Pleasantville, with a nude beach

Dozens of visits to San Diego haven’t dampened my enthusiasm for the city on the sea. Surrounded by Mexico, mountains, dessert, and the Pacific Ocean, San Diego makes full use of its unreasonably good fortune in terms of location, weather, resources, and lifestyle options.

From the Gaslamp Quarter downtown, where nightly revelers pack the 16 city blocks of restaurants, bars, and clubs offering good reason to pack on your dancing shoes, to the Old Town State Historic Park filled with the good, the bad, and the tschotchke from Mexico you’ll find a brand new "city" in every neighborhood, any one of which would be worth a visit on its own merit.

It seems there's nothing that can’t be found to buy in San Diego. Antiques, art, artifacts, belts, books, crystals, designer togs, furnishings, eel skin boots, in short, from A to Z you’ll find so many options your eyes will glaze. Nor is there anything that can’t be undertaken in terms of outdoor activities. From golf to surf, gliding to hiking, ballooning to scuba, not only can it be done in San Diego, it can be done at your choice of venue.

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The beaches are San Diego’s most obvious tourist attractions and each of the communities that line the stretch of sea from Coronado (isthmus, not island), to Pacific Beach to Del Mar take advantage of this in their own unique ways by catering to diners, shoppers, surfers, and pleasure seekers with hundreds of restaurants, cafes, and diversions. A bit inland some truly beautiful, pastoral communities such as Rancho Santa Fe and Rancho Bernardo take gentility to new heights - sometimes literally - when late afternoon skies fill with remarkably colorful passenger balloons and horses grace the grassy polo fields.

Besides Sea World’s Shamu, to me the true centerpiece of San Diego is Balboa Park, which plays hosts to the World Famous San Diego Zoo (the official name, I think) and also to thirteen various museums housed in buildings that represent the "Spanish Golden Age" of architecture. Visit the Museum of Man or the Rueben H. Fleet Science Center and see that there is so much more to San Diego than beautiful, tanned, athletic, sushi-munching surfers. There are also athletic, beautiful, tanned, supporters of the arts and sciences, for instance.

Speaking of La Jolla...

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La Jolla, just north of San Diego near the University of California, Torrey Pines Park, and Scripps Institution of Oceanography, is a place I’d like to clone. The ambiance, the seaside park and seal cove, fabulous shopping and dining and a true "South of France" atmosphere are everyday pleasures for residents and visitors to this area.

In spite of its obvious upscale reputation, like all truly classy places it is really more posh than pretentious. City founders, including many illustrious artists, actors, and activists, helped plan a Village with a vision clearly influenced by the grand and glorious from other times and places. Tree-lined boulevards, grand public spaces, the Museum of Modern Art and La Jolla Playhouse all reflect this vision. The famous Child’s Beach, which has been taken over by a rookery of seals and is now federally protected, was originally created as a safe spot for local children to swim. These days kids of all ages get their kicks at the Cove and La Jolla Shores beaches. Surfers head to Windandsea Beach for big waves or up the coast to Blacks Beach, where if you’re willing to hike the steep path you’ll find that nude beach.

As I’d been to San Diego many times in the past, I wanted to try something new and stay in downtown La Jolla. After consulting the IGOUGO San Diego journals, I was convinced La Valencia might be worth its rather steep tariff. So, using my Travel Club membership, I booked a decent rate through the website.

A confirmation declared I would be placed in an oceanfront room for $325 per night and conveniently included very clear and specific directions to the hotel from the airport, greatly appreciated as I made my way there after a late night arrival.

All apprehensions surrounding the value of my hotel splurge were soon dissipated as I made my way into the lobby of the glamorous (in the old Hollywood/Titanic style of glam) establishment. Past a bougainvillea-draped, palm tree-shaded courtyard down a Spanish tiled hall bedecked with glorious blossoms and objet d’art, I arrived at the registration desk and remembered then to close my gaping jaw. After a cleansing sigh, the good kind, I was informed I had been upgraded to an oceanfront suite and my butler would meet me at the doorway to introduce me to the workings of the room.

The original old pink-stucco Hotel La Valencia begins at Prospect and Girard, but extends via a series of individual lodges, additions and newer villas down the hill. So it was a pleasant surprise following a long trip down many staircases past the glittering pool and gardens that I found my villa with a private entrance unto the street across from the park that borders the famed La Jolla Cove. I dismissed my butler and ambled into the park feeling as if I were a Holly Go Lightly with an apartment in the World’s Best Village.

