Sometimes, in the midst of life and its proverbial ten thousand things, you need to stop and remember, with gratitude, where you are.
I’m in San Diego.
I’m taking a little time out from travel issues to attend the annual convention of the National Association of Black Journalists here in San Diego at the Manchester Grand Hyatt. It’s wonderful to be surrounded by so much talent, so many bright, dedicated, energetic, committed professionals — who happen to look like me.
It feels even better to see so many of them enjoying my hometown.
There’s a Latin saying which, when translated into English, means “bloom where you are planted.” Circumstances planted me in one of the loveliest cities in the United States.
Being a fan of irony, it has not escaped my notice that I created a blog dedicated getting away from a place that millions of people are annually dying to get to.
I sat down to write this after strolling the second- and third-floor corridors of the Manchester Grand Hyatt, watching folks who were just standing in front of the full-length picture windows and staring out at the view.
And what a view.
To the east, there’s the San Diego skyline. When I first got here in 1975, the phrase “San Diego skyline” was a punchline. Now, it’s a reality — office towers, high-rise apartments and condominiums, and one relatively new baseball stadium, Petco Park.
Looking the other way, you can gaze out over San Diego Bay. Off your right shoulder is the Embarcadero and the USS Midway museum, where visitors can get a self-guided tour of life aboard one of the country’s longest serving aircraft carriers. The view off your other shoulder treats you to Seaport Village and the gently curving arc of the San Diego-Coronado Bridge.
On the other side of the bay is Coronado, starting with North Island Naval Air Station. The huge Nimitz-class carriers tied up over there are not museums, a silent, somber reminder that the world is not quite yet the place of peace we would all wish it to be.
When you’re not seeing seagulls gliding across the horizon, you’re hearing them call to one another. Sailboats cruise south toward waiting docks, past warships churning north toward Point Loma and the open waters of the Pacific.
You’re not being fried by unbearable heat nor feeling as if you’re swimming standing up through a suffocating sea of humidity.
Unless you’re one of those folks who fervently believes that suffering is good for the soul, who would not want to be here?
I’ll add the visual evidence later. Right now, back to the convention!