The Sunrise Cafe

In theory, I am obsessed with exploring the California coastline. In practice, I usually just say that I'm obsessed with exploring the California coastline, and leave it at that, as when I make the trek back to San Diego from Los Angeles (or to any other location), I like to get from Point A to Point B in as little time as possible. Call it a short attention span or a lack of good music on my iPod.

Not so, today. My drive back finally involved exploration, and I'm glad it did.

The place was San Clemente, a town I recognize as the place Nixon hung out at in Frost/Nixon and more importantly, the city where the fantastic Brick was shot. The high school that the story takes place in is right off the freeway, and when I'm driving with people past it, I point it out to them. Their response is usually "What's Brick?" I then mutter that it's a good movie, and that it's on Netflix and people should watch it, if they're into noir-stuff or, you know, good movies.

It is worth noting that I had never stopped and looked around that high school though, despite it being a pretty neat landmark for a film geek such as myself. Again, can't stop to smell the roses sometimes.

But this time, I tricked myself. Instead of going to Subway near my apartment, mostly because I went there last night and didn't wanna seem like the guy that always goes to Subway every day for nearly every meal, I drove straight to the way home. That way, by about 1:15, I was really hungry, forcing myself to pull off into the strange new land that was San Clemente.

I still didn't do much exploration; I basically pulled off of an exit and found the first eatery that seemed interesting. I like sunrises, and cafes are pretty neat, so on paper the Sunrise Cafe seemed a perfect place to eat.

That is not to say it is a perfect place. It's a strange corner shop, dimly lit, duct tape covering tears in their vinyl bench seats. Still life oil paintings that are technically proficient but artistically lacking on one wall, and posters of famous dead folk from the mid-twentieth century (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and James Dean) on the opposing wall. A place so dim and lacking in an identity it would be awkward and sad if it weren't so Americana and charming. Sounds confusing, but trust me, it's comforting. Also, it's ironic that I say Americana, because I think it is ran by an Asian woman who strikes me as not being from here, originally. But really, what's more Americana than that?

Service was quick and friendly, because besides myself, there was maybe one other person in there, seemingly a regular taking his time with his experience, and talking to the workers. Startled by their proficiency, I rushed into ordering a Reuben sandwich, which came out to me quicker than I think I ordered it. I was assured by the Asian lady that it was the best sandwich in the restaurant though, after she noticed I was running low on Diet Pepsi and my server had not rectified that yet. Not that the server really needed to, as it was still about half-empty at best. They were just really on top of service, I suppose.

Also, a dude mopping asked me how I was doing when he mopped past me. I said good, again surprised by how nice everyone was.

When I left, they questioned my turning up in their quaint cafe. They assumed I was going to San Diego, and then weren't surprised when I said I was coming from LA. They insisted everyone who comes from LA to SD comes through their cafe because they have great breakfast and a good Reuben. I saw a lot more cars on the freeway than I saw people in the cafe, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but who am I to argue?

Then they got even more personal by asking me if I worked in LA. I stammered that I had just finished school, and was still looking for a job.

"What major?"

"Oh, um, film."

"Ohhhhhh like Oscars? Fun."

The server/now cashier chimed in. "We'll put a star next to this and keep it in case you become famous so we can say we served you."

I probably blushed and laughed bashfully at this comment. "Fingers crossed; I hope I can help you out there," knowing that the chances are slim, but it's nice to have small bits of support like that.

More so, it was just nice that they asked me how I was doing, and what I was about. I didn't expect that from a place so strange.

The sandwich was good, not great by any means, but I felt good after the meal that could've very easily been quite depressing. Dining alone in a dim and non-pretentious restaurant in a foreign city can be quite the downer for a brightly pretentious person.

Instead, I felt good, and decided what type of introspective stuff I was going to try to write about when I got to my laptop at home. Instead of enjoying the experience for what it was, an adventure and a good payoff of said adventure, I thought about how it'd influence something I'd write, which I don't know is the right way to enjoy things.

