Southern Comforts: San Diego - Days Eight and Nine

Now I'm a naturally pessimistic person so bear this in mind when I describe walking along Coronado beach on the Saturday. Walking in perfect sunshine, I let the soft breeze graze my burnished skin as I walked along the golden beach (which really is golden – if you look down, there are literally flecks of gold in the sand).

Everywhere, families are laughing, playing, all ridiculously ecstatic, like most San Diegans. I felt pangs of pure envy at the thought that this was a regular weekend for most people.

People have asked me if Californian beaches are packed with the judgemental body beautiful – and seem amazed when I say no. There are all shapes and sizes on the beach but even the toned, tanned and beautiful, who are usually jogging along the beach, don't give people the bitchy girl's “up and down” assessment sneer of a European woman – they are far too happy and secure.

Everyone is polite, smiley and pleasant – it's not false (another misconception), these people are just deliriously happy to be blessed with the lottery of life – living in San Diego (and yes, I would love to live there but, unfortunately, Britain's open-border policy to immigration means Americans call us “the little Afghanistan” - the US places Britain in the same category as Iraq when it comes to meeting the criteria for a Green Card).

But my own euphoria was about to be interrupted on Day Nine (Sunday).

The day didn't get off to a great start. While the previous day it was possible to believe I had died of salmonella poisoning and was now reaping my celestial reward on the golden beach of Heaven, today I was rudely awakened by women jabbering in hurried, extremely vocal Spanish.

I wish I could say I shared in their obvious relish for whatever juicy bit of gossip they were dissecting but I'm afraid my mood did not allow me to be so generous (I am always grumpy first thing, even in paradise), and I shouted to Simon: “I wonder if the other guests are as pissed off as we are having to listen to this cr*p”.

Now, most people know the curse words of other languages even if they can't order a coffee and my words had the desired effect: after some sibilant hissing, they abruptly stopped nattering and got on with their chores. Boo – I'm the villain, I know.

Well, no good deed goes unpunished and I was soon to meet the Mexican cleaning ladies' version of the Marie Laveau curse. While Simon made his way to the press box of the Padres baseball team, I headed back to the beach. I say headed, what I mean was I was stuck at various bus stops for four hours.

Soon after sitting down at the first bus stop (which I used the day before – there is also no timetable at the bus stops), it soon began to dawn on me why everyone drives in America. Firstly, a big old black dude greeted me with a “Hi, baby” - curvy blondes might not be fashionable any more in the Western world but I soon realised they sure are popular with black guys.

After an hour, he passed by me again: “Still waiting, baby? Well, I guess it's Sunday...” and walked off while shaking his head. Another hour later and he passed me again: “I don't believe it – you still here, baby?! That's not right, let me sort things out for you.” And he asked around and found out that the right bus stop was a few blocks away. So he offered to walk me there.

I gratefully accepted and, as we strolled to the next stop, a bum (I'm using American slang here – I can't say tramp as that would mean something else entirely over here) stopped him and asked: “Can you spare some change, brother?” and the dude laughed and said: “I'm trying to offload this as it is – I got no cash”. And I looked and saw he was carrying an ancient personal CD player. “How much are you asking for it?” I asked and his face brightened and he said: “$7” so I gave him the money, thanked him, and said he'd done enough and to be on his way as he was missing the game (he'd previously told me he was on his way back home to watch the American football team the Chargers play).

He saw me across the street and let me find my own way – and I was soon waylaid by another black dude who offered to show me the exact bus stop. I accepted and he asked if I was married, then started saying he was on his way to LA. Then he said he was unemployed. I was naïve but the penny finally dropped when he said he needed $10 for the Greyhound coach. I gave him $2 and sent him on his way.

There followed another two-hour wait at the bus stop. Now I asked every bus driver who stopped whether the number 901 to Coronado was on its way and they all assured me it was. I should have listened to the skinny bearded white guy who told me to ignore them – there probably wouldn't be a bus around here on a Sunday.

While I was waiting, a 53-year-old Italian called Cisco accosted me and told me about his life. He said he was happy in San Diego (he'd moved from Colorado) as the local women were “young, kinky and easy”. He then regaled me with stories about his success with 19-year-olds and you will be pleased to know his talk was punctuated in graphic detail by a slide show on his camera, where he “accidentally” showed me photos of him engaged in rather nefarious activities with some alarmingly fake-breasted bimbos. However, his bus eventually arrived and he bid me farewell.

His seat was still warm before a snaggle-toothed black guy took his place. He moved worrying close to me and asked if I fancied it. I politely told him I was an engaged woman but he didn't take the hint (something guys the world over should learn – if a woman tells you she has a boyfriend or is engaged, she's not playing hard to get – she's telling you to get lost in the nicest possible terms). He replied with the standard: “I won't tell if you don't” and then persisted with the kind of hard-core persistence that can only signal a mental illness. Plus his language made my poker-straight hair not only curl but also stand on end.

As if I was in any doubt of his intentions (yes, the cliched “once you've had black you'll never go back”), he punctuated the end of each pornographic request with a tongue that waggled grotesquely through the gaping gums where his two front teeth were missing (presumably punched out by one of my predecessors). Now my old ma also said she attracted nutters like cicadas to honey and she said the best way to deal with them was to play nice and humour them, which I did (hell, Americans have guns and he looked crazier than a half-starved croc). I also told him I would like to pay him to leave me alone and said I would give him my last cent - then emptied my purse of loose change (ignoring the notes).

He replied by saying I was a pretty girl with a sweet accent, he liked me a lot, and wanted to see my feet. Bizarre. But luckily my strategy worked and he promised to leave if I would memorise his phone number. I promised I would and, thank the sweet Lord, he was on his way, turning and winking at me while he crossed the street.

By then I'd had enough and did what I should have done four hours ago – flagged down a cab – and promptly got ripped off by a Somalian driver – argh!

But I was finally on the beach - on the hottest day of the year so far.

So why, I hear you cry, did I wait four hours before getting a cab? Well, if you asked that question you are clearly not a journalist. Despite what you may think, journalists are paid a pittance and this kind of holiday doesn't come cheap – it comes through a year of saving and working two jobs. Plus we had decided to save every cent we could on the San Diego leg of our journey as the expensive part was still to come – Tucson and Houston (plus limited souvenir buying for friends and family).

So I got to heaven eventually – and, at least in the San Diegan version of hell, the devils are polite.