Sometimes San Diego delights most unexpectedly. Yesterday, I entered an alternate universe—a lovely neighborhood that could have been from a 1980s Steven Spielberg movie. Kids played everywhere. Freely. The clang of metal baseball bats rang out from the park, where parents cheered and encouraged their middle-school players. Pretty homes, none too different from another, lined clean streets, from which the sound of playing children created intoxicating atmosphere.
My journey started with a request: Provide transportation to the Rebelution and Sublime concert at the Sleep Train Amphitheater. My soon-to-be 21 year-old daughter asks for rides so infrequently now, I couldn’t refuse. But given heavy traffic around the venue, 27-km distance drive, and her plan to return in two hours or so, I figured to stay in Chula Vista rather than roundtrip. But where to hang out—from the commercial-property isolated locale?
I had figured to drive back to Main Street, where there are shopping plazas and restaurants. But as I approached Entertainment Circle and saw the mass of cars behind but quite literately clear direction ahead on Heritage Road, plans changed. Surprise one: The road, now Otay Valley, dead-ended into an industrial park for junkyards. Ha! Datsun Street, which suggests long-ago establishment.
With everything closed, and me desperately searching for coffee, I drove back the way I came, wondering about a street, Avenida de Las Vistas, that veered off into what looked like a residential community. Perhaps there would be convenience store or even Starbucks?
Neither. The vast neighborhood spanned many, many, many blocks before dead-ending along the street I entered. The sounds, more than the sights, evoked family and community, particularly as I again approached the park, where I, eh, parked the car.
One home caught my attention: The garage door was open and the sounds of adult talk and child giggles rose above the clanking baseball bats. The atmosphere was so cheerful, so inviting, I strongly considered insinuating my presence by asking if I could borrow, or even pay for, a cup of coffee.
Instead, I climbed into the vehicle and drove out to Otay Valley Road and towards Datsun Street. Circling around the junkyards, there waited a gas station market, where I bought coffee and a burrito (eating only half, as it violated by low-carb diet). By the time I returned to Vista Pacifica Park, the sun had set and the baseball game ended.
But a new sound filled the air, drawing me like a Siren’s Call to the park’s back side, which overlooked the concert venue in the valley below. I recognized Rebelution’s “Sky is the Limit” appropriately rising. Man, brass instruments really carry—that and a cheering crowd. As dusk became night, I walked around the park, greeted by other walkers; mainly single parent with one kid or more.
Among them: A gentleman carrying a child on his shoulders, while another walked beside. As we approached, he calmed the little one saying that nobody would fall off daddy’s shoulders. We said hello to one another, and he and the kids left the paved way onto the grass, stopping at the fence. Feeling, a bit like a stalker in the darkness, I approached from behind and asked if the music could always be heard—and explaining my daughter attended the concert.
Yes, but not from his house, which I later learned was the one with open garage and friendly banter. Interesting the sound doesn’t carry, because the residence was no more than 200 meters away. His name is George. I didn’t ask his last name and, for privacy’s sake, wouldn’t reveal it here regardless.
I inquired about the neighborhood and expressed how family friendly and inviting it felt. His family was among the first residents, long before there was the park, moving in 2002. George looked out across the fence and pointed: “You can see Coronado Bridge”. He also observed that because the community is set on a hill, a sea breeze blows by. I had felt chilled by it, which was one reason for my walking around the park.
He pointed out Jupiter in the sky and wondered what was the other visible planet. I speculated Venus. He owns a 6-inch telescope, but hasn’t used it recently. I reminisced about seeing the glorious night sky, free from light pollution, growing up in Maine.
He pointed again, drawing his kids’ attention to the horizon, where fireworks burst over Sea World. The vantage point was delightful for me, not having seen them from so far away but living close enough to hear them every night they’re set off.
George has five kids. The four and seven year-olds were with him. The oldest is 23, and the others are 18 and 15. We walked and talked back towards his house, with the one child pulling on his clothes demanding attention. We parted with goodbyes.
I continued to circle the park, along its walkway, killing time, listening to music, and absorbing the spirit surrounding the community enclave. I shot the photo of the park sign around 9 p.m., in darkness, using iPhone 6. Twenty minutes later, my daughter texted that she would be ready to leave in about a half hour.
At any time after I initially dropped her at Sleep Train Amphitheater, I could have taken out my smartphone and used the maps app to orient and find a Starbucks. But what adventure would there in that?