Josh Board was charming and with a lot more energy that anyone had a right to. It was a slightly chaotic atmosphere but completely pleasant, and I chain-smoked Mexican cigarettes watching him work on a couple of very thin cigars. If I would have known that Josh enjoyed puros, I would have smuggled a couple of Cohibas up with me. SD and Magics flanked me on either side - lucky me - with Josh’s cousin hanging out behind us and leaning on the rail. We were at The Field, out in the front patio, enjoying a mild San Diego evening. The drinks were mostly whisky sours, while I had some steady Bass Ale at my side and even a scotch for good measure.

As is wont to happen in the Gaslamp on any given night, there was an assortment of crazies and hipsters with some sane people sprinkled in. The crazies were beggars and street salesmen and some guy who played guitar for a fee. They all sound the same, with or without a musical instrument. Tijuana and the Gaslamp have that in common. Except that the Gaslamp is a different kind of pretty and a different kind of hip, I reckon they’re the same in many ways.

There is overpriced everything if you’re not careful.

The sane people were probably the five of us; most of the other people walking by on the sidewalk were a complete unknown. Many times when one meets three people never before united, with a sense of anticipation in having read each other and wondering what actual human contact would be like, it becomes awkward rather quickly. I have personally met several people over the years due to the wondrous phenomenon of the internet - and while I’ve never been disappointed, I must admit that there were moments of silence that hung like an ugly painting. This particular reunion, there were barely enough silent moments to change the conversation.

There simply wasn’t enough evening for everything.

It’s funny that the day before I had visions of waking up early, taking a route cab to downtown Tijuana, and spending an hour with Scott drinking Cuban coffee and talking about baseball and politics. Then I figured I would cross the border and get up to San Diego in time to have breakfast in one of those quaint downtown places, maybe some eggs and sausage and hash browns. Then I would look for a good used bookstore, maybe stroll around downtown. Eventually I would get to Borders bookstore and then to the Gaslamp a bit early. That was the beginning of a plan that never materialized.

Since I had gone to bed at four in the morning, I woke up just before noon with a nice hangover coming on. When I stay up late and write, the radio, a twelve-pack of Tecate lager, and a bottle of tequila usually accompany me. I sip the tequila slowly, but the longer the night the more comes out of the bottle. Every writer has a method.

Resigned to a change of what I had originally planned, I took my time getting out of the house, and I crossed the border at three in the afternoon. The Homeland Security Department representative did not like my absence of a passport, but grudgingly accepted my application copy, and I got out of there without much of a delay. I bought a newspaper and a ticket and boarded the trolley. It felt like old times – reading a newspaper to the rhythm of clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack – all of the way up until Market Street.

I went straight to Borders and spent my prerequisite one-hundred-and-something dollars on what I hope will be great literature.

The young lady behind me, outside of the black railing that separated the patrons from the pedestrians, seemed anxious. She stood silently watching everything while I was chatting with two ladies I had just met. One was perhaps my age, the other much younger. Some years ago, in high school, they were teacher and student, and had kept touch over the years and here they were having a cocktail at The Field. We spoke mostly literature, the younger lady was particularly interested in Steinbeck for his relationship with California. I recommended Saroyan for a different perspective and perhaps Bukowski for something more stark and urban.

After giving them the mandatory explanation of how I came to live in Mexico, complete with sordid details of the Tijuana streets balanced with the beauty of everyday life in Baja, I explained that I was waiting for some friends I had never met. I said there would be two ladies that I had never seen and a man who might or might not look like his picture. It was crowded on that patio so I gave up my chair for them to share. It was delightful conversation.

I caught sight of someone in the middle of that conversation with a copy of The Reader poking out of her handbag, seemingly done deliberately, standing at the entrance. The anxious young lady behind me ran over and met up with her, and they started to enter the inside of The Field, until I waved my arms and got their attention. It had to be SD and Magics. We exchanged hugs and greetings and began to chat, when SD wondered aloud where Josh was. It was exactly then when she turned and noticed someone starting to enter The Field.

I didn’t recognize the clean-shaven man from his picture, but SD did, and it was, indeed, Josh Board.

I left Borders with a large bag full of books and walked slowly and indecisively. What time was it? I asked a stranger wearing a wristwatch – four-fifteen. Whoa. And to think that when I woke up so late I was wondering if I would have enough time. Now I had three hours before our prearranged time to meet, not to mention that my hangover was finally at full force. I decided to kill both at the same time.

Upon entering The Field I was relieved that some things never change. The furniture is mostly made out of wood and the lighting is perfect, it always is. The place is so wonderfully static while usually attracting an eclectic group of dynamic people. Apparently, they even serve food. Patrons at the bar were watching field hockey, ostensibly from Europe, and I grabbed my Bass Ale and made my way back out to the front patio.

Guarded by a black wrought iron gate with a thick wooden bar on the inside, one of the great attractions in this particular patio of the Gaslamp are the people walking past me. It’s worth the trip alone. People walking dogs, beautiful ladies, people trying to sell me things.

“Hey, man, you like hip-hop?” said one guy with compact discs in hand.

Other people just want money. I get plenty of that in Tijuana, too, but throw it in with people walking dogs, beautiful girls walking by, tourists gawking, a bag full of books, and ale that I can’t get at home, and it’s a more than worthy road trip. Halfway into my beer, because the lack of alcohol adores more alcohol, my hands stopped trembling and I made a mental note to lay off of the tequila for a few days. I tried to get into my book, but a guy from San Diego Gas & Electric was a few feet away and trying his damnedest to pry open a small piece of metal – a portal - on a large grate on the floor with a screwdriver in order to get a gas meter reading.

