Baseball

“Do you fancy going to a baseball game?” I asked the kids while planning the trip. They replied yes enthusiastically enough that I started to investigate which teams were playing when we were in town.

The San Diego padres were the most viable option. Especially as there was a day game. Likely to be less busy. And not ending inconveniently late. I duly ordered three tickets.

Originally, the plan was to visit Midway (a preserved aircraft carrier) in the morning, then continue on to the baseball. But this would have required us to be up and out by 9:30. Not much chance of that with Andrew.

Lexxie and we make the long one-block trek to the 7 11. To pick up some breakfast. A couple of sarnies and a Big Gulp of diet cola. Lexxie doesn’t put any ice in the cup. There’s plenty of ice at the hotel. And without the ice taking up space, we get double the cola for our money.

After breakfast, we fill in the form we need to enter Canada. Yet another fucking form. It’s so much fun, entering the same crap yet another time. When we’re done, it asks us to print out the page, as we’ll need it at the airport. Both Lexxie and I take a snap, us having no access to a printer. Best to be on the safe side.

The Petco Stadium, home of the Padres, is close to a tram stop. Which isn’t always the case in the US. Lexxie tells me about the size of some of the stadium parking lots as we walk to pick up the tram. The largest are around the size of Amsterdam, it seems.

“Fuck! Fuckitty, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What is it, Dad?”

“I’ve just turned my ankle over. I hope I haven’t broken it. Again.”

“Can you walk on it?”

“Yes.”

“It can’t be broken then.”

“I beg to differ. Based on past experience.”

“Shut up and stop whinging.”

It’s hurting. But nothing like the agony of a break. I suppose expecting sympathy from the kids is too much.

I continue. Limping. And lag even further behind the kids than usual.

The tram is fairly full. I’m fairly sure they’re all going to the game. Not hard to guess, as they’re all wearing some Padres gear.

Lexxie has to dump his backpack in a mobile locker. $12 it costs. The robbing bastards. Card only, so I have to hobble over the road to pay.

As soon as we’re inside the ground, I spot a Pizza Port bar. It’s at the back of the section where we’re sitting. That’s handy.

Our seats are closer to the pitch than I expected. And in the sun, which isn’t great. Lexxie and I go to fetch beer. I get a Designated Hopper. A Double IPA. The kids get some Pale Ale or other.  The prices are like a swift kick in the balls: they make my eyes water.

It’s no fun walking all the way down to our seats. Pretty sure my ankle isn’t broken. I must check if it’s swelling.

The father and son sitting behind us have moved along a few seats. I guess the kids were blocking their view.

I’ve no sunscreen on. And I can’t keep my arms out of the sun. And it’s hot.

“Why don’t we move back into the shade?”

“Can we do that?”

“Why not? No-one is checking who’s in the seats. And it’s not sold out.”

It’s much more pleasant in the shade.

“This is much more pleasant, isn’t it?”

“Yes, dad.”

“Can you get the next round? All this walking up and down stairs isn’t good for my ankle.”

“Right, Dad.”

“I’m not joking. I really hurt my ankle.” They aren’t very sympathetic, these kids.

There’s a bloke a few rows over in a Mexican wrestling mask. And a load of Padres gear. Sort of like an unofficial mascot. 

Colorado Rockies hit a couple of homers, scoring three runs. The game pootles along, as baseball games tend to. Then, also as is typical of baseball games, all of a sudden, lots of things happen.

Like foul balls flying our way. It’s scary if you haven’t been paying attention or lose track of the ball in flight. It’s no wonder there are signs warning about “objects” leaving the pitch.

I think the people behind us are impressed that Lexxie knows all the words to “Take me out to the Ballpark”. Especially as they stumble and mumble through the second verse.

The Padres score a couple of runs and the Rockies get a couple in return. Quite exciting. But weird how quiet it is – other than a few boos – when the away team score. Because there aren’t any away fans. Quite different to football.

Then it all goes mad. The Padres score a hatful of runs in a couple of innings and win 13 – 5. The crowd go crazier with every run.

“Don’t expect every game to be as exciting as this.” I warn. “They usually end up 3 – 2 or 4 – 3.”

I limp slowly behind the kids and out of the stadium.

“You know where we could go now? There’s a . . .”

“brewpub around the corner. I know. That’s where I’m going.”

“How did you know that? You must be psychic.”

The kids give me a pitying look.

Half Door, the brewpub, isn’t as crowded as I had feared.

“Do you want to sit inside or outside? It’s very hot inside.” A waitress asks.

Outside it is, then. In the shade, it’s a lovely temperature.

Surprise, surprise, I order an IPA:

Half Door Hazy IPA
There’s a reason I ordered a sludge IPA. It’s the one that’s cheap for happy hour. Full orange juice. Not too overly fruity. And only $5.

We didn’t eat at the baseball. I’m not made of money. I don’t like to think about how much I spent on beer. That’s one of the reasons I choose happy hour food items: salt and vinegar chips and BBQ chicken flat bread.

The Petco Stadium is just at the end of the street. We can see right through to the stands. People, presumably going to tonight’s game start drifting away and drifting by. As it gets closer to game time there’s more noise from the stadium as the stands fill up.

After a few beers, it’s back to the tram. Dropping off on the way to the hotel by the 7 11 for beer. For the kids. Pabst Blue Ribbon for Andrew. He has a strange liking for cheap American Lager.

The kids have been quite amused by watching planes fly past their window. They really are at rooftop height here.

I tango with tequila to slumber land.

Half Door Brewing
903 Island Ave,
San Diego,
CA 92101.
http://www.halfdoorbrewing.com/

Mexico

The kids are very keen on a day in Mexico. I'm a bit more apprehensive. I've always been driven around by someone with local knowledge.

The plan is simple: get a tram to the border, then get a taxi into the centre of Tijuana.

We walk down to the Santa Fe Depot tram stop. The tickets are only $2.50. Not bad for a ride that takes 45 minutes. On the way we get glimpses of several US Navy ships. This really is a huge naval base.

As we get off the tram, I notice a change place selling pesos at 20 to the dollar. Which seems a pretty good rate. So, I change $100. At least I'll have some local dosh when we arrive.

