After last year’s vacation, with its missed flight and puddles upon puddles of rain, I wanted a vacation as foolproof as possible. Direct flight. No rain. I stumped Greg with my advice to pack clothing for weather in the 60s and a pair of flip-flops. He guessed that we were headed to the Northwest.
I’ve clearly given him too much grief about last year’s missed flight because he drove like a caffeinated rabbit on the way to the airport. Even Eleanor, who loves speed, asked him to slow down. The police car we passed along the way helped.
We did typical San Diego tourist things, including a trip to the zoo.
And some walks along the coast.
We stayed on Coronado Island, a place with such mild weather and sweet air that Greg wondered, “Aside from money, why wouldn’t you live here?”
Well, Greg, the reasons are many. Obviously, you wouldn’t want to traipse along a pristine beach all the time.
Or wander petal-laden parks.
Coronado? Pshaw! Practically charmless.
Greg and I thought the lawns might be AstroTurf. They were not.
On Father’s Day, we rented a surrey bike, and Greg pedaled that thing so fiercely over bumps and around corners that I was certain we would tip and be crushed beneath spinning wheels, striped awning, and fringe. In those moments, I reconsidered my choice of destination. But only in those few moments. Greg had to drag me off of that island. As soon as this freelance writing career starts netting millions of dollars, I’m going back.