A few things I miss about San Diego

Or, ruminations a month away from going home:

Open windows all the time, the breeze tugging on lace curtains and slowly rocking the white lights over both windows in my room. And the breeze could smell like juniper or magnolia or sage, depending on which direction it is coming from. In the summer, a rich carpet of vibrant purple jacaranda blossoms in the backyard. The refreshing cool of a hardwood floor on bare feet. Three people and a dog in a close-quarters kitchen that always smells delicious.

Going to the cove to snorkel early on Saturday morning, when the water is frigid the moment you step in and you think your body will never adjust, but you’re making your way just fine four or five minutes later. And afterwards, going to one of the dependable hole-in-the-wall Mexican food places, either the one on the main drag in Ocean Beach or just a mile down from the House, for a burrito in a fresh flour tortilla with beans and eggs and cheese that tastes oh-so-good after burning so many calories so early in the day.

Driving over and through the mesas, thinking for a moment the landscape is too dry and brown to be pretty, but a moment later recognizing the desert has a beauty of its own. The familiar malls with the stores that never change; only the prices do. Friday night lights, with just enough of an edge of fall that you have to bundle up to enjoy the football game that showcases the marching band. All the places to go: Julian in the mountains with its cuteness and apple pies, Sunset Cliffs and its comforting clamor of waves, Balboa Park with its beautiful buildings and lush gardens.

The wind blowing through the eucalyptus tree in the canyon, just past the property line, as the sun sinks into the ocean, out of sight, but the sky is aflame with peach or red or purple or gold or orange, or a combination that defies definition.

Familiar habits, like popcorn flavored with butter and taco seasoning for movie nights. And the smell of charcoal and barbeque, always. Sitting by the fire with Dad, so we both end up smelling like smoke. Sometimes he brings his guitar outside and the music floats up with the smoke to the stars, which you can see pretty well when the stadium lights aren’t on. And they aren’t much anymore, I understand, now that they built a baseball stadium downtown.

Sometimes you can hear the coyotes at night; sometimes they go bezerk. But usually it’s very quiet, and there’s just tired voices and laughter. Much laughter.