8/30 Mission Beach, San Diego. We arrived at 9.30 last night and had to get up at 5am to meet our East Coast working schedule. We’re right on the boardwalk, where, the last time we were here three years ago, we figured we’d just want to be here many more days to enjoy the vibe of the place. I park on a red-painted stretch of the curb in front of the hotel, flashies on, to check in and get our stuff out. A police truck parks threateningly behind us and watches us for a full ten minutes, will not budge even as I would need just a little space to make it into the entrance of the hotel’s parking garage. I have to leave forward and make a u-turn two blocks away to re-enter the cul-de-sac. Outside the hotel: several bars, a seven-eleven, excellent coffee shop, a nine-eleven sculpture with an original piece of an iron beam in front of a fire station. Morning joggers on the boardwalk, roller skates and skate boards, guy with a scooter, a camouflage bag and a cup of coffee leaning on the fence of the lifeguard station, laughing and shouting erratic comments at passers-by.