Family Vacation
I'm a Californian, which is to say that I take orders from a man with a ridiculous Austrian accent. But really, all that means is I was born in California, lived there for a while, and stubbornly insist that I still identify more with that state than with any other. It's much like my mother insisting that, despite having brown hair, she's still a blonde because she's “got blonde coloring.” In any case, I'm a Californian. My relatives are almost all Californians. It follows that when I go on a family vacation to attend my cousin's wedding, our destination will likely be California.
Such was the case less than a week ago. We all jumped on a plane (not literally, of course – that would be silly) and flew down to sunny San Diego, CA, to watch my cousin get, as the kids say, married.
Did you know that the San Diego airport is, like, right there in the city? Looking out the window as we prepared for our landing on a 13-foot-long runway, I felt like I was carpet bombing Dresden. (History, you've been zung!) You really start to believe that you're about to slam into a high rise. Don't get me wrong; it's a wonderful city. It's just that their airport may as well be called “The 9/11 3D Experience.”
After tooling around The Velcro City (that's my nickname for San Diego, which I just made up), we drove up to Temecula to stay with my grandparents for a few days. Lemme give you a little background on my dad's dad: He's survived a stroke, a heart attack (or two, or nine), cancer, the Carter administration, and numerous slave uprisings, and he's still kickin'. He's also entirely unfamiliar with the concept of “tact.” I love the man to pieces (which, by the way, is an extremely bizarre image), but he's nuts. He once grabbed a waitress' shirt so he could read one of her buttons. The very first thing he said after I hugged him was “Can you fix the TV so the videos'll work?” to which I replied “Grandpa, you don't have a VCR.”
The next day was the wedding. It was a mercifully short ceremony (just about thirty minutes), and it was beautiful. It was at a vineyard (the Temecula Valley is like southern California's Napa Valley, except without all the unnecessary pretentiousness). I met one of my aunt's new “friends,” who promptly assumed that I was also his friend, and who rested his prosciutto-wrapped asparagus spear appetizer over a candle and insisted that he was “cooking the bacon.” I visualized stabbing him in the brain.
After a couple more days in Temecula, we trekked (or “went,” if you have a strict “no using words with two Ks in them” policy) up to Glendora, the part of California where I would live if I won the lottery and also wanted to live in Glendora. There, we visited my aunt and uncle and cousins for four or five days.
My favorite part of that leg of the trip (aside from seeing my favorite aunt and uncle – Is it wrong to have a favorite aunt and uncle? I make no apologies) was our trip to the beach. Ordinarily, I have a strong aversion to anything beach-related, as I tend to hate things that result in my being simultaneously sandy, sticky, sunburned, and sandy some more. Not this time. We made an elephant out of sand (and when I say “we,” I mean “everyone but me”). We barbecued hot dogs. We played volleyball. Honestly, I'm not sure if I could ever recall having a better time at the beach. I remember laying face-up on a towel just before sunset and thinking to myself, “Andrew, this place is alright. This is your new happy place.” Incidentally, my old happy place was sitting naked on a couch while eating Funyuns and watching “I Love Lucy” reruns. Hey, my happy place rhymes!
Coming in at a very close second favorite was our trip to Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles in Pasadena. When I was a student at Azusa Pacific University, my friends and I went to Roscoe's a couple times. I've spent the last several years trying to convince the rest of my family that Roscoe's waffles will make you see God. My praise fell on largely deaf (or, more likely, pancake-stuffed) ears, and I was beginning to lose hope in the idea that I'd ever get to taste that sweet, sweet ambrosia again. Seriously, if you're ever in southern California (on a trip, passing through, or simply by virtue of actually living there), you need to visit Roscoe's. I know the combination of chicken and waffles sounds monumentally bizarre, but trust me. It'll make you envy your own mouth. You'll see music and feel color. It's the greatest thing since the atheists invented sex in the 1960s. Even my parents liked it.
Later, we drove up the coast to San Francisco, a city I've wanted to visit since I said my first words (which were “Wrestling is so fake, dad”). We stayed in a crappy little town just outside of San Fran called Newark. I had no idea there was a second Newark in the US. I thought the first was bad enough.
In San Francisco, we hit all the touristy spots. We saw Haight Ashbury (there's a Ben & Jerry's there now). We drove down Lombard Street. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge (which was underwhelming to my sister; she preferred the Oakland Bay Bridge – I suppose she also prefers getting mugged and then peed on over being given free cupcakes). We saw numerous hobos, an inordinate number of whom had their hands jammed down their pants. We took the ferry over to Alcatraz, where we discovered that there are tons of furrners who travel all the way to Amurrca to visit one of our most notorious prisons. I guess that's because Amurrca kicks butt (but we don't take names; our pen must be out of ink).
One thing that surprised me was that San Francisco is cold. Mark Twain was right. And the fog. Oh, the fog. It rolls in like a fat guy at Sizzler: Creepily, noisily, and stinking of cheesesteak and Lipitor. It's truly amazing how quickly it can show up. It came in so fast one day, it sent me back in time.