The Villa interior supported the fantasy. So spacious, so cool, so luxurious with every detail noted; a walk-in closet and extra down pillows, mini-kitchen stocked with coffees, teas and toaster. Shutters offered a window to the world outside but complete privacy to me. Just outside my door was a very private courtyard filled with tropical blossoms.

The bathroom was celebrity status. Big enough to pamper, small enough to be comfortable, this Goldilocks, er, Holly, pronounced it "just right." The utterly fabulous steam shower featured multiple jets, water pressure to put a masseuse out of business and an overhead "rain forest" option should an entirely new fantasy light mid-stream. The whirlpool bath was perfect with built-in padded headrest and a small TV where I watched the E Channel countdown of the century’s funniest movies and laughed until my fingertips shriveled.

It was a tad chilly during my visit so I didn’t use the beautiful pool for swimming but I did use the lounge chairs to sit languorously and watch the gorgeous sunset and people parade down by the shore. Then, I adjusted my boa, blew air kisses to the hotel staff and valet parking kid and toddled off to dinner at the Star.

"My roommate works at some sushi bar. Let’s check it out," was my son’s suggestion for an early dinner after the day at the zoo.

As we approached Café Japengo, I was struck with déjà vu, recalling now many times I’d stayed at the Hyatt and waited anxiously in the jam-packed bar for a table while the collection of the world’s most beautiful young people strutted their toned biceps and muscular calves around me. My head was usually awhirl while observing the fantastic collection of fashion, food and sex appeal that was served up regularly at Japengo.

"Your friend doesn’t work at some sushi bar," I corrected, "he works at the sushi bar." It amazed me to think that someone gets paid to witness the spectacle of "San Diego’s finest" on a daily basis and eat the sushi here, too.

Café Japengo has been voted San Diego’s top sushi bar (and there are loads of sushi places in San Diego) for seven consecutive years by San Diego Magazine. Part of it is surely the "scene" at this popular eatery, but it couldn’t endure all these years based on that alone. Anyone knows how fickle the "hipsters" are. They’d have scurried off to somewhere new long before now were the sushi not so utterly scrumptious.

Fortunately, arriving unfashionably early dressed in post-zoo wear, I didn’t feel self-conscious about not sporting the latest from Vogue (or Paper, or whatever); we pretty much had the place to ourselves. We obviously didn’t have to wait for a table and chose to brave the slight chill on the outdoor patio under the familiar "heaters" of San Diego. Later in the evening a fireplace was set aglow providing additional warmth and atmosphere.

A new waitress trainee was being taught her steps by a more seasoned veteran who stood a few paces behind her and observed her every word. We must have been her only customers. That was a good thing. She needed a little experience before I’d send her to do battle with the regulars on a heavy night.

But regardless of the somewhat shaky service we overindulged in an assortment of specialty rolls (rainbow, dynamite, japengo special) and sushi from the bar menu. Our first appetizer, the Black Bean Honey Glazed Shrimp with Green Papaya Salad and Sweet Lime Chili Sauce ($12.00) was really delicious and almost rendered the sushi order excessive. Almost.

Besides sushi, Japengo actually does offer entrees and desserts. Wood roasted oven duckling or lamb, pan-roasted sea bass, filet of beef, short ribs and the famous "ten ingredient fried rice" give plentiful options to anyone who dines here. For those who manage to save some room, the menu tempts with chocolate lava cake, sorbets and the Firecracker, with Granny Smith Apples, Sun Dried Strawberries, Fresh Fruit, and Kiwi Coulis ($6.75.)

To be part of the "scene" arrive late and be prepared to wait, or go at 5 and really enjoy yourself.

During an earlier visit to San Diego I had wandered into a little taco shack following a hearty shopping jaunt having noticed that the place was bustling with activity, although all the nearby eateries were deserted. The crowds at Wahoo’s were a sure sign I was onto something good and just exactly what was good was easy to surmise; one patron after the other ordered the fish tacos.

