August 2, San Diego. Sleeping with the balcony door open to the sound of the surf. Behind the glass door is a mosquito screen, with which we both almost collide several times.

The neighborhood here at Mission Beach looks sloppily cobbled together. Everyone has time on their hands. Boardwalk, morning fog. When we arrived, bonfires were burning on the beach. A garbage truck comes in the morning and empties the blue oil drums used for trash. Between eight and nine, the boardwalk fills up rapidly. Extremely low flying seagulls. The water is ice cold. We’re barely inside when the lifeguard on duty paddles up on a signal red surfboard and asks us to get back out, because this section of the beach is for surfing only. We can swim a few hundred meters up the beach. We are happy about the jumps of the kite surfers. Hardly anyone is in the water without a wetsuit, except for the small children.