Crossing the border is a piece of piss. before we know it, we're outside picking up a taxi. We have them take us to Cesar's on Revolucion, the main drag. Because I know a brewery, Norte, is just around the corner.

When we turn that corner, what we see is a multistorey car park.

"I remember this place," Alexei says, "it's the one with the entrance that's almost impossible to find."

Damn. I remember thinking last time that I'd never have found the entrance without a guide. And I'm not going to try now.

"Is there another brewery nearby?" I ask.

"Yes, just past Cesar's the other way."

So that's where we head. I recognise the place. It's Mamut, located on the first floor. We take seats on the balcony, where there's a nice breeze.

Most of the beers are off. About all they have are a Hazy Pale Ale and a Hazy Rye IPA. I go for the latter, the kids the former. They cost 80 pesos - that's $4. About half the price of the USA.

Hazy Rye IPA, 7%, 57 IBU
It certainly is hazy. But only 80 pesos. Quite bitter for a sludge bomb.

The waitress really struggles with our order. Despite most of the beers being off. She brings us two Hazy Rye IPAs. Andrew doesn’t seem to mind drinking the stronger beer.

I notice a mention of mezcal on the menu.

"Can we have 3 mezcals?" I ask the waitress. She explains that they only sell it after 16:00. It's currently ten to four. She brings over the mezcal menu. We order one each. At $3.50 a pop, they're pretty cheap. And full of burny, smoky goodness. What size is that measure? 40 cl? 50 cl? Good value, whatever the size.

We talk a bit about Germany. “Berlin is Germany’s Amsterdam.” I declare. Much to the bemusement of the kids.

A pickup full of heavily-armed soldiers pulls up outside. The soldiers pile off and disappear down an alleyway. I start to take a photo, but the kids say: “Don’t do that, Dad. They might get pissed off.”

It is sort of reassuring, the heavy police presence. Probably why the streets, at least in this part of the centre, seem safe.

We're thinking about food. But Mamut only does typical brewpub fare. I want proper Mexican. We head to another brewpub on the main drag, Teorema.

The streets are a good bit cleaner than downtown LA. And much less pissy-smelling. They still have those weird donkeys painted as zebra, mind. What is the deal with that? What’s the point?

Tijuana is full of chemists, all aimed at US citizens.

“It’s very sad that they can’t afford their medicines in the US.” Andrew says sympathetically.

“Shall I see if I can get some Temazepam?”

“No, Dad! Really, no!”

“Is that a maybe?”

“No! Be serious, Dad.”

“Where’s your sense of humour, Andrew?”

“You don’t joke about that stuff. Just shut up about it.”

“I guess it would end up like Breaking Bad, with everyone dead.”

“They don’t all end up dead.”

“Don’t they? That’s not how I remember it”

“Jeezus, Dad. Your brain really is turning into mush.”

We were here last time, as well. It's a very minimal Scandi-looking sort of place. There aren’t a great number of customers. Just us and another young trendy looking bloke in the corner. We only just outnumber the staff.

I opt for the strongest beer on the menu.

Public Hop White IPA, 6.5% ABV
It’s OK. Fairly bitter.

The kids have an Irish Red. I don’t tell them it’s a bollocky made-up style. Why spoil their fun?

We only have the one. We’re getting peckish. And noticed a proper Mexican place on the way here. So that’s where we go. El Perico, it's called.

The young waitress is very shy when she approaches us. She seems intimidated by our English-speaking. I try to be nice to her as we order margaritas.

The menu is very long. I’m not quite sure what everything is and order a burrito. The kids opt for quesadilla supreme.

The food is dead good. Very fresh and tasty. We get a second round of margaritas. The waitress seems more relaxed now.

Time for another brewery. As Lexxie is the one with a map on his phone, we’re relying on him. Luckily, there are plenty of brewpubs in this part of town. Like, just around the corner there’s one. No more than a couple of hundred metres. Kaminari.

We’re there in minutes. It’s very dark inside. And there’s a group doing a mezcal tasting. We settle in towards the back

What do we do? Order ourselves some beers. An IPA for me, of course. One of the staff wanders over and asks if we’d like to try some of the mezcal. Why not? We’re on holiday, after all.

When we settle up, we pay two bills. One for the beer and one for the mezcal. It seems that this place, called Mestizo, housed two businesses: a brewery and a mezcal bar. I’m not complaining, as I quite like both beer and mezcal.

Time is pressing. It’s already 7 PM. It’s going to take at least two hours to get back to San Diego. We need to start heading for the border.

As there’s a liquor store literally next door, we drop by there for some take-home tequila.

“Don’t buy any of that not for human consumption alcohol again on the border, Dad.”

“Why not? My eyesight got back to normal after a couple of days. Just about.”

“Daad.”

Tequila bought, we grab a cab and speed to the border. Where, unsurprisingly, there’s a long queue.

The masses of red tail lights look quite magical with the sun setting behind them. And help ease the pain of queueing.

As we approach the control point, we hear someone singing the US national anthem. When we get inside, we see there’s a besuited religious nutter waving a bible in people’s faces and shouting about sin.

It’s not going down well with the crowd. A woman in her sixties yells “Shut up!” A young woman behind us has a go at him, too.

One of the border guards has a word with him, but lets him continue. He’s a regular, it seems. And evidently harmless. I wonder if they would be so tolerant were the nutter not white?

We jump on a tram and are off almost immediately. Andrew wants to pick up some more beer and time is pressing. He remembers that San Diego stops outsales at 10 PM. It’s ten to when we roll into our tram stop.

By the time we get to Riteaid, it’s just chiming ten. No more beer tonight. Just as well they bought two twelve packs yesterday.

Tonight, it’s the exotic beat of tequila dancing me to sleep.




Mamut Cervecería
Carrillo Puerto y o Tercera 8161,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana.
https://mamutbrewery.com/


Teorema Brewing
Av. Revolución 1332,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana.
https://www.facebook.com/teoremabrewing


Taqueria El Perico
Av. Revolución 1388-1230,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana.
https://www.facebook.com/TaqueriaelPericoTijuana/?view_public_for=311362676374554


Mestizo Tasting Room
Flores Magón 8297,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana.


