When my son was tiny—out of the newborn larval stage but essentially still a warm loaf of bread with lungs—he refused to sleep unless the world was moving beneath him. So I pushed his stroller day and night, over pavement warped by roots, through moonlit streets. Naps, bedtimes, 3 a.m. wakeups—I wore grooves in the sidewalk of my neighborhood, shuffling along, a half-sleeping ghost in a drool-spotted hoodie, making alarmingly frequent appearances on the Ring cams of my routes.
Through these walks a kind of map unfurled: I learned which windows lit up first in the morning, which neighbors watched Padres games with their curtains open, and which fences hid dogs that would bark and wake the baby (an unforgivable offense). I knew where the passion fruit vines broke through alleyway fences, where the jasmine smelled the strongest, and which houses liked to leave out lemons for free. I even discovered a shiplike backyard tiki bar that became the inspiration for one of the cooler stories I’ve written in this magazine. These promenades bestowed real, tangible gifts.
Sure, sleep-wise, I was hanging on by a thread, but I wouldn’t trade the walking.
Exploring our neighborhoods is something many people don’t often get to do in a meaningful way. We’re too busy. We know where to go to get the essentials, but it’s easy to live in a place without really seeing and hearing and smelling it: the seasonal window decorations in the elderly couple’s house, the scent of tamales from the corner shop, the sound of someone laughing three backyards over. We drive too fast and talk too much and forget that our neighborhoods are not merely a backdrop. They’re a stage, full of actors, improvising a kind of shared story.
This issue is an invitation. To walk slower. To look around. To wander outside your own commute and into someone else’s world.
Our city isn’t made of clearly defined neighborhoods. San Diego is a set of Russian dolls. Open a neighborhood, and smaller and smaller microhoods are hiding within, with each little doll holding secret kingdoms—taco joints concealed under pop-up tents, family-run markets with olive oils from Lebanon and cheeses from Oaxaca. You can’t chart it all.
But you know who knows? The residents nearby. The people who call that neighborhood home. They can tell you exactly where to get the freshest fattoush salad or the soupiest dumplings. They can tell you where the beer is coldest, the coffee hottest, and the “welcomes” most genuine. It’s especially fun to explore SD when you’ve got the inside track on what’s good.
PARTNER CONTENT
So, we went in search of the inside track. We spent weeks talking with the people who know their corners best. We walked, we listened, we ate. In this issue, we focus on five neighborhoods and bring you countless hot tips. Plus, we’ve got design ideas inspired by SD’s funkier homes, a dispatch from Belmont Park’s 100th birthday, a review of Golden Hill’s beloved neighborhood gem Juan Jasper, and the winning essay from our $1,000 contest (it might just make you cry).
We hope you enjoy. Consider this your field guide—or your excuse to go for a long, aimless walk.
