perfect*

San Diego is perfect.

Note that by saying this, I'm not saying "San Diego is beautiful" (although it is), or "San Diego is such a great time" (that, too) -- I'm saying San Diego is perfect. It's so perfect, it's almost unsettling. The streets are perfect. The buildings are perfect. The parks are perfect. The zoo is perfect. The Gaslamp District, once a dodgy area of town (and where we stayed) has in recent times undergone considerable gentrification, and is now perfect. Even the weather is perfect: warm enough by day that you can comfortably go sleeveless, but cool enough at night that you can throw on a jaunty scarf, if that's your style. And it's apparently like this all year long. In fact, the weather was so uncanny that I started amusing myself by asking waiters at the various restaurants we patronized if the weather ever does, in fact, turn ugly.

"Never," said one, grinning like a madman.

"Well ... sometimes the temperature drops below 50 degrees Fahrenheit?" offered another weakly.

"In May, we have May Greys!" said a third, triumphantly. "The skies are often overcast! But then," his voice sheepishly began to trail off, "the sun does eventually make an appearance at some time during the day..."

"It's just weird, Marcus," I grumbled at one point, somewhat petulantly. "It's like The Truman Show. How can a city be this perfect?"

"You're insane," he responded calmly, turning his face to the sun. "We're returning to Houston's oppressive heat soon enough. Just enjoy this."

The man made a fair point.