Licores Cactus
Flores Magón no. 602,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana.

LAX to SAN

Our flight is just before two. Not knowing what sort of chaos might await at the airport, nor what traffic will be like, we check out at 10:30.

The traffic, it turns out, isn't that bad. Then again, it is Sunday morning.

No sign of chaos at departures, either. Sky Priority has us checked in within a few minutes. Security takes just a few more and we're airside with more than 2 hours until our flight.

“It’s disappointingly unchaotic.”

“Don’t you mean reassuringly unchaotic, Dad?”

“I know what I mean.”

With all the airport crap done, it’s time for more important matters.

"Let's find a pub." I suggest. As always. The kids don't argue. I’m so proud of them.

And sure enough, there's one, Barney's Beanery. Conveniently on the way to our gate. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a queue. It'll be 20 to 25 minutes to get a table. Other options being few on the ground, we wait.

Eventually, we get in. And promptly order some beer. Well, Andrew and I do.

“What do you want to drink, kids?”

“Pilsner.”

“Cider. And a Diet Cola.”

“And an IPA for me.”

“You’re so predictable, Dad.”

“Thanks, Lexxie.”

“That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“But that’s how I took it. Victory to me.”

“You’re weird.”

A bit of food seems a good idea. We haven’t eaten yet. I get a taco. It's not bad, but pretty pricey. It is an airport, after all. Lexxie goes for a burger. Andrew has a few of his chips. The greedy bastard.

We time getting to the gate perfectly, arriving just in time for priority boarding.

It’s a short fight. Just 20-odd minutes in the air. We leave the gate and start to taxi. Down the airport one way. Then back up the other. Despite gong to the toilet right before boarding, I'm starting to feel the need for a piss. After 20 minutes, we still haven't taken off. It's 25 minutes after leaving the gate when we finally get airborne.

I wait anxiously for the fasten seat belt sign to be switched off as we climb. When we seem to have levelled off, I say "Fuck it." to myself and make my way to the bog.

Alexei gives me a what the fuck are you doing look. I’d rather ignore the sign than piss myself. And I’m sure the airline would, too. I couldn't have waited much longer.

Just after I get back to my seat, Lexxie heads for the bog. The fasten seat belt sign is still on. I try to give him a look. He ignores my gaze. The bastard. These are the few moments of victory that make parenting worthwhile.

A few minutes later, we're back on the ground. For another long taxi.

Our bags are on the carousel by the time we get there. Cool. We wander outside and grab a Joe.

It's not far to our hotel. But the taxi costs us over $30. Which is taking the piss.

“You’re taking the piss.” I don’t say. Because I’m English. “Here’s a tip.” Sometimes I wish I could shut up the voices in my head. They are my only true friends, though.

The hotel is much better than in LA. Which is saying fuckity fuck all. It’s hard to imagine a crapper one. Four walls, roof, windows, bed. That’s good enough to better the LA hotel. Oh, and no weird smells.

We've arranged for Sheldon Kaplan to pick us up to go around a couple of breweries. We start off at Deft, which specialises in European styles with a small twist. I get Dawn of the Deft, which is billed as an English Porter. It’s pleasantly roasty.

It's good to see Sheldon again. It's been a while. He's always interesting to talk to.

After a couple of beers, we go to Lost Cause, the meadery next door. This is a new experience for the kids. Neither has tried mead before.

“It’s just fermented honey, really.” I tell them. ”Bee piss, essentially.”

“That makes it sound so much better.” Alexei says.

We get a couple of sampler fights. They're certainly a varied bunch. Not sure I'd want to drink a pint of many of them, though.

The toilets have a witty collection of Soviet anti-alcohol posters. Ones I’ve never seen before.

Gravity Heights, which is a bit out of town, is our next spot. It’s a pretty massive place. Very modern and pretty impressive. I worry about getting lost when I go to the bogs.

Of course, we drink some beer. As usual, I go for an IPA. It's what I mostly drink in the USA. Daybreak, to be precise, which is billed as a West Coast IPA. None of that sludge rubbish. Bitter and very drinkable.

For food, I go for duck liver tostini. It's very good.

Sheldon has some great stories to tell about watching football games during the apartheid period. Both fascinating and scary.

On the way back, Sheldon takes us to a CVS to stock up on supplies. My new CVS loyalty card saves us $15.50, including $7 off a bottle of Jack Daniels. Result.

Jack is my companion in the trip to slumberland.


Barney's Beanery.
LAX Terminal 2 - Departures
https://www.laxshopdine.com/directory/barneys-beanery-terminal-2-t2/


Deft Brewing
5328 Banks St A,
San Diego,
CA 92110.
https://www.deftbrewing.com/


Lost Cause Meadery
5328 Banks St Suite B,
San Diego,
CA 92110.
https://www.lostcausemead.com/


Gravity Heights
9920 Pacific Heights Blvd,
San Diego,
CA 92121.
https://www.gravityheights.com/

San Diego

The breakfast room is filled with the happy smell. Bacon. Alexei and I whoop, while Andrew tips 20 sugars into his coffee. But no milk. He’s a bit weird. There are scrambled, eggs, too.

Jim picks us up and takes us to the airport. It’s pretty early, but it leaves plenty of time. Which is how I like it. Especially as I’ve a bag to check in. On account of the two bottles of bourbon, plus the beer, Jim gave me.

Andrew is dead interested in the security procedure. It’s a professional interest, as he does the same job at Schiphol.

Unusually for me, I don‘t drop by a bar before boarding. What am I becoming? Everything I hate. Though it is quite early.

“Don’t worry kids, I am for your real father and not an alien replacement. It’s just a bit early. And I’m still full from breakfast.” I hope that covers my shame.

As I have Sky Priority status and this is a Delta flight, we’re in boarding group 1. I really need to maintain my silver Flying Blue status. It makes life so much simpler.

The flight is quite long. Andrew and I read, while Alexei fiddles with his phone. Private Eye keeps me sufficiently entertained. I’ve almost managed to work off the five-issue backlog.

Rooftops are scraped on the way down

We stand at the carousel waiting for my bag. It never arrives. After 30 minutes of watching the same abandoned, battered bags rotate, we trundle along to the baggage counter. They can see that my bag was on the plane, but have no idea where it’s gone. Wonderful. After an hour or so of messing about, they take my details and we head to the taxi rank.