At that time, fish tacos were a weird and unlikely combination of food items in my mind, as I’d yet to be introduced to the wonderful flavors of Tex-Mex, or in the case of Wahoo’s, Hawaiian-Mex cuisine. But I took a chance and found a flavor that would linger in my memory and not be satisfied easily elsewhere. Considering I’ve lived in the Tex-Mex capital of cuisine (Austin, TX) and the place where Hawaiian food originated, it says a lot that I clamor for the particular type of fish tacos and side dishes that are served up at Wahoo’s. No where have I found better.

Walk into Wahoo’s in La Jolla and be ready for a bright-light, garish visual overload as every square inch of the place is plastered with vibrant surf stickers exploding with the sport’s energy. Sidewalk surfing claims it’s rights with a giant placard stating, "Skateboarding is not a crime!" Videos of extreme sports play on the overhead TV screens, and if you don’t drop salsa down the front of your shirt while being awed by the guys doing flips off the sides of mountains on their motocross machines, well, I’ll buy you a drink. Wahoo’s serves beer and wine but no margaritas, even though the food really cries out for some top drawer tequila and limes.

Place your order at the counter and have a choice of white or brown rice, pinto or black beans, chicken, beef, shrimp, fish or bean enchiladas and tacos. Sides include Maui onion rings, guacamole, salsa and chips. There are Big Kahuna options and Maui Wraps. The statement of dedication to customer satisfaction and the highest quality food ingredients ends with a warm hearted, "Mahalo." Reading it I had to check my coordinates -- was I still in Hawaii? Of course not! There are no Wahoo’s in Hawaii!

Within a few minutes our waiter delivered two giant platters to the table. Ah, the cabbage cloaked grilled fish taco was just as I remembered it. The cheese smothered chicken enchilada formed a fitting duet in the gastronomical glee club. Even the rice, mixed with a bit of the spicy salsa and fresh and fragrant cilantro played a great top note.

Wahoo’s is delicious food at a bargain price with an ultra-casual, happy atmosphere. They seems to respect what’s fresh, young and Hawaiian. There’s no doubt that Hawaii would offer major mahalo, aloha and respect if only Wahoo would please come to the islands. Till then, you’ll just have to go to So. Cal. for Hawaiian-Mex this good.

Living in Hawaii I have the good fortune of regularly eating outstanding seafood in some very superior seafood restaurants. Thus, when I’m away from home and find myself in the proximity of the ocean, I long for fresh fish. After expressing this desire to my son, who is a San Diego resident, he cleverly directed us without further adieu to the venerable Star of the Sea located in downtown San Diego next to the harbor.

Our arrival was met by much fanfare --the exploding of fireworks over the city, which I soon learned was a nightly occurrence in the famed Gaslamp section of town. After our share of oohs and aahs and grateful exclamations of our good fortune to be here this perfect warm San Diego evening, we entered the sophisticated foyer of the restaurant built right over the water with celebrated architectural acclaim.

With buoyant spirits and anticipatory cravings we were lead immediately to our table. Candle lighting, neutral colors, specially designed textiles and painted ceilings, plush booths and various cozy levels made the room immediately inviting. Through walls of glass the harbor lights twinkled, the old sailing ship, Star of the Sea, docked permanently alongside, bobbed to and fro to a soothing rharbor rhythm. Our booth was in the corner of the restaurant where our head waiter, assisted by two eager attendants, made certain we were catered to in every way possible.

After perusing a fantastic assortment of appetizers , we settled on a bowl of steamers and the roasted beet and goat cheese salad, which both proved to be scrumptious ways to intrigue our tastebuds in preparation for the main course. We debated a bit about which would be the most fitting, most perfectly satisfying selection for our piqued appetites; seabass is always a treat, but the thought of Cioppino and Red Chili Linguine made our mouths water. In the end, I followed the waiter’s sage advice and ordered the Halibut with Foie Gras while my son stayed firm with the seabass.

Delicate, perfectly sauted, wonderfully complimented by the side dishes, I pronounced the halibut/foie gras combination perhaps the most exquisite seafood dish I’d ever eaten. It was all perfect already when friends who I hadn’t seen in years and we’d chance to meet while admiring the fireworks outside, sent over a bottle of delectable Paul Hobbs wine. I must admit that put the meal and the evening right over the top.

