You will either forgive me or not, but there was curious content in the morning message traffic. My body is about half-way back from the Mid-Pacific time zone- maybe about San Diego this morning as I attempt to focus my eyes here on the East Coast.

It is a challenge. From moment to moment, I don’t know if I am seeing things as they are or not.

I am semi-human, attempting to bludgeon my body back into this time zone. Some correspondents report they are headed for San Diego and the AFCEA WEST conference. I used to love that one, and my various companies since departing the Government in 2003 actually paid for me to strap on a jet and head out there.

Another interesting string led by turns back to a note from the Gallup Polling people explaining why the official happy numbers on unemployment seem to be ringing hollow these days. There is a reason, and I commend the article to your attention whether you agree with the numbers, as reported by the Administrations since Mr. Clinton or not. Here is CEO Jim Clifton’s view:

http://www.gallup.com/opinion/chairman/181469/big-lie-unemployment.aspx

That tickled my memory of a WEST conference more than a dozen years ago on the Left Coast, and a look behind the curtain at my favorite town in the world, charming San Diego. I was amazed at the opportunity to see the place in a way that we were not supposed to.

There was a struggle going on- a tough one- and the city was trying to turn things around in a historically disadvantaged area it was calling “Gaslamp.” It struck me profoundly about the things we are meant to see, and the reality of what was actually happening on the ground. Jet lag (like this morning) can help, since I am seeing things in a sort of split-screen.

It was always a treat to be in that city on the harbor, whether living there or traveling through it. Something tickled my memory about it, and I went to look for it, and actually found it. Here is an excerpt, in which I see some of Barack Obama’s America presaged:

I occurred to me that I had written about attending a conference there in 2001 and wrote about the Gaslamp development across from the San Diego Convention Center. I found part of it to be relevant to the events (and mental dislocation) of today:

“Jet lag roused me for the first time shortly after 2:00AM. That was about right, body time, since there is a three-hour change from DC to the West coast. I smoked a cigarette and looked out from the fifth floor window to the silent streets below. I managed to kill another hour or so in fitful dreamland and then gave up. I waited until 0600 with the dawn coming up full and pulled on my shorts and shoes and went out for a morning jog to clear my head and put my personal black dog back in the mental kennel.

From the hotel, I ran down 6 th Street and passed the sidewalk cafes with the chairs and tables pulled in. I see that I am up with the Bums, the army of the homeless who share this urban frontier where Yuppie and Yupless meet.

I circle the whole Gaslamp district. There are workers now, but it is hard to tell who is rising to go to work, and who has been wandering all night and is relocating to their daytime refuge. The happening commercial activity is the Star Bar, where several hearty individuals loiter in t-shirts by the door. The neon is still on in the dawn light. I can see an older man at the bar, fortifying himself for the rigors of the day ahead, or the memories of the night behind. I work up a good sweat and look for a place to get a cup of coffee to go.

There is a bagel place that occupies a corner of the grandest hotel in San Diego. I enter from the street and get a tall hazelnut blend. Everyone here is headed to work, no dementia. I am cooling down, but still sweating. There is a side door from the store into the lobby of the U.S. Grant Hotel. I decide to go that way. I push the handle on the tall wood, glass and brass door and slide into a vast and opulent space. It is empty except for a man who might have been guest, sitting with a paper in an elegant wing chair. Classical music flows from hidden speakers.

The marble is polished and the brass fixtures gleam. I wander slowly through the luxury. I recall meeting Isobel Watkins here once. She was the Chief of Staff for Congressman Bill Richardson, D-3-NM. He later wound up holding another of President Clinton’s bags as Energy Secretary. There is talk of him going back to New Mexico and running for Governor. But that is another story.

Over some splendid eggs Benedict, Isobel and I watched the homeless push their shopping carts past the window and we marveled together at the phenomenon. The parade past the window seemed endless. It was unsettling. Outside the grill this morning I noted something I had not seen on my last visit. It is a tableau of shining brass plaques and a framed proclamation from the 32 nd Mayor of San Diego, Susan Golding.

They radiate significance against the rich mahogany panel wall. The first brass plaque is simple and reads: “Men Only until 3:00PM.”

Near it, another gleaming memento identifies three women who sued the hotel in 1971 and struck a blow for equal rights. They asserted their right to a martini and a salad, along with the men from the First National. This appears to equate to something Dr. King did. I cannot determine whether it is tongue in cheek or not.

This act of courage is now officially commemorated by the Hotel.

Back at my towering modern hotel, I shower and listen to the radio in the background. KSON, contemporary country (whatever the hell that is) saying: “Another delay on the 805. There are reports of an early morning crash near the Triangle, a crash on the transition ramp from the N63, medics on the way.” I marvel that out there the roar is beginning, all the metal hurtling down the concrete roadways. “And another crash, this one affecting the West 62. I-15 is hard-going through Escondito.”

“No shit,” I thought, putting on a heavily starched Brooks Brothers shirt and one of my signature clip-on bow ties.