Our driver is a chatty Ukrainian. Taxi drivers are never American in the US. I tell a lie. I had an American driver in Asheville once. That’s the only one I can remember. Other than the Vietnam vet who operated an illegal taxi at the Staten Island ferry terminal. An interesting, if rather damaged, character.

The ride to our hotel isn’t long. San Diego airport is right next to the city centre. Scarily close if you’re at that end of town, as the planes fly in at roof-top height. We’re pretty close to Schiphol and I thought the planes were low here. In San Diego you could literally throw a stone at them.

After quickly checking in, I say “Time for some beer and food, kids.”

“Not for me, dad. Remember I can’t drink alcohol here.”

“How could I have forgotten? You can have some food and watch me and Andrew drink beer.”

“Great. That sounds like fun. Not.”

We’re staying in Little Italy. “There are more Italian flags here than in Mussolini’s Rome.” Alexei claims. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. There are an awful lot.

Ballast Point is just around the corner. Seems like a good place to go. I’ve been before. Last time they had Dark Mild. Doubt I’ll be that lucky again.

On the way, we pass another brewery, Bolt. “That wasn’t there last time.” I say. A little further there’s a Mikkeller bar. “That wasn‘t there, either.” Amazingly, the city has got even beerier. Which is quite an achievement.

Alexei stumbles over a pair of what look like kids’ scooters. “Kanker, fucking shit.”

“Are you going to pick them up, Lexie?”

“No. Kanker, fucking bullshit, leaving them in the way. Mongolen.”

Andrew rights them.

“What are they?” I ask.

“Something like a strooifiets, by the look of it.”

Ballast Point is pretty full, but we manage to find seats at the window.

Alexei is hot and irritable. He finds Ballast Point too crowded and too noisy. “I’m going back to the hotel. Fuck this kanker pub.” Alexei is capable of some interesting multilingual swearing. Not just in Dutch and English, but also Arabic and Turkish. He’s very street.

It is pretty full. You have to queue at the bar. But after the first round we manage to hook up with one of the few waitresses darting about and order through her. It saves a load of time and messing about.

After a couple of beers, we order some food. Fish tacos for me, a burger for Andrew. Neither of us finish our meals. But we get containers from our nice waitress to pack up what’s left. Alexei is bound to be hungry. And he can get angry when he’s hungry. An angry Alexei is not good, in my experience.

We enter my room offering the leftovers in front of us. “Look, Lexxie. We’ve brought food.” I say nervously. No answer. Because he’s asleep.

The rest has improved his mood. He tucks enthusiastically into our leftovers. Washed down with beer we bought on the way back in a 7/11.

Reception calls: my bag has been delivered. Yippee! I go down to pick it up.

“I wonder where it was?”

“It probably fell off the belt.” Andrew suggests.

I begin to believe he’s right when I unzip the bag. What’s that smell? Oh no. It’s bourbon. These shirts seem rather wet. And bourbon-scented. Fuck. One of the bottles has leaked.

One bottle is full, the other completely empty. The stopper on the empty one is loose. I’m sure I screwed it properly shut. How on earth could it have opened? This is the second time I’ve had drenched clothes without a bottle breakage.

Luckily, the two uppermost shirts seem to have soaked up all the bourbon. The clothes underneath are still dry. That was good fortune, I suppose. But my clothing planning is buggered. I only packed one spare shirt. I’m now one short.

“It’s your bottle that’s empty. Luckily, I’m a good dad and won’t charge you for the damage to my clothes.”

“Right, dad. As if we have any money, anyway.”

I haven’t thought this fully through.

“I get first dibs on the remaining bourbon, though.”

“Bugger off, dad.” The kids are getting quite uppity. “You’re always nicking our gin.”

We chill in my room for the rest of the evening. Literally. I don’t seem to be able to get the airco on any setting other than arctic. Thankfully, one bottle of bourbon is intact. We lay into it enthusiastically. And the beers, too. Andrew seems to getting a thing about Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Sleep stuns me with its icy fingers, sucking out my sentience.


Ballast Point Brewing Little Italy
2215 India St,
San Diego,
CA 92101.
Tel: +1 619-255-7213
https://www.ballastpoint.com

San Francisco

No bacon again. Some wrinkly looking sausages. And hash browns. Which is what me and Alexei eat, through our tears. Andrew has his usual coffee breakfast with a side order of grumpiness.

“Look, there’s a destroyer moving.” Alexei says.

We’re eating on the balcony overlooking the harbour. “There can’t be many places where you can see two aircraft carriers.”

“There are more Italian flags here than in Mussolini’s Rome.” Alexei says.

“You’ve already said that, Lexie. More than once.”

“But it’s true.”

“Not literally.”

“Yes, it is.”

There’s no arguing with him, sometimes.

We check out and catch a cab to the airport. Our driver is a chatty Ethiopian. At first I think Eritrean, because it says Eritrean Taxi Company on this die of his cab. But he puts us right during the drive. Nice bloke, whatever his origin.

We have TSA pre so dodge the queue. “I often get it when I travel with United for some reason.”

Andrew isn’t very impressed with the security. We have to wait for ages for a tray for our pocket contents. Alexei has to go through the metal detector several times.

I do make a quick visit to a bar this time. One handily close to the gate. I get the kids to sit at the gate while I nip in for a quick double bourbon. It doesn’t take long. I daren’t take too long. Otherwise Alexei will start fretting. He’s a bit of a worrier when it comes to travelling.

The flight isn’t long. But you have to pay for the video entertainment.

“I don’t see anyone using the video.” Andrew remarks. “They’re stupid charging for it.”

I’ve a window seat and pass some of the flight taking snaps. And get two whiskies: Glenfarclas. Now there’s classy.

Judging by the comparative emptiness of the carousel, not many bags have been checked in. My bag is fifth out.

“Any smell of bourbon, dad?” Andrew asks.

“No, thankfully. Not of beer, either.”

We jump in a Joe, where this time our driver is a taciturn Sikh. The traffic is bad – often we’re only going 5 mph. OK, it is about evening rush hour. But we’re heading into town. The heavy traffic should be going the other way. After a junction, the road becomes much quieter. Looks like everyone was heading for Oakland.