Star of the Sea has jazz performances on Thursday nights, and a light menu is also served at the ultra-cool bar. Next door, the San Diego institution of Anthony’s Seafood House, the sister restaurant to Star, serves up wonderful food in a bit more casual setting. For decades this restaurant family has delighted visitors and residents to San Diego. Regardless of which venue you choose, I’m certain you’ll finish the evening with spirits high and taste buds singing.

La Jolla is so tranquil, so gentile, so relaxing, that you just can’t help but be drawn into the grand art of lingering here. People linger everywhere; at cafes, at the parks, by the shore drive, at the beach. This city by the cove, the Riviera of America, promotes the sort of atmosphere that suggests hurrying is a waste of time, as time is indeed the most precious of all riches.

So of course you’ll have brunch at the simply perfect Mediterranean Room, tropical patio or ocean view terrace at La Valencia Hotel. Stepping into the al fresco courtyard you will question whether you’ve accidentally been transported to Naples. How could such a marvelously bedecked option exist outside of France or Italy? Bougainvillae drape over the brick wall and gigantic coco palms shade the pristine courtyard. The staff, elegant, but not the least bit stuffy, make you feel as if you are the celebrity next door as they pour another mimosa and invite you to try dozens of dishes.

The uncomfortable situation created by most buffet or brunch lines is absent here. Although you are in charge of fetching your own food choices from the vast array artfully arranged on ice sculptures, on carving tables and under silver warmers, there will be no line-ups or weariness. Here you feel more like a guest at a small dinner party who is encouraged to try everything. You will be tempted to, that’s for certain.

Salads with exotic, exquisite ingredients such as baby artichokes and hearts of palms, heirloom tomatoes layered with handmade mozzarella, grilled mediterranean vegetables, proscuitto, caper berries, cornichens, bagels and lox and French cheeses start the feast. Next you are invited to try an array of shell fish; jumbo shrimp, giant and plentiful crab legs and poached salmon with homemade mayonnaise and tartar sauces. The usual well-prepared and cooked to ordered breakfast foods, from blueberry blintzes to eggs benedict, omelets to Belgian waffles with fruit sauce, are other choices. To be honest, I barely took a peak at the regiment of meat, fish and chicken dishes cloaked like silver knights at attention, but did notice a carving station all sorts of succulent roasted meats.

We had already made at least three visits to the banquet tables as we nibbled our way through the cold courses when we had to raise the white flag. "Oh, you can’t miss dessert!" our waitress insisted as we grabbed our glasses before she filled them yet again. From the time we sat down and announced "mimosa" from the offered choices of champagne, orange juice or the heavenly combination of the two, she had been determined never to let the elixir of relaxation and digestion drop below the rim of our glass.

Dessert seemed impossible in spite of our good waitress’s urgings. But somehow, after lingering a little longer, we found ourselves moving toward the tower of tropical fruits and teeny little slices of chocolate mousse cake...

We were on our way to our car expecting to log some miles in our search breakfast when my son spotted the gathering under the rose trellis down the street from our hotel.

"That place looks cool," he said. "Let’s just go there."

Absolutely. The tiny little cottage sat just far enough from the sidewalk to provide a perfect cozy space for the front yard patio dining. Umbrellas shaded patrons from the vivid, but not hot, San Diego sunshine and happy sounding conversation drifted between the tables as easily as the breezes from the ocean.

A perfect white picket fence delineated the restaurant clientele from mere passersby although a table was set up on the sidewalk offering tasty bites of baked goods, coffee and lemon infused iced water to anyone who cared to try them. Already delightful in its gentile forethought and generosity, we were certain this would be a great choice.

Minutes later a perfectly suited girl-next-door smiled us through the garden gate and settled us into our table where Ramon, sporting chiseled bones and unnecessary braces, acted as though he’d found his oasis on the dry dessert journey to stardom.

"Fresh squeezed lemonade? Iced tea? Half and half?" he offered us immediately.

There was no doubt I’d be having the California Benedict, that is the traditional eggs benedict served with avocado and turkey replacing the Canadian bacon. But first, fresh fruit with a dipping sauce of strawberry crème fraiche found the center of our table and quickly disappeared with a melt-in-your-mouth delectability.

Other traditional and innovative offerings for breakfast include; the Mashed Potato Omelette, filled with bacon, cheese and mashed potatoes; World Famous Oatmeal Pancakes, stuffed with blueberries or bananas; eggs and meatloaf hash; breakfast burritos; and truly special homemade on the premise muffins, cinnamon rolls and buttermilk coffee cake.

