No cure for the summertime blues
This time of year, my least favorite, a favorite song runs through my head. It plays over and over. There’s no stopping it. It’s an oldie by Eddie Cochran. “I’m gonna take my problem to the United Nations. Well I called my congressman, and he said, quote: ‘I’d like to help you, son, but you’re too young to vote.’”
Do I have the summertime blues! Driving west on I-8, I encountered five minutes of rain. 500 drops. Mt. Signal was obscured by clouds. The skies were a spectrum of grays. Beautiful and so different from the sun bleached sky of Valley summers. Flash flood warnings were posted, and I could see why. It cleared as I drove on. Huge traffic snarl west of Alpine as Caltrans worked on a bridge. Patience. Cars and trucks moved slowly winding their way on the overheated highway.
In San Diego, the June gloom in July was gone, but the humidity was canceling any relief from the relatively low temps in the mid-80s. Mercy. I stopped into Calabria, my favorite and closest coffee shop. A frothy cappuccino was poured for me. But there was no shade available in front of the store. A young, homeless guy was sitting in my favorite chair, cig in one hand, phone in the other. A small cardboard sign requesting contributions rested in his lap. Let him be.
I retreated back into Calabria where the doors were closed to the heat, a remarkable sign of the season. Even San Diegans were retreating in the face of a miserable temperature humidity index. The coffee, well, was too hot. What did I expect? “Cause there ain’t no cure…”
On Saturday, my daughter and I walked around North Park first to a church garden’s farmers’ market which sold veggies on a small scale. It was billed as a garden tended by African refugees, but that wasn’t the case. I expect sophisticated community gardens in San Diego, but this one didn’t even have a compost pile.
We walked to a Thai restaurant that had closed early. Too hot to stay open. I was getting hungry. OK, Peg said. There’s a good Italian restaurant nearby. Well, that was the former post office on North Park Way and Grim. I’ve waited in line there to buy stamps. It’s now Tribute Pizza. The totally renovated interior looks like a classic railway station with a large arched main entrance. Condos are upstairs for urban hipsters with good jobs. This is an in-fill neighborhood zoned to increase density. The rents are filled in as well.
The restaurant space is an open design. No matter where you sit, you have an unobstructed view of a kitchen guy tossing a large frisbee of dough high above his co-workers, and, fortunately, catching it. If you know pizza, it’s all about the dough. I had an unusual pizza labeled “Brooklyn’s Best” which has nothing to do with Brooklyn. The flavor was great: fresh mozzarella, ricotta cheese, roasted onions, and sesame seed crust. The dough was worth, excuse this, the dough.
Back in the Valley, I contacted my congressman, and he said what? He sent me a newsletter and told me it’s too hot. He’d get to the Valley, but there ain’t no hurry. Son, we are in a recess to raise some money. But those Valley temps are way too high, so I’ll take a bye, “and there ain’t no cure for those summertime blues.”