Our hotel is in a Victorian building and is furnished accordingly. Which is nice change after the identikit modern hotels we’ve been in so far.

There’s a little corner shop just over the road. We nip there for some drinks. Pabst Blue Ribbon for the kids, bourbon for me. And some cola. I need that for the stuff I brought back from Mexico.

I’m not so sure about this alcohol stuff. Even watered down three to one with cola, it tastes pretty strong. And I seem to be having trouble reading.

“Do you think I should look up ‘no debe beberse’ on the internet, Andrew?”

“Yes, dad. You should have done that yesterday.”

“’Do not drink’ it means, evidently. No wonder I was having trouble with my eyes.”

We’re staying next to Japantown. So that’s where we decide to eat.

“Can you take a look on my laptop for a nice Japanese place to eat, Andrew. I’m having trouble focusing.”

“Yeah, right.”

Andrew fiddles on my laptop for a while.

“What about ramen? I’ve never had that.” He asks.

“OK by me.”

“Ne, too.”

We’re heading for Waraku. It’s part of a Japanese chain, according to Andrew. There are no tables free and we have to wait a bit. Pretty busy for a Tuesday. It must be decent.

We all order various types of ramen. Andrew has a beer. But I don’t. I just drink water. My eyes still don’t seem to be working properly. The food is pretty good. But Andrew still doesn’t manage to finish his. He has the appetite of a six-year old anorexic.

We tip back to my room for some pre-bedtime drinks. We’re don’t leave it too late, as we’re all a bit Donald Ducked.

Sleep soon sticks my blurry eyes shut.




Waraku
1638 Post St,
San Francisco,
CA 94115.
Tel: +1 415-292-3388
http://www.warakuus.com/

San Diego again

No bacon this morning. Something that looks like gammon. Alexei and I quietly sob. There are at least breakfast potatoes again. To soak up our tears.

While Alexei and I tuck into our pork and spuds, Andrew glumly stirs his black coffee.

“You’re a bit of a Mr. Grumpytrousers this morning, Andrew.”

“Shut up, dad.”

“You’ve just proved my point.”

We stare out over the bay as we eat (or don’t, in Andrew’s case). It’s a lovely view of the bay and its warships.

A Chinese family shares the lift back to our room. Their four-year old child stares up in awe at the lads. They must look like giants if you’re just a metre tall.

Sheldon Kaplan, a fellow beer writer who lives in San Diego, has agreed to show us around. We’ve arranged to meet him at 11:00. He arrives just as we step outside. “That was good timing.” I say.

His car isn’t huge and it’s a bit cramped in the back for the kids. I’m sitting in the front so there’s plenty of space for me. Look, I’m old and creaky. I deserve a little comfort.

Our first stop is Cabrillo National Monument, a park inside a military area.

“It’s a good place to get an idea of the geography of the city.” Sheldon tells us.

On a peninsular sticking out past Coronado Island it does, indeed, have a wonderful view of the city and the bay. Plus all the warships flitting about, as well as those parked up in the port.

The Cabrillo Monument commemorates the first Europeans to arrive at what is now San Diego, three ships commanded by Joao-Rodrigues Cabrillo, a Portuguese captain working for the Spanish. That was all the way back in 1542. Though, obviously, native peoples lived here for centuries before that.

“Have you heard of Pizza Port? We could go there. The one in OB – Ocean Beach”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them. Never visited, though.”

As we pile into the car, Sheldon tells us the story of Pizza Port. How the founders added a brewery to a pizza place, creating an unusually successful symbiosis. And one of the early motors of the San Diego beer scene.

It’s very informal, with beer garden style long tables and benches. And pizza, obviously. I get a Summer Pale Ale, which is beautiful sparkling gold. Andrew plumps for an IPA. He seems to be getting a taste for IPA. Despite what he’s said in the past about grapefruit beer. “I like my beer to taste like beer, dad” Though he is still mostly drinking Lager. Alexei is on cola.

As Sheldon wants to drink, we head to his place to drop off his car. “I live in PB – Pacific Beach.”

“Do you abbreviate all place names to two letters?” Andrew asks.

We have a quick beer after parking Sheldon’s car. Some canned IPA-type things.

“What would you like to eat?” Sheldon asks, as we sip. (Or chug, in Andrew’s case. He seems to be treating beer drinking as a competition. One he’s easily won, so far. I literally don’t have the stomach for speed drinking anymore. It’s a young man’s game.)

“Something American.” Andrew replies.

“What about southern fried chicken?”

“That’ll do.”

Fried chicken it is, then.

“They have cans of craft beer in cans, too.”

“Even better.”

It’s weird how canned beer has gone from cheapo to acceptable to desirable in the last five years.

StreetCar Merchants, the oddly-named chicken place, occupies a corner of Lincoln Avenue and 30th Street. Quite small, with its big windows wide open on account of the heat. We sit outside.

Me and the kids get a whole spicy chicken. Thankfully, it’s been chopped into bits. It’s served on sliced white bread. “That’s the traditional Southern way.” Sheldon tells us. He’s ordered a collection of sides: coleslaw, collared greens, fried green tomatoes, potato salad and, of course, chips.

I have a Charlie Hustle IPA from Mason Ale Works. Not sure why I’m telling you this. Do you really need to know every beer I drink? I could just as easily say: IPA-ey thing from a can.

The plan is to walk around places around 30th street. Starting at Toronado. I remember now. Before my last visit to San Diego, I put together a couple of maps for areas with lots of breweries and bars. One was for around 30th street. Me being a lazy arse ruled it out eventually.

Toronado is literally around the corner, just a couple of doors away. It’s quite dark inside. We sit on the patio at the back. Alexei is less than enthusiastic about another cola.

“These electric scooter things seem really popular, more than the bikes. Why is that?” I ask Sheldon.

“They’re easier to ride when you’re drunk.”

Fair enough. No wonder I’ve seen clumps of them outside every brewery.

Quite a few home brew shops in the US have added commercial breweries. Our next stop, The Homebrewer, is one of them. While we’re getting stuck into our beers, the owner comes up and starts talking to me. He owns one of my books, evidently. He then starts giving us samples of his beers. I’m never going to turn down beer.