Beyond brunch, The Cottage offers California cuisine, described on their menu as "light, fun and grilled with distinctive flavors from the Southern California sun." Examples are grilled salmon salad, fish tacos, turkey or portabella mushroom wraps, California burgers (again, with the avocado), and waldorf chicken salad croissant.

The "Columbine" cottage has existed in the La Jolla area since the turn of the century and was once home to the Dr. Edward Howard family, who like so many La Jolla residents, was active in civic affairs helped to shape the face of this idyllic community. Although restored and remodeled since its origination, the cottage carries with it the charm of many eras.

And none so distinctly as the present.

It takes a lot of confidence to open a new restaurant in La Jolla. To pull it off successfully, one should offer the public something very unique, or at least have a suave French accent. The proprietors of My Place, a father-son team, have both going for them.

The restaurant had only been opened a few weeks when we happened upon it during a recent stop in San Diego. Charming little bistro tables nestled under protective umbrellas provided an inviting setting which drew us in for a late lunch on a semi-sunny day. The co-owner greeted us immediately, assuring us that he was very pleased we’d decided to stop in and take a chance on his new, un-established, un-rated, bistro. He offered us personalized attention and a glass of fabulous French white wine.

The menu was not yet printed, so the waitress repositioned the chalkboard to avail us of the lunch choices: sandwiches of fresh halibut, salmon or chicken; salads Nicoise, spinach, or Caesar; and soups of tomato/fennel or seafood chowder. She also recited some daily specials including steak frites and pastas, making settling on a choice the challenge of the day.

Once we had decided and asked for the wine list, the elder of the owner-duos arrived at our table and revealed his dinner menu would include steamed mussels and other delicacies, hoping to draw us back later. Since returning was not an option, he allowed my husband to have the first serving of the much touted mollusks ahead of schedule.

As my husband enjoyed his bowl of steamed mussels, I savored a cup of deliciously fresh tomato-fennel soup. I was surprised that my husband ordered a salad Nicoise for his main course, and in a role-reversal I ordered the steak frites, as I am the vegetable lover and he is the meat eater. In explanation, ordering steak frites is a knee-jerk reaction when I enter a French bistro. Ever since I had my introduction to the specialty in Paris many years ago, I instinctively search for a reproduction of the perfection that comes from pairing pan-seared thin beef steak on a platter with thin, crispy, French fries. Gratefully, both steak frites and Nicoise proved to be the real deal at My Place.

But is the fish fresh?

I couldn’t help notice the fellow sitting at a table at the edge of the sidewalk having an ongoing exchange with the owners throughout our meal. On our way out, we began a conversation whereby he revealed his purpose there. As the restaurant’s fisherman, he has fairly direct input into the menu du jour.

Soon, father, son, fisherman, and my husband were engaged in a discussion of the restaurant’s potential. As men with a little time on their hands do, they began devising a program for protecting the patio during the upcoming fall and winter months, discussing the wine list, and talking a bit of politics.

I stood back and asked myself, "How much more authentic could a bistro be?"

Sea World is essentially the Kingdom of Shamu.

A card, a cut-up, the life of the Shamu party, hosted twice a day seven days a week, Shamu is a master at wooing the public with his whalish ways. He slides across the reviewing stand on his tummy, tail held skyward, flippers straight out for "aren‘t-I-wonderful?" emphasis. After taking the trainer for a ride through the giant tank, he begs playfully for a few more buckets of fish. Then the bad boy of saltwater splashes sheets of the cold, wet stuff on the audience with his giant flippers as he circles the arena. He disappears for a long period of time then breaks through the water unexpectedly, propelling his gigantic but graceful frame far into the air with a double gainer and half twist. A second trainer dives into the water with his party friend and proceeds to surf on Shamu’s back, followed by barrel-rolls finally hitching himself on Shamu’s nose while being hurled into the stratosphere as he performs his final and most impressive leap from the water.