He looked up at me, perplexed. “They glued it,” he said.

“They get a lot of traffic in here at night,” I told him. “Someone might have tripped on it, maybe that’s why they glued it.

“Oh, I know they get crowded, I’ve been here in the evening,” he admitted, grinning.

He went back to his truck and brought more tools. The floor grate appeared to be constructed in two halves. He carefully unscrewed and removed the bolts of the side of the grate that would give him access to the meter – the side that the portal was on, and then tried to pry the grate open with the screwdriver. It didn’t work.

“Undo the bolts on the other side of the grate,” I suggested. “Maybe they’re interconnected.

He took out the bolts on the other side of the grate as I watched. Then he went into prying mode again, no dice. He was now frustrated as a waitress came out to take stock on what he was up to. He filled her in on the details.

“So, the meter hasn’t been read in three months,” he concluded. “We’ll get someone out to fix this metal portal.”

She shrugged. “Do you know when?”

“I couldn’t guess.”

She went back inside and he remained determined to get into the grate.

“If they’re truly interrelated, maybe the other side has to be raised first,” I said. It was the engineer in me talking.

Sure enough, he raised the other side and it opened. He couldn’t hold it up and look in to see if the meter was indeed there, the grate halves were too heavy.

“Little help?” he asked.

I dutifully held that portion of the grate open for him.

“There it is, but I can’t read it.”

Then he began prying again on the still-closed side of the grate, apparently the prying technique is normally successful.

“No, just lift the entire other half up,” I suggested.

It worked. I held both parts of the heavy grate open as he leaned down to take a reading on the meter. His pen dropped out of the front pocket of his shirt and into the foot of water at the bottom of the cement-encased cavity, perhaps four feet deep from ground level. It didn’t smell like a good place to go after it.

“There goes another one,” he said.

He took the reading of the meter and thanked me, and I wished him a good evening. I had accomplished my good deed for the day. I got back into my book and ordered another beer. People started filling in the front patio area and soon there were no seats. The shadows grew as the sun played tricks on anyone looking eastward.

Everything was bittersweet with Magics, it was the first thing I noticed. In her eyes I saw sadness and happiness at the same time, a conflicted emotional sense that I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted to project. She loves San Diego so much. I wanted to console her.

“You’ll be back,” I predicted. “I know you love this place.”

She didn’t answer. How does one come to terms with leaving paradise? This is, after all, paradise. Here there is perfect weather, palm trees, beautiful people, just the right amount of chaos in just the right amount of order and real authentic Mexican food less than twenty miles south. Seattle is a beautiful city, but it isn’t San Diego. It isn’t America’s finest.

And as the saying goes, you can take the girl out of Americas Finest, but you can’t take America’s Finest out of the girl.

Josh’s cousin was an outstanding fellow, even if I couldn’t get him to come into the patio.

“Come in, have a beer, or just a soda,” I said.

“It’s my diet. Besides, I like leaning against this fence.”

He was quite engaging. He was convinced that I was a liberal based on some of what he read, but perhaps I left him with another, different impression. After a couple of stories about Mexico, some political discussion, and various asides, I found him to be genuine and interesting. I regret not asking more questions about him, about who he is.

SD’s shoes were fabulous. She is every bit as smart and witty – perhaps even more so – as I imagined. We spoke briefly on literature, and even more briefly on other subjects. I especially enjoyed, out of the corner of my eye, watching Suz and Josh chat. Seemingly diametrically opposed, they found common ground. All people should find common ground.

I look forward to lunching with Suz sometime soon.

With Josh, my curiosity was simple. Is he is how he writes? I think that is the greatest measuring stick of all – to be how you write. And he certainly was. Lots of energy, the spontaneous and almost non sequitur changing of topics, and opinions, regardless of rebuttal. If you want to know Josh Board, just read his columns and his blogs. There is nothing more admirable than a man who is who he is.

Suddenly it was almost midnight. Magics’ rental car was about to turn into a pumpkin. We hugged long good-byes and then left as I finished by last beer. It was suddenly cold. This is what happens.

I walked a few blocks up to the trolley station and stood there with the crowd. The crazies were out, the homeless, mentally not quite in step with the rest of us, yelling at people for no apparent reason. Entertainment on the cheap. The trolley took forever to arrive, it might have been the last one of the evening. It took a long time to arrive at San Ysidro. Luckily, I had books to pass the time.

We got off of the trolley and walked the ramp, spiraling upward, and then crossed interstate five. Once down and on the west side of the freeway, I asked a paisano for the time.

“Casi la uno,” he said.

Almost one in the morning, holy crap! I got a metered taxi, twelve dollars home this time of night, and the driver went on about how his last fare had stiffed him. He held up a delicate gold necklace. The entire ride to my house, he went on and on about it, holding it up to shine against the lights of the oncoming traffic. Finally, we arrived.

I opened a beer and attempted to log on to the internet, without success. After a few tries, I went upstairs, and Rocio was there in bed, I woke her up.

“How did it go?”

“Good people,” I said. “Really good people.”

She smiled, and then turned onto her side as I got undressed and crawled into bed. She began to gently snore, and I decided that I could easily fall asleep to that sound. I could sleep to that just as easily as I could sleep to the clack-clacking of the trolley. Or just about any other thing that feels right.