Our columnist mulls the “special relationship” between Phoenix and the land of Ron Burgundy, fish tacos and liberated orcas.
by Amy Silverman | illustration by Samantha Mash
It happens a few times a year, late fall or early spring, when the air is balmy, the sky’s overcast and the temperature is just cool enough to make you shiver. My husband sticks his nose in the air during our morning walk, breathes deeply and sighs with happiness.
“Now this is San Diego weather,” he says.
There’s just nothing like a morning on the beach at low tide – before the sun has broken through the fog, when it’s just you and the seagulls digging for shells (you) and clams (the birds) in ocean-smoothed sand and the air feels so freaking good. I’ve spent pretty much my whole life chasing that feeling, rewarded just about every summer with one precious week on the beach. This annual family trip is so anticipated that my sister and I announce our depression as the first day approaches, knowing it’s almost over even before it’s begun.
These trips have always been sacred, and I hold onto the memories like a handful of the prettiest shells.
One of my earliest recollections is sitting in the back of our wood-paneled Oldsmobile station wagon, whizzing across the desert and watching the clock – waiting till my mom pulled another toy out of her Surprise Bag, tucked on the floor of the car by her feet. The downside: my dad turning off the air conditioner so the car could make the creaky climb up and down the mountains west of Yuma. And he wasn’t great about granting requests for bathroom breaks.
None of that mattered when the water came into sight.
Over 50-plus years we’ve stayed all over greater San Diego. Some locations were greater than others, for sure, but all memorable, like Vacation Village in Mission Bay, where I once snagged a toe on a fishing hook embedded in the green shag carpet in our cottage. I’ll never forget the way the arcade smelled at that place, very good and very bad at the same time – probably mildew, which we desert dwellers didn’t know much about. We wandered the halls of the grand Hotel del Coronado – looking for ghosts and celebrities. I’ve always been envious of the Arizonans who invested in high-rise condos on Coronado Island in the 1970s, the last time they were affordable. We had a favorite Mexican restaurant in Balboa Park where they served giant taco salads in fried tortilla bowls and virgin strawberry margaritas. We always went to SeaWorld and often to the San Diego Zoo.
When I grew up and had my own kids, we ditched some traditions and found new ones (bye Shamu, hello LEGOLAND).
Every summer, we still pile out of the car eager to check in on the local business gossip at the convenience store on the main drag of La Jolla’s north shore. Is the Cheese Shop still open? What happened to the fro-yo guy? How does the shop with the same dusty old trinkets every summer stay in business?
Of course, these small pleasures are nothing compared to the main attraction – the beach, the damp air that makes my hair curl in a good way for once. You know, San Diego weather.
I’d be willing to bet my cutest beach cover-up that no San Diego resident has ever raised a nose skyward and announced, “Now this is Phoenix weather.”
Not happily, anyway. And I’m not just talking about our scorching summers. Phoenix has plenty of gorgeous days, weather-wise. But our city has always been the kid with a crush on the prettiest girl in class, the girl who has no interest in an insecure ugly duckling.
We flood the Southern California beaches all summer, and the disdain toward Zonies, as they call us, is obvious – until they stop to celebrate all the money we spend. That wears off, replaced by permanent annoyance.
You’ve been there. You know.
Which is why I literally stopped in my tracks this spring in the San Diego airport. It was a quick weekend trip for my niece’s college graduation. Hustling to get outside to my cab (and that weather), I passed an airport art exhibit, a series of large-scale photographs, alternating between saguaro cactus and Joshua trees, the huge photos dyed with bright colors so you have a hot pink saguaro next to an electric blue Joshua tree. I shoved a catalog in my bag and kept going, but all weekend, I thought about that show.
Why would you hang gigantic images of these desert icons in the San Diego airport? Technically, San Diego is considered a “coastal desert” because of lower rainfall, but as you probably know, neither saguaros nor Joshua trees grow there. Saguaros hail from our Sonoran Desert, Joshua trees from the Mojave Desert.
To be honest, the photos are just OK, taken by an artist who lives in “midtown San Diego” and has a particular interest in the desert. Admittedly, I’m spoiled by the incredible desert photography by Phoenix-area artists Mark Klett, David Emitt Adams and so many more.
Still, it’s the thought that counts. And someone actually thought about Phoenix. Well, saguaro cactus. Close enough.
In less than 48 hours, my sister and I managed to totally burn the crap out of our faces (I know, I know), drink too much, and walk miles up and down the beach. Many vacations ago, I’d begun collecting sand dollars, and I plucked a few delicate specimens from the sand, carefully balancing them in my palm as I made my way from Pacific Beach to the roller coaster at Mission and back again.
Staring out at the ocean, I thought about my attachment to this place. It’s not about the people. They’re not bad, just not really my jam, and not only because they aren’t interested in out-of-towners. San Diego is a military town, conservative. And culturally, kind of boring. It’s more about the memories, the family vacations, days spent plowing through piles of books, evenings watching for an orange flash on the western horizon as the sun sets on another precious day.
So why do I care about what San Diego thinks of Phoenix?
Just before we left town, my sister and I got tattoos. She settled on a beach umbrella, I brought a photo of the best sand dollar I’d found that weekend. The artist was a sweetheart. He created the perfect, delicate likeness that now rests on the inside of my right arm. As he worked, I admired illustrations of whimsical, big-faced characters taped to the wall near his station.
He told me he got his artistic start in embroidery, and a friend advised him to put his needle to more lucrative use. He’d grown up in Puebla, Mexico, and had clearly traveled the world, so I braced myself for the inevitable question.
“Where are you from?”
“Phoenix.”
He paused his work, looked up.
“Oh, I’ve never been, but I hear Phoenix is a really great art town.”
I opened my mouth to say something like, “Oh, not really,” or “Seriously? Who told you that?”
Instead, I smiled and nodded.
“It is. You should visit.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes, thinking about my next tattoo. Something that celebrates Phoenix. Maybe Tovrea Castle?
Definitely.