Way back when, the original Sea World had exclusive rights as the only place to see killer (Orca) whales splashing about like family pets in a backyard pool. That is, a 50 million-gallon, 55 degree saltwater pool. In public, trainers pet and stroke, joke and tease with the magnificent animals helping to develop a personna that is as lovable, enduring, and recognizable as Lassie. The trainers likewise have the image of perennial pollyannas, cloned offspring of wide-toothed "Up With People" performers or something so ultra clean cut they must come straight from Pleasantville. But of course, killer whales are wild animals and trainers are serious, educated marine biologists and athletes to boot.

Though Shamu was necessarily "replaced", the image hasn’t changed over time and Sea World has expanded to include multiple theme parks developed as part of the Anheuser Busch corporation. But Sea World isn‘t reallyonly Shamu. You will also find penguin falls, the sea otter and seals exhibit, and the stupendous dolphin show with its own star, Dolly.

Wild Arctic is a newer attraction of Sea World that provides a glimpse into life under the northern seas and ice flows. After taking the thrilling (wink) ride that simulates a visit to the arctic with a landing on a glacier, a visit to a remote outpost and a fall down a steep crevasse (!), you wander through a simulated wilderness outpost. The wonder of all this is that it smells of ice and snow and icicle drip under the canopies. It is refreshingly cool during the heat of summer, one secret to its popularity. Another wonder is the white beluga whale in the tank with underwater viewing area at the end of the attraction.

The penquins, seals, dolphins, and sharks are all wonderful additions to the park. Yet, somehow they still seem only to be the honor court supporting the main event, Shamu.

We’d arrived just in time to catch Shamu’s stellar act, but the Cirque de la Mer was closing down for the winter, the dolphin show wouldn’t begin until four, the Pets on Parade were too wacky (dogs and cats performing at Sea World?!) and Pirates 4-D was too young for my grown son and me to attempt without embarrassing ourselves by much sniggering, so we headed to Beer School. You heard me. Smack dab in Pleasantville, Anheuser-Busch generously teaches consumers how to thoroughly understand and enjoy their products.

Admittedly, when my son first suggested the notion, I was a little surprised. I had visited Sea World many times previously and never noticed the huge "reception" building that housed the gleaming copper tanks where anyone over 21 years of age was welcome to "sample" the various golden hued refreshments notorious for helping Super Bowl crowds endure long and boring post-half time episodes and, it’s rumored, even cause frogs to croak its name in harmony.

Don’t be fooled. Beer School is serious business. Offered many times throughout the day, one must sign up ahead of time and be punctual! We arrived a few minutes late and were not allowed entrance until after the informative film had finished. (I once had to wait in the lobby after arriving minutes late for a ballet performance, so I understood the regulations about disrupting the concentration required by the other participants.)

While we waited, trying not to snigger, we toured the adjacent, immaculate barns of the Clydesdales, those gorgeous majestic animals that have served as an Anheuser-Busch tradition since the first team was bought to celebrate the repeal of prohibition in 1933. The stories in the visitor’s center relate that the eight horse hitch team delivered celebratory brew to the Mayor of New York before proceeding onward to Washington, D. C. where a keg or two was presented ceremoniously to the President.

A stable attendant was quick to advise us excitedly not to miss the foal, who was born in May. Big Tom poked his head through the stable bars and seemed utterly delighted to be one of a handful of studs to the forty brood mares whose job it was not to trot before beer wagons in parades, but simply to ensure the propagation of such a splendid species. (Hot not to trot, as it were.) The perennial sidekicks of the Clydesdales, the Dalmatian dogs, chewed on rubber toys nearby in their separate stall. It seemed a very peaceable kingdom.

And so it was with this gentle introduction into the history and husbandry of the giant braumeisters we learned of the art of crafting beer. But you know what we really came for - the multi-flight tasting of a wide assortment of the best of the brewery. As it is free and you don’t need to take an exam afterward, I encourage participation by responsible adults. And your friends, too.

They should title the course cleverly, though. Something like Taste Buds.

"I’ve never seen these animals in real life before," he noted with no admonitions.
"Are you sure?" I questioned, convinced he’d been along on at least one of our many outings at the zoo.
"Not me," he stated, "you brought the other kids, though. "
Guilt was sprouting roots and about to spring from my ears when I grabbed at something, anything.
"What? You don’t recall Lincoln Park, Milwaukee, Brookfield?" I asked in amazement at his lapses in memory.

