapezoids. From above, the floor plan of our room would have looked like the spatial-relations portion of an I.Q. test.
That night, the four of us decided to take a pre-dinner stroll along Pacific Beach. Darren generously agreed to drive us, which is fortunate because to get anywhere in San Diego you need to navigate a complex network of 16-lane freeways, twisting and turning through southern California like so many strands of spaghetti. Going next door to borrow a cup of sugar requires a minimum of three lane changes. I felt overwhelmed in the back seat.
But in southern California, the destination is always worth it. Pacific Beach is a picturesque stretch of sand and surf populated by the hottest individuals our society has to offer. Even at dusk in early March, surfers and skaters were flaunting their tawny wares under the guise of exercise. As the sun set gently behind Coronado Island, I held on tightly to J. – not just because it was awfully romantic, and not just because the evening temperatures were plummeting, but because I was afraid she would be mesmerized by the parade of rock-hard abs glimmering with moisture.
On our way back to the car we stumbled upon an arcade, where I challenged J. to a game of air hockey. Despite my superior trash-talking skills, J. demonstrated superior air-hockey skills and vanquished me by a score of 7-4. I would like to point out that the table was crummy, my paddle was sticky and I was distracted by J's enchanting smile.
We then drove up to La Jolla (via Sacramento, judging by the length of the commute) for a Mexican dinner. This made total sense to me at the time, killing two birds with one stone: getting authentic Mexican food in one of the best cities for authentic Mexican food, and paying a visit to the glitziest, toniest stretch of San Diego – the city's salsa-flavored answer to Rodeo Drive. Of course, in retrospect, it probably would have been a more appropriate locale for a fancier dinner than burritos and enchiladas. It was sort of like going to France and ordering Taco Bell.
But it was a good meal, and I got to feel magnanimous by picking up the check. After dinner, Darren drove us to the lookout point on nearby Mount Soledad, Spanish for "mount only Dad." The 822-foot-high plateau itself boasts the 43-foot tall Easter Cross as part of a Korean War memorial. Despite this looming symbol of religious worship, the scenic vista, with the twinkly city lights below and the distant shushing of the Pacific Ocean, seems more conducive to recreational sinning.
When we had soaked in enough visual splendor, Darren drove us – via New Mexico –back to our hotel, where J. and I tried to rekindle the mood of Mount Soledad: I prayed for our continued automotive safety.
TUESDAY, MARCH 7
San Diego is famous for many things: exquisitely temperate weather, oodles of mission-colonial history and a reputation as a gaping portal for cheap immigrant labor. It is home to a multitude of recreational activities such as professional sports, Legoland, bikini shopping and systemic government corruption.
But the most popular area attraction – the one that looms over the rest, like Rosie O' Donnell over a brunch buffet – is the San Diego Zoo. Occupying more than 100 acres of the city's rolling southern hills, the zoo is home to more than 4,000 rare and endangered animals such as Visayan warty pigs, Tahitian blue lories and American liberal democrats.
(The San Diego Zoo is directly affiliated with, but geographically separate from, the 1,800-acre Wild Animal Park in Northeast San Diego. According to brochures, it's a fun adventure for the whole family where you can load up the SUV, bring your own rowdy little kiddies and feed them to bears.)
Since I hadn't visited the zoo on my previous trip to San Diego, I was determined to see it this time. Darren picked J. and me up from the hotel at 10 a.m. and we arrived at the park a half-hour later. Even at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, the parking lot was surprisingly full. Darren parked the car in one of the far-away lots, denoted by a sign with a series of letters that looked like a string of amino acids.
The admission prices were reasonable for an attraction of such size and stature – $32 per person for the “Best Value Admission,” (as opposed to the standard $22) which provides access to the zoo as well as the Guided Bus Tour and unlimited use of the Express Bus and the Skyfari Aerial Tram. These extra transportation options would prove valuable in light of the zoo's square footage and steep inclines, presumably designed so that the deadly animals housed in the park's valley would become physically exhausted trying to escape.
I eagerly handed over my $32, a relatively small expenditure for me, though I worried about the poor family of four who would have trouble enjoying the wonders of the San Diego Zoo without the benefit of competitive scholarships.
Once inside, our first order of business was to board a guided bus tour – one of those double-decker outfits – so we could get a sense of the zoo's sprawling size and layout. It only occurs to me now how big the park was; most normal zoos, like the one in Washington D.C., would not be large enough to accommodate a gigantic bus barreling up and down the concourses, although now that I think about it, it would be kind of fun to watch all of the dazed tourists and stroller jockeys scrambling out of the way of a diesel-fueled behemoth.
We had been blessed with fantastic weather that day, perhaps a bit chilly in the shade but quite comfortable in the sun, so we took our seats on the top level of the bus, which we also figured would help us to avoid injury from ground-level gorings, stampedes or airborne feces. Our tour guide, in fact, kept raving about how wonderful the weather was for animal-watching, with even the most introverted beasts making themselves available for viewing. And indeed, they did not disappoint.