We have shifted hotels, away from the First National Bank building and further south to a pair of gleaming towers that thrust into the southern California sky.

My room now overlooks the harbor, and Point Loma, and has a panoramic view of the downtown. From here it looks clean and fresh. I am jogging again this morning, in search of cigarettes and perhaps a bite to eat. I am not optimistic. I saw nothing open except a couple cheap diners and the Star Bar. I have not seen anything that looks like a 7-11 or a Mom and Pop store. The street life looks too edgy, too many vacant faces or furtive eyes radiating need. I pass a shining apartment tower with green geometric flourishes on the top. In the park near it a bum is swaddled in a parka, his belongings piled around him. I turn a corner toward the Gaslight District and see something astonishing. It is a Ralph’s Market.

The Ralph’s brand conjures up an image of a genial butcher in an apron presiding on the choice cuts of beef, thumb not weighing too heavily on the scale. And maybe that is what it once was. But today it is the biggest food chain on the Left Coast. For back-Easters, it is an upscale Safeway. I think they had the first in-store salad bar, something I saw with wonder when I returned from exile in the Far East. And they have all the bells and whistles, too.

Coin sorting machines, ATMs, full deli, pharmacy. And this one is right downtown. I am approaching from the rear. I glance at my watch. The Safeway back home opens at 6:00 sharp, too late for me to ever stop on the way to the office. But I should find everything I need here, and I am right on time.

I pass a man I pass is clad in black. Soiled black jeans. Black pull-over. Huge Doc Maartin boots. Wild black hair and wild beard. Angry dark eyes. He is approaching exit doors, lurking. Agitated. In motion. Scary.

Inside the store I am in Generica: the America that market research has provided to make us a homogenized land. The fresh produce is on the right side, facing the back. There is a service desk, and only one of the registers is open. There is a long line of working men and a couple middle-managers, judging by the boots and the white shirts. I ask if the cigarettes are sold at the service desk, and am politely told no, they are at the register. I walk back through the fresh produce section to look for something to break my fast.

There is something wrong here.

Before I round the corner to go through produce I see an Asian man in a Ralph’s shirt kneeling to clean something up. It is not a broken jar, as I expected. It is an opened box of gourmet cookies sitting in a pool of brown liquid that looks like it could have been an iced mocha coffee. And that is only the beginning. The shelves are a jarring cacophony of mixed-items, as though someone placed the goods haphazardly. There are Ralph’s workers everywhere, but there are empty boxes in all the aisles. Everywhere there are cookies on the floor. It appears that there has been an assault on the store in the night and it started in the bakery.

I puzzle at this, selecting fruit and cheese and sausage. The line has vanished by the time I return to the cash registers. Patty H- that is what her name-tag claims, rings me up with crisp efficiency. I am about to ask her a question, but a workman slams a six-pack down on the conveyer behind me. I am collecting my change from the little cup on the platform behind her. A tall African-American woman, also a Ralph’s employee, looks me in the eye and says “Hello.”

I am not sure she is talking to me, but I say “hi” back. She is moving some things from the next register into a shopping cart. It is a conveyance with a lot of symbolism here. Emboldened by her greeting, I say: “Can I ask you a question?” She looks back, uncertain as to what the white guy in the jogging shorts might want. She has an air of dignity. Her eyes are light against her skin and wise.

“Yes, you can.” Her voice was husky.

“I see that the store is sorta trashed this morning.”

“They do a lot of stocking overnight.”

“There seems like a lot more than stocking was going on. The open-all-night thing must make you the headquarters for all the homeless in the neighborhood.”

“We get our share. Lotta stuff going on.”

“So they come in and just start eating?”

“And we put them in jail. There’s a lot going on here.” She looked at me askance. “A lot going’ on.”

“Are you people safe?”

“We have a lot of people here. They are always watching. They know what to do.”

“It’s a tribute to your commitment to the city to keep the place open. Without a market a neighborhood dies. And all this re-development won’t work.”

“We all do what we need to do.” She sounded indomitable.

I said: “You be safe.”

“Why thank-you.” She seemed surprised by my interest. “You have a good day.”

She waved as I headed for the door. Going out, I passed an angry looking heavy middle-aged woman who was muttering to herself. Turning left to head back to the hotel, I saw the angry man in black deep in a corner.

When I get back to my 23 rd story room I look at the Ralph’s receipt. It asks for my feedback on my Ralph’s experience and it tells me who runs the store. The manager is Mr. Chip Walsh. His phone number is on the receipt.

I called him up that afternoon to tell him how impressed I was by the way his store held out against the assault. He was defensive at first. He said he didn’t get many compliments, only complaints about what happened at the store. I told him to keep up the good work. He said he hoped that the redevelopment would force the homeless elsewhere. I asked him where he thought they might go and he paused.

“I don’t know. But I just don’t want them in my store. That’s all I want.”

I thanked him for his commitment to a great city and wished him well. I just wonder where all those angry people are going to show up next. Seems like once you let something go, it is awful hard to get it back.

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303