The child development experts had assured that multiple trips to cultural and artistic destinations would be ingrained forever in the young child’s consciousness. I’d taken the advice to heart, gone about it methodically, regularly. I must have looked confused and hurt, because he added rather flatly, "but then, I admit to not having a good memory."

Ignoring the cliched jokes about four years of college and what it does to otherwise healthy brain cells, I attempted instead, "Well, then, we will just have to do it all over again and remind you." But silently I asked myself, was I a rotten mother?

Searching my own memory now for all the potentially horrible reasons that he’d blocked out our many visits to zoos, but wishing to immediately override what offences I might uncover by such continued pondering of the issue, I stated instead, "You know, you visited your first amusement park at three weeks of age."

I elaborated on the story of how we''d gone on an outing with a friend, her two tikes and his two-year old brother. We’d spent the entire day enjoying the sunshine, encouraged by the toddlers’ glee at the buzzing bee ride and carousel. We had been able to carry on this way for hours because he had been such a good baby.
"But I couldn’t expect you to remember that. You slept through it all."
"The good thing is, I''m awake now," he responded with no small inference.

I bought the deluxe pass which included the tram ride and bus tour of the park, explaining unnecessarily (as I so often still did to my now-grown-up son) that it’s a good way to get an overview of the park before deciding which exhibits most capture your fancy. He listened, nodded dutifully as we boarded the double-decker safari bus on that brilliant blue/gold autumn day.

The last outing of this sort had found him squirming uncomfortably in his seat. A restless, sarcastic teenager then, he scoffed at the "silliness" of such a touristy endeavor.

The fidgeting was gone now. He was relaxed, attentive, listening to the tour guides’ spiel, remarking how this fellow must really love his job, for he brought a sincere enthusiasm to the notion of sighting animals in their dens in the sleepy calm of a warm afternoon even though he’d obviously repeated this canned delivery thousands of times.

Past the polar bears and giraffes, the elephants and zebras we turned down "cat alley," our eyes trained for a glimpse of our mutual favorites, the majestic and cunning athletes of the animal world.
"I hope we see the snow leopard," I said, "they are the most beautiful creatures in the kingdom, I believe."
Hopefully we’ll see the snow leopard today. They are certainly one of nature’s most beautiful creatures the tour guide intoned seconds later.
"You have been here before!" my son laughed.

When the tram came to a stop, we took photos of a black cat sleeping lazily on its back, stroking the air with an overgrown paw.
"I love cats," he told me. "Why do guys think it’s cool to hate cats? Cats are so lithe and interesting."
I was learning to let him think for a moment before volunteering my own ideas and opinions on the matter.
"Hey, do you suppose cats, being smarter and more cunning, are too much for most men to figure out?" he asked.
He was trying hard to see things from my perspective these days.

At the gorilla village we watched giant man-like creatures pick their fleas, tumble down hills, annoy their neighbors for the pure pleasure of a reaction, and stare at us with "waddaya lookin‘ at" gazes.
"Now how can anyone see this and try to refute the theory of evolution?" he asked, rhetorically.
"Remember that news story where a little boy fell into a wild animal cage at a zoo and a mother Gorilla rescued him from the lion?" I asked him.
"No way!" he exclaimed.
"Motherly instinct, they called it. Evidence of a relationship perhaps?"

In our the search for the African mammals I turned repeatedly in the wrong direction, my dyslexic tendencies reversing the clear signs outlined on the map. My son patiently offered encouragement and graceful excuses.
"Gosh, mom, I do that, too," he pretended. "You find more interesting things when you get lost!" he chuckled, adding a philosophical dollop of support to the thinly disguised pretext. I stood, startled, wondering what had happened to him since that last such outing when annoyance and impatience bubbled over with each of my missteps.

The park was closing down. Finding ourselves as far from the exit as possible we decided to take advantage of the purchased ride on the sky tram. San Diego spread out below us, the high rises of downtown, the bridges, harbors and highways all visible from our roost. A golden glow from the sun’s angle in the western horizon glimmered in the trees. The riders in the sky tram were suddenly wearing its halo.

"Hey, mom," a kid dressed up as a 200 pound surfer said to me. "Thanks for bringing me to the zoo -- you know, just the two of us."

With that, the remnants of guilty mother leaped from the tram into in the lion’s den below. My maternal instinct insisted, "leave her there." It''s where she belonged. After all, everything had turned out just fine.