Alexei is getting bored. He’s wary about getting in a taxi on his own, but we manage to persuade him that he won’t be abducted and sold into slavery in Mexico. We plonk him in a taxi and he heads off back to the hotel. With the leftover chicken to eat. Plus the beer to drink he has back in his room.

Another brewery, Pariah, is next.  It’s very much of the taproom inside a brewery rather than a brewpub. The kettles are close at hand. We exit via the dock. Bit of a challenge for an old bastard like me. My legs don’t seem to work like they used to. And, no, that’s nothing to do with the beer I’ve drunk.

We walk to Fall River Brewing, which is also on 30th Street. It’s another brewery with taproom place. We’re literally drinking next to the tanks. I have a Green Hat, which is billed as a San Diego-style IPA, whatever that means. Maybe it’s the multiple C hops it contains. Whatever, it’s good value at $7 a US pint.

We get chatting with a fire chief, who has some interesting stories. Andrew seems to be really enjoying himself. I never imagine back in the mid-1980s when I lived in the US that one day I’d be drinking here with my son. Where did those 30 years go?

We finish at Hamilton's Tavern, a beer pub. The tap handles that cover the ceiling are like an inverted bonsai forest. Andrew seems to be enjoying the US bar style atmosphere.

We finish off at 20:30. Don’t want to leave Alexei alone for too long. You never know what he might do.

Me and Andrew get a cab back to our hotel. Andrew sits up front next to the driver. What is that accent? It takes a while for me to tune in on it. Andrew asks where he’s from and he replies “The Islands.” Then I realise he’s actually said “The Highlands”. He’s a Scots Gallic speaker. Which means his accent in English sounds as much Irish as Scottish.

Alexei is asleep in my room when we get back. He doesn’t seem to have gone too mad.

We eat the leftovers and drink some beer. At least the kids do. I go for some alcohol and coke. That’s literally what it says on the bottle. It certainly needs a lot of mixer. What does “no debe beberse” mean?

Sleep stuns me with a sledgehammer.


Cabrillo National Monument
1800 Cabrillo Memorial Dr,
San Diego,
CA 92106.
Tel: +1 619-557-5450


Pizza Port Ocean Beach
1956 Bacon St,
San Diego,
CA 92107.
Tel: +1 619-224-4700
https://pizzaport.com/locations/ocean-beach/


StreetCar Merchants
4002 30th St,
San Diego,
CA 92104.
Tel: +1 619-546-9010
http://www.streetcarmerchants.com/


Toronado San Diego
4026 30th St,
San Diego,
CA 92104.
Tel: +1 619-282-0456
http://toronadosd.com/


The Homebrewer
2911 El Cajon Blvd #2,
San Diego,
CA 92104
Tel: +1 619-450-6165
http://www.thehomebrewersd.com/


Pariah Brewing Company
3052 El Cajon Boulevard B,
San Diego,
CA 92104.
Tel: +1 619-642-0545
https://www.pariahbrewingco.com/


Fall Brewing Company
4542 30th St,
San Diego,
CA 92116.
Tel: +1 619-501-0903
http://www.fallbrewingcompany.com/


Hamilton's Tavern
1521 30th St,
San Diego,
CA 92102.
Tel: +1 619-238-5460
http://hamiltonstavern.com/

Mexico!

The happy smell is apparent as soon as we enter the breakfast room. There’s bacon. Alexei lets out a little whoop of joy. I manage to contain myself, but I’m equally overjoyed. There are breakfast potatoes and scrambled egg, too.

Andrew sullenly pours packet after packet of sugar into his black coffee. He’s not a morning person.

Breakfasted, we walk to America Plaza to get the tram. Or trolley as it’s called here. It will take us directly to the border crossing at San Ysidro.

On the way, we pass the naval dockyard. “Are they cruisers, dad?”

“Destroyers, I think.” The weirdly-shaped ones. Something to do with stealth technology, I believe.

The border crossing is right next to the tram terminus. Pretty much everyone on the tram seems to be headed for Mexico.

A very pleasant young woman checks our passports, then stamps them. We’re across in a jiffy.

“Well, that was simple. It won’t be that quick on the way back.” I warn the kids.

It’s a new experience for the kids, crossing an international border on foot. Not for me. I’ve walked from Gibraltar to Spain.

We have an appointment at 11 on the Mexican side with our designated driver, Betty Lopez.

She’s a bit late arriving, giving the kids time to soak up the Mexican atmosphere a bit. Which is slightly chaotic, with buses, cars and people buzzing around. Standing under a tree, we’re at least in the shade.

When Betty turns, we jump in her car and trundle through the city. She’s a bright, witty young Mexican woman who brews in Tijuana. Whose English puts my use of any foreign language to shame. Really cool that she’s prepared to spend her Sunday showing us around.

Betty parks the car and we head off on foot. Starting at Border Pyscho, a small brewpub. It looks much like an American equivalent, with its simple furnishings and wall of beer taps. Or ones in the UK or Holland, for that matter. One of the features of the craft beer world is its international nature. The beers and décor are the same the world over.

“What do you want to drink, kids?”

“A beer.” Alexei says, emphatically. He’s glad to have been magically transformed to drinking age again by a short hop over the border. He chooses a Saison. How trendy. I go for something light, too: a Double IPA. They’re out of Hefeweizen so Andrew has a nitro Stout.

My kids are more like “normal” beer drinkers. Andrew mostly drinks mass-produced Lager. But he also drinks Stout, the odd IPA and quite a bit of Hefeweizen. No snobbishness, no evangelical belief in the one true craft – or cask, for that matter – beer. The kids drink what they fancy at that moment, uninfluenced by ideology.

We only stay for the one. Well, I do. The kids knock back a brace of beers. Then head off to another brewery, Mamut. It’s just off Revolución, Tijuana’s main drag. The brewery is on the first floor of the building. We grab some beers and sit on the balcony, which overlooks the street. Being pretty hot, it’s nice to sit in the breeze.

The kids are looking rather sweaty. They’re not great at handling the heat. Though it does give them an excuse to shovel down lots of beer. On this occasion Andrew is drinking a Gose, though I did warn him.