Luckily, I saw an Arizona license plate that read a number, then the letters DYX. That threw me off my pretentious writer mode, and into 12 year old mode.

"HAHA, that license plate sounds like 14 dicks when read aloud!*"

It's good to know I can still enjoy some things without over-thinking them.

*The number was not actually 14; I didn't want to write out someone's license plate for all the internet to see.

In Which I Go Clubbing

Hey, you know what's a good idea? Throwing me on a bus with a load of attractive girls and better-looking-than-me guys, then throwing me into a club with even more of the aforementioned situation.

This sounds like a situation where I would get too drunk and do something stupid, but I didn't. Call it maturity, I guess.

There is a party bus that departs from Rancho San Diego every Thursday at around 10 PM and takes folks downtown to go hang out wherever (I say "wherever" because I have a passing idea of where we went to, but couldn't fully explain where I was to my mom). Tonight's bus featured a lotta jock-types from high school I knew who, contrary to popular stereotypes, are actually pretty great dudes. It was those guys, me and mine, and the ever-dreaded girls.

The girl that mattered to me wasn't on the bus though. And again, before you think of anything cool this might turn into, realize the story will be anti-climactic. You'll have to get used to that.

Remember the Brazilian girl from two nights ago? The night I may or may not have slept in a car? Right, well she was there. She walked past, and I kinda double-taked her, and she did too. We hugged, and I think she might've kinda kissed me on the cheek.

I obviously became flustered as heck. She walked away, and only saw her in passing for the rest of the night. But honestly, the fact that I made a big enough of a likeable impact that she said hi to me several nights later made me feel like the most competent ladies' man on earth, despite the fact that I am very much not.

But that still made the night feel like a victory.

That coupled with hanging out with my best friends, watching one of them try to ride a mechanical bull, and almost being socially capable in large and a crowd I'm very awkward in, made for a pretty darn great night.

I talked to my Mom this morning about the night being interesting from an "anthropological perspective," ensuring that I sounded pretentious enough to indicate that I did not have anywhere near a conventionally good time. I did intend to write about the absurdity of being thrown on a dim crazy bus where bumping and grinding were only interrupted by the occasional speed bump and paying too much for drinks and realizing my new vice isn't blacking out but rather eating food, and observing at a distance the more base qualities of hooking up in dark places and something depressing and what-have-you--

But you know what? I think I'm just going to let it go at being a good night.

I did something I'm pretty sure I have never done in San Diego. I didn't sleep in my bed for two nights in a row.

Before you imagine anything cool, there was nary a girl involved. We slept wherever we could, as we had too much to drink two days in a row. One night was a friend's house, the other night may or may have not been a car (if my mom ever reads this, it definitely wasn't a car).

This last evening, we went out to PB. One of us went at about 6 in the morning to walk to McDonald's. Upon exiting the car, he vomited a little bit. Then he apparently vomited more on the way to McDonald's.

Before that, another one of us was not allowed into a bar because he was deemed too drunk.

Interestingly enough, I was neither of those people, which, if you know me, should come as a surprise.

I spent my evening making conversation with an attractive Brazilian woman. Only, by spending my evening I mean trying to decipher bad English in a loud establishment for about three minutes. But, again, if you know me, that's kind of a big deal. Ultimate victory.

We drove home around 7:15 in the AM. As such, we got to drive past downtown San Diego and the ocean area during sunrise.

If you could imagine that scenario for a second, you'd probably think it to be quite gorgeous. If you're less imaginative, here's a photo:


Pretty, right? Today's sunrise actually looked a bit nicer. In a slightly tired, mostly hung over daze, driving home with this was spectacular. It makes me really sad that I don't live here full time any more. It almost makes me rethink this whole "live in LA" thing a lot. And while Downtown SD is pretty, I miss the hills of El Cajon the most when I'm away.

That's right, I'm romanticizing East County. Deal with it.