Waffle at the Beach

Early evening is the time to arrive in San Diego: slanting gold light shone through the mist that rose over the harbor, turning aircraft carriers into fairy castles and making the skyline gleam. The mist filled the valleys when seen from the air, too, so every mountaintop was a lost island. It's a very photogenic city, all shining metal and adobe and palm trees. The Gaslamp District, where we're staying, is touristy to the extreme, but I hope to explore more to the north tomorrow today, in search of used bookstores, and then to the zoo on Saturday. adfamiliares has interviews and panels and hobnobbing at the APA, but I'm pretty footloose.

Already, in San Diego, I have pushed EMERGENCY STOP to rescue an old man who'd fallen on the airport escalator, eaten lobster tacos at a taco place superbacana recommended, discovered that the Museum of Death has moved to Hollywood, and tipped the guy who unloaded our bags from the taxi. Our room suite is obscenely opulent, with a flat-screen TV in each room, a Bose radio system, and a mosaic inlay in the bathroom. We need to use our room key in the elevator to make it stop at our floor. Thank heaven for massive convention discounts!

[We had no internet last night, so I'm posting this in the morning while lounging in a hotel bathrobe, watching the skyline with one eye and feisty democrats on C-SPAN with the other. Mmmm. Now, off to find some breakfast.]

Café Noir

Tucked away behind the squatting monstrousness of the Padres' stadium is a tiny café called Noir, which I found just as I was preparing to give up and eat breakfast in the hotel's Starbucks. It's a converted house, with two little tables downstairs in the red-walled café proper, and extra seating up a creaking staircase, in what used to be bedrooms. They serve delicious Mexican hot chocolate and reasonably good muffins.

[Edit: this almost makes up for the Museum of Unnatural History being closed. Boo.]