“How do you like your Gose?”

“Interesting.”

“That’s a polite way of saying terrible in Britain.”

“Just not really my thing.”

“Our next stop isn’t far, but is difficult to find.” Betty warns us, as we head down an alleyway, into a multi-story car park and then a lift. Doubt I would have found that on my own.

It’s another brewery called Norte. It seems to be on the top floor of the building, judging by the panoramic views. Which includes the giant Mexican flag that flies over Tijuana. Andrew and I both opt for an IPA. You can never go wrong with an IPA.

“It used to be a strip club” Betty tells us. ”You can still see where the pole was.”

“Are there lots of strip clubs in Tijuana?” I ask.

“Yes. But there are good strip clubs and others you really shouldn’t go to.”

Alexei is making the best of his opportunity to drink beer. He’s matching his brother pint for pint, which is quite an achievement, given Andrew’s hollow legs.

We head back to Revolución for our next stop. Not a brewery this time, but a joint tasting room of two: Teorema and Lúdica. The interior is a Spartan white with very simple furniture. All very minimalistic.

The kids are on Kölsch, which is the closest to Lager on offer, while I’m sticking with IPA. Partly out of habit, partly because of the ABV. I’m tempted by a Belgian IPA, Lúdica Lumen. At a refreshing 7.5% ABV. A Mexican-brewed Belgian IPA. The world is getting very confusing. So confusing I go for Imperial Stout instead. Even in this heat, it’s better than the brain bending of a Mexican-brewed Belgian IPA.

“Have you noticed how the measures are all in fluid ounces?” Andrew observes.

“No, I hadn’t until you mentioned it. It’s probably because of American tourists.” We’ve spotted quite a few American tourist on our crawl. Quite a high percentage of the customers. It’s probably pricey for many Mexicans. My 15 oz of 9% beer cost 70 pesos: €3.18. Cheap compared to the US or Holland, but I imagine wages are a good bit lower here.

Andrew wanted to take advantage of the 32 oz. serving offered. But they don’t have any of the glasses. He gets two 15 oz. glasses instead. Not at the same time. They refill his glass after he drains it. Which takes a good 30 seconds. “Feeling thirsty again, Andrew?”

“I’d like to buy some tequila.” I say, spotting an offie as we walk along Revolución. I get a quite posh bottle, on the advice of the owner. “Don’t just throw down like a cheap tequila.” He advises.

I’ve been paying by card so far, but get out 500 pesos on Betty’s advice. Where we’re eating doesn’t accept cards.

I understand why when we get there. Telefonica Gastro Park is a brewery with food trucks. “That’s why you need some cash.” Betty says, “The trucks don’t take cards.”

The food is pretty good and dirt cheap. I share some tacos with Alexei. While Andrew had a pile of stuff, including a dollop of mole. I have a sludge IPA. Not sure why, given how much I slag them off. It must be the heat. The kids are still looking pretty sweaty. As I probably am, too. Hopefully their pints of Lager will help them cool down a bit.

At seven, it’s time for us to be heading back to the border. Betty drives us back there and we join the queue of pedestrians.

The queue to get back over the border is really long. It takes a bit over an hour to cross. There are people trying to flog stuff to the queue, many kids of just 8 or 9. Duty free shops, too. I pop in one and buy a random bottle. Not sure what it is. But I may as well get rid of some of those pesos.

We eventually get to the head of the queue. Why don’t they take our fingerprints again?

“Are you bringing anything back with you?” “Just this bottle. Oh, sorry, these two bottles.” He doesn’t seem very interested in looking at them.

The tram is delayed. It’s 9:45 when we reach America Plaza. Andrew plans on getting more beer at the 7/11. We pass a Rite-aide which I notice sells beer. “Why not get your beer here, as we’re passing.” “OK.”

As we’re browsing there’s an announcement: “Last alcohol sales in 5 minutes.” “Best hurry up, Andrew.” If we’d walked that bit further to the 7/11, Andrew would have no beer.

The kids hang out in my room a little, drinking beer, watching TV. It’s freezing cold, despite me turning the airco up to 68º F. I had trouble sleeping yesterday, I was so cold.

I don’t stay up late. Busy day ahead tomorrow. Sleep rushes swiftly at me like a speeding train.



Border Psycho
Calle Libertad 1751,
Azcona,
22055 Tijuana, B.C.
Tel: +52 664 379 1235
http://borderpsychobrewery.com/


Mamut
Carrillo Puerto y o Tercera 8161,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana, B.C.
Tel: +52 664 685 0137
http://www.mamutcerveza.com/


Cerveceria Norte
Diaz Miron y o cuarta 8160,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana, B.C.


Teorema/Lúdica Co-tasting Room
Revolución 1332,
Zona Centro,
22000 Tijuana, B.C.
Tel: +52 664 210 0390


Telefonica Gastro Park
Boulevard Agua Caliente 8860,
Centro,
22000 Tijuana, B.C.
Tel: +52 664 200 2155

Farewell to Sandy Ego

Before checking out, I finish off the beer I won’t be taking home with me.

Grant’s Bohemian Sommerbier is the perfect breakfast drink: tasty, but not too overpowering. Sets me up nicely for the day.

Bags dumped at the hotel, I dawdle downhill downtown-wards. A couple of possible destinations in mind. Fortunately ones that open before lunch. Beer Co is my first choice.

Beer Company was my first choice. I don’t quite make it all the way there. The Local tempts me in with its gypsy eyes. And a row of tap handles. I’m a fickle fucker. Time for introductions. “My gut - meet the bar.” They embrace like old friends. Which I suppose they are.

Almost fucky-off time. Time to reflect. Let the good times roll, as Jimmie said.

Did I mention I once, several seeming lifetimes ago, I lived in the US? I must have bored you with that. “Shut up, dad. Yes, you lived in New York. Not interesting. Can I have 10 euros?”

This is a weird as a weird stick platter doused in weird sauce. A thought so weird I’m going to have to lay it down on the pavement, walk away and consider it from a safe distance.

I can imagine living in the US again. I never thought I’d say that. Never going to happen. Family knots, work bondage, age. Age, that’s the one. Too old for that crap.