I haven't had a summer vacation in a long time, but this one was well worth the wait. I laughed, I cried, I ate unhealthy amounts of In-N-Out. Not too shabby. Oh, and I dare you to use more parenthetical phrases in a single 1,100 word piece. You can't do it.
Such was the case less than a week ago. We all jumped on a plane (not literally, of course – that would be silly) and flew down to sunny San Diego, CA, to watch my cousin get, as the kids say, married.
Did you know that the San Diego airport is, like, right there in the city? Looking out the window as we prepared for our landing on a 13-foot-long runway, I felt like I was carpet bombing Dresden. (History, you've been zung!) You really start to believe that you're about to slam into a high rise. Don't get me wrong; it's a wonderful city. It's just that their airport may as well be called “The 9/11 3D Experience.”
After tooling around The Velcro City (that's my nickname for San Diego, which I just made up), we drove up to Temecula to stay with my grandparents for a few days. Lemme give you a little background on my dad's dad: He's survived a stroke, a heart attack (or two, or nine), cancer, the Carter administration, and numerous slave uprisings, and he's still kickin'. He's also entirely unfamiliar with the concept of “tact.” I love the man to pieces (which, by the way, is an extremely bizarre image), but he's nuts. He once grabbed a waitress' shirt so he could read one of her buttons. The very first thing he said after I hugged him was “Can you fix the TV so the videos'll work?” to which I replied “Grandpa, you don't have a VCR.”
The next day was the wedding. It was a mercifully short ceremony (just about thirty minutes), and it was beautiful. It was at a vineyard (the Temecula Valley is like southern California's Napa Valley, except without all the unnecessary pretentiousness). I met one of my aunt's new “friends,” who promptly assumed that I was also his friend, and who rested his prosciutto-wrapped asparagus spear appetizer over a candle and insisted that he was “cooking the bacon.” I visualized stabbing him in the brain.
After a couple more days in Temecula, we trekked (or “went,” if you have a strict “no using words with two Ks in them” policy) up to Glendora, the part of California where I would live if I won the lottery and also wanted to live in Glendora. There, we visited my aunt and uncle and cousins for four or five days.
My favorite part of that leg of the trip (aside from seeing my favorite aunt and uncle – Is it wrong to have a favorite aunt and uncle? I make no apologies) was our trip to the beach. Ordinarily, I have a strong aversion to anything beach-related, as I tend to hate things that result in my being simultaneously sandy, sticky, sunburned, and sandy some more. Not this time. We made an elephant out of sand (and when I say “we,” I mean “everyone but me”). We barbecued hot dogs. We played volleyball. Honestly, I'm not sure if I could ever recall having a better time at the beach. I remember laying face-up on a towel just before sunset and thinking to myself, “Andrew, this place is alright. This is your new happy place.” Incidentally, my old happy place was sitting naked on a couch while eating Funyuns and watching “I Love Lucy” reruns. Hey, my happy place rhymes!
Coming in at a very close second favorite was our trip to Roscoe's House of Chicken and Waffles in Pasadena. When I was a student at Azusa Pacific University, my friends and I went to Roscoe's a couple times. I've spent the last several years trying to convince the rest of my family that Roscoe's waffles will make you see God. My praise fell on largely deaf (or, more likely, pancake-stuffed) ears, and I was beginning to lose hope in the idea that I'd ever get to taste that sweet, sweet ambrosia again. Seriously, if you're ever in southern California (on a trip, passing through, or simply by virtue of actually living there), you need to visit Roscoe's. I know the combination of chicken and waffles sounds monumentally bizarre, but trust me. It'll make you envy your own mouth. You'll see music and feel color. It's the greatest thing since the atheists invented sex in the 1960s. Even my parents liked it.
Later, we drove up the coast to San Francisco, a city I've wanted to visit since I said my first words (which were “Wrestling is so fake, dad”). We stayed in a crappy little town just outside of San Fran called Newark. I had no idea there was a second Newark in the US. I thought the first was bad enough.
In San Francisco, we hit all the touristy spots. We saw Haight Ashbury (there's a Ben & Jerry's there now). We drove down Lombard Street. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge (which was underwhelming to my sister; she preferred the Oakland Bay Bridge – I suppose she also prefers getting mugged and then peed on over being given free cupcakes). We saw numerous hobos, an inordinate number of whom had their hands jammed down their pants. We took the ferry over to Alcatraz, where we discovered that there are tons of furrners who travel all the way to Amurrca to visit one of our most notorious prisons. I guess that's because Amurrca kicks butt (but we don't take names; our pen must be out of ink).
One thing that surprised me was that San Francisco is cold. Mark Twain was right. And the fog. Oh, the fog. It rolls in like a fat guy at Sizzler: Creepily, noisily, and stinking of cheesesteak and Lipitor. It's truly amazing how quickly it can show up. It came in so fast one day, it sent me back in time.
I haven't had a summer vacation in a long time, but this one was well worth the wait. I laughed, I cried, I ate unhealthy amounts of In-N-Out. Not too shabby. Oh, and I dare you to use more parenthetical phrases in a single 1,100 word piece. You can't do it.
posted by Vaughan at
3:25 PM
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