ABSTRACT
Except when I leave San Diego, which, increasingly, is as seldom as possible, I rarely go to the low-lying hills that are just to the east of the airport. I save that view of the sparkling San Francisco-like rise for those moments of reverence just before I leave town, when, always, I give a quick silent thanks for the privilege of living in a place where I want to be. To me that Mediterranean pastiche of white, California green and sparkling sun or twinkling lights define the city, the one geographic place where I have felt a sense of belonging.