Alpine Nelson (IPA) 7% ABV, $8
Hazy shit. Man. Not quite sludge, but pretty thick. Mmm . . . Tastes better than it looks. Tropical fruit on the nose, very bitter at the back end. Better than the hue would suggest.

Looks very new, this place. Barn-like with loads of TVs. The toilets are very nice. Very clean. Though the pictures of muscly wrestlers on the walls are a bit disconcerting. I wonder what’s on the walls of the ladies?


They seem part way through installing a brewery at the back. At least if the packing crates are anything to go by. Very handy for the tram here. The one line that they seem to have.

I didn’t really plan coming here. I was walking by and in a fair need of a piss. I blame the growler of Sommerbier I drank before checking out of my hotel. A day of damp, stinky kecks or an unscheduled comfort break? No choice at all, really.

Mexico yesterday was super, super cool. Grant’s a grand bloke and he introduced me to some great people. I can’t remember when I last had a meal as good as lunch. Top, top nosh.

How’s the trip been? The main event was a total fucking disaster. Especially considering how long it had been in the planning. On the other hand, I got to meet old friends, have some great chats, flog a few books, see Mexico and San Francisco. Overall positive, I’d say.

I should maybe eat soon. Not eaten yet today and it’s 12:15. Though I did eat a load in Mexico yesterday. It’s odd, now I think about it, that I didn’t get the full fingerprint thing on the border coming back in.

Now I’m getting further down my pint it has some of the weird shit I didn’t like in a Mosaic-hopped beer.

Just ordered a short rib burger. Meant to eat at the next stop, but hunger got the better of me. Or was it good sense?

Mission El Conquistador Session IPA 4.8% ABV, $7
Not quite so murky, this one Washing up liquid in the gob. Pretty bitter on the finish. And won’t have me falling over too soon.

They have malt vinegar. Brilliant! Put some of that on my chips. Saturday in San Diego. My belly is full and I’ve a fair buzz on. And there's malt vinegar. Things could be so much worse.

Hess Habitus Rye IPA 8% ABV, $8
Another pretty murky one. Citrussy nose, caramelly gob I wonder what the ears and hair will be like? This is a heavy beer. As pot-bellied as the glass What’s the phrase? I couldn’t drink six pints of it Quite a pleasant tangy orangey finish.

I’m surprised at how many cocktails they’re serving. I suppose it is early afternoon.

I’m watching England play Mexico in the women’s World Cup. Another punter is complaining about the lack of goal-mouth action. He has a point. But international football is all about tension, not action.

BNS Revolver (IPA) 6.5% ABV, $8
Yippie! One that’s clear. Almost. Can’t be that trendy a beer, then. Pretty run of the mill IPA.

I’m chatting a bit with Jemma, the barmaid. She’s married to an English bloke from Chester. And doing a pretty good job with the bartending, keeping everyone’s glass nicely filled. I appreciate that sort of thing, impatient pisshead that I am.

The Bud anti-craft ad is on. Showing on a TV above a row of craft taps. Surreal.

I need to move on. The guy next to me just said “propane barbecue” and I first heard it as “cocaine barbecue”. I suppose that’s al fresco cooking for rock bands and film stars.

I stumble out into the sunshine and the short distance down the street to Beer Company. It’s not all how I imagined it. It’s a bit dark and old-fashioned looking. I’d expected something more like The Local.

Elimination IPA 7% ABV, $6
This is suspiciously too clear. God I’m a contrary bastard. Moaning all day about my beer being too cloudy then complaining when I get a crystal clear one. Sparkling pale amber, no head. The aroma is pretty good, fruity-wise. Am I turning into an IPA drinker? OK, I suppose. Elimination IPA, I mean. Not me turning into an IPA drinker. That’s definitely not OK.

Glad I spent most of the day in The Local. Nicer atmosphere, though the beer is a bit cheaper here.

Broadway Brown 5.4% ABV, $6
Has the harsh roast taste all American dark beers seem to share. Why is that? Because they don’t use sugar? I’d like me some sweetness in a Brown Ale.

I’m still feeling a little peckish so I order some onion rings. I won’t be fed on my flight. I need to fill up now.

There are two types of traveller. The I’m going to turn up 5 minutes before I have to – just to prove I can – type. And me. Exercise is, generally, a good thing. A thrombie threatening sprint to the gate, I’m not so sure about. Done it a few times. Rather stay on this side of premature death. That’s why I get to San Diego airport with plenty of time to spare.

Enough for me to have a drink in the Stone Pub airside. An Enjoy By IPA. No need to get a bourbon, too. There will be whisky galore on the plane. I’m travelling first class again.

Stone Enjoy By IPA 9.4% ABV $7.70
Lovely fruity smell. Yum, yum. A really nice IPA. Wonder how much it’s going to cost me? There are no prices on the menu. Oh yes there are. 11 bucks*? I should have looked more closely. I suppose I’ll make it last. I should do, really. I’m slightly wobbly. Could the mescal I had instead of breakfast be the reason? No, that’s just silly talk.

It’s getting quite late by the time I check into my hotel, almost 10 PM. I’m staying more centrally than before, but there don’t seem to be a bunch of pub options nearby. There’s Café de la Presse, which seems to be part of my hotel. But that’s not very pub like. Not somewhere I want to drink at all. What to do?

I spot a liquor store up Bush Street. Where I invest in a small bottle of bourbon. Looks like I’ll be partying in my room. Or something like that. It’s a slightly anticlimactic end to my last evening in California.





* That was for 23 oz. (a size weirdly popular in airport bars). My 16 oz. serving was a reasonable $7.70.



The Local
1065 4th Ave
San Diego, CA 92101
United States
Open  11:00 am – 12:00 am
http://thelocalsandiego.com/


Beer Company
602 Broadway
San Diego, CA 92101
United States.


Stone Pub
Terminal 2, San Diego International Airport
San Diego.
http://www.stonebrewing.com/airport/




Excuse me for being an idiot. I should be reminding you to purchase my excellent book. Every copy signed*:





The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer
http://www.amazon.com/Home-Brewers-Guide-Vintage-Beer/dp/1592538827






* potentially - I'll sign any copy presented to me.