The animals were entertaining, like the miniature gazelles bouncing back and forth, instinctively chasing each other in 100-yard dashes for no reason in particular; their incessant galloping was so animated that you could swear you heard a "boing" noise with every bound.
The animals were awe-inspiring, as when we spied a 500 lb. gorilla mountain gorilla sitting in a corner against the viewing glass, gently and quietly playing with a tiny green lizard. It was an astonishing sight, this enormous son-of-Kong – ostensibly built for pure destruction – studying the fragile animal in his leathery palm, as the fearless (or clueless) little lizard calmly indulged the giant's curiosity, allowing himself to be handled and, occasionally, picked up by the tail and examined. It made me wonder if maybe the Earth would be just fine without the irrational cruelty of humankind, which has given us such societal blights as holy wars, the fur industry and MTV.
And the animals were educational, such that we learned how to differentiate African elephants from Asian elephants (Asian elephants are better at math); that the leatherback sea turtle can reach swimming speeds of 22 miles per hour, or roughly the land speed of the Palm Springs Cadillac; and that Ethiopia is noted for its wild ass.
We attended the "Wild Ones - Legends & Lore" show at the zoo amphitheater, where knowledgeable zoo staff "delve into the legend and lore of both predators and prey from around the world and witness the mystery of their natural behaviors." A number of strange and unusual creatures were then paraded before us for our amusement, accompanied by extremely loud music peppered with circus sound effects. Sadly, I do not remember the names of most of the animals in the show, just that they looked like weird combinations of other animals – like a cheetah crossed with a housecat, or a hedgehog crossed with a camel, or an otter crossed with a Backstreet Boy. I do remember that they showed us a badger, which I immediately recognized by its ill-conceived passing attack.
The most educational – and most vivid – display of animal behavior was that of the two-ton hippopotamus. First, we watched him with mild curiosity as he slowly lumber out of his private lagoon and over to the chain-link fence by the sidewalk. And then, without an iota of shame or hesitation, he did what all hippos and people and animals must do from time to time: he relieved himself.
But really, "relieving himself" is far too genteel a term for the exhibition we witnessed. First, there was the urinating, which spewed forth from the generously male animal like a pressurized fire hose, digging a small channel in the earth below him and kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt. But that was mere prelude to his next act, an explosive bowel movement that shot from the animal like fire from a rocketship, discharging with such raw force that it appeared his massiveness would almost necessarily be projected forward through the air. Not only did the dark spray, by itself, mark a wide swath of territory, but its total range was further and farther amplified by the swatting motion of his tail, which flapped aggressively through the blast zone and flung stray bits and pieces into and beyond the walls of his sizeable pen.
Darren, J. and I watched this demonstration of Nature from safely within the aquarium portion of the hippo's den, but others outside were not so lucky; suffice it to say, what the hippopotamus obviously felt to be a great relief was viewed as something much less than that to unwitting passersby.
Thankfully, we had already eaten our lunch at one of the convenient concession stands in the park. The menu items, I should note, were fairly typical – cheeseburgers, nachos, salads, burritos and the like – but the food prices were so totally out-of-whack with corresponding prices in the outside world that I assumed the dishes were seasoned with tasty remnants of an extremely endangered animal.
We were pretty exhausted by the time we strolled through our final exhibit, the Polar Bear Splash, nestled near the very base of the park. (There was actually very little splashing going on. We could only see one polar bear, and he was lying on a rock in a manner that suggested he had just eaten Thanksgiving dinner.) By then – about 5 p.m. – the zoo was just about closing, and we had to get all the way to the other end of the park before we were locked inside and officially declared food.
We had the option of taking the Skyfari Aerial Tram, a ski-lift-like contraption that transported patrons along the length of the park, but we ended up hitching a ride with the Express Bus, which was perhaps less scenic but certainly warmer and much closer to the safe, safe ground. Unfortunately, it did not take us all the way to Darren’s car.
After a brief stop to pick up Darren’s girlfriend, we debated dinner. I suggested seafood, and Darren suggested the old world charm of Del Mar, a small hamlet on the northern coast populated mostly by senior citizens and marina workers. I was expecting something warm and casual, like Red Lobster without the barnacles. But from the moment my brother pulled up to the mandatory valet parking stand, I knew he had brought us someplace very fancy, too fancy, the kind of place you take your prom date because you don’t know any better.
The meal was almost as impressive as the menu, and after our last bites Darren tried to pick up the check, perhaps as a symbolic gesture of manhood, or possibly as a kind courtesy for the previous night’s Mexican feast. I had just enough cash left over to afford to dissuade him of that notion, but J. and I thanked him for the offer and for carting us all over his fair city. We all shared hugs as they dropped us off at our hotel and wished us well for the rest of our trip. Somewhere, my mother was updating a conspicuous sign that read “184 Consecutive Weeks Without an Argument.”
J. and I adjourned to our room for the evening and packed for what seemed like the sixth day in a row. Our itinerary called for a 7:30 a.m. departure for Dana Point, CA, en route to island paradise – where, hopefully, there would be no wild hippopotami.
