There are places you cannot know fully through big hotel windows.

San Diego, whose wild, flirtatious spirit, has been cajoling me to step out and taste her warmth. Walking her bayshore, strolling the boardwalks, stealing shade under trees, and eating from the palm of her restaurants felt more intimate than looking out from the sixth floor of the mighty Grant Hotel.

The Grant Hotel, a luxury collection of big history with a victorian touch that feels homey. From my window, a rose garden winks at me, reminding me of Marjorie Post’s posh home in Vermont. But still, the streets call my name louder than roses, and I follow.

America, the land of choices—choices that can confuse an African soul. Eggs have ten cousins, yoghurt comes in tribes, water is more branded than biscuits and the winner is milk.

“May I have hat (hot) milk tea,” I asked the waitress.

“Ok, darling, which type of milk do you want?” she replied, as if we had known each other since childhood. Americans scatter endearments like popcorn. “Darling, honey, sweetie.” Whether from a waitress or an air host on the funniest airline, South Airlines: “Honey, thank you for flying with us.” At this point I am used to strangers calling me endearments.

“Full milk, soy milk, almond milk, oat milk, 2%, 1%, goat milk…” the list kept growing.
“Cow milk,” I answered with because cows are generous givers of milk.
She returned proudly with a tiny container the size of a salt shaker. I poured the whole thing into my cup. “American cows are not generous,” I thought, sipping sparingly.

San Diego is a talking city, with inspiration tattooed across her skin. The clinking of cutlery rose like a stubborn choir, drowning conversations, so I turned to the brown board beside our table. It preached:

“This is your life. Do what you love, and do it often.
If you are looking for the love of your life, start by doing things you love.
Travel often. Getting lost will help you find yourself.
Open your mind to new things and people.”

I chewed those words as hard as I chewed toast with avocado. Back home, avocado is something I have unsalted at lunch time to soften a conspated day, one of those ways when nomatter how much I try, the to do list just keeps growing. But here in San Diego, avocado has become a morning thing.

Unlike Washington D.C.’s humble fall, where trees leaves look like burning bush, San Diego’s trees refuse to bow. No burnt orange, no crisp yellow, no brown death.They are as green as though fall were only a rumour. The breeze bounces off the ocean with a force as though it were chasing troubles away. owers sing a prolonged summer song in fall. Petunias, marigolds paint joy across the city. Where other places are catching chills, San Diego is still flirting in full colour. Nowonder it is loved and coveted by many.

Hearing the song California love in California was exciting.
We danced hard with friends in the sand after a long day’s work, the D.J teasing our dance palates with Missy Elliott, Sisqo, Usher and awoke Kadanke memories from my Nabisunsa school days. Dance floors are democratic: strangers become like siblings, sweat baptises you into freedom, and no one is apologising for taking up space. For a moment, Americans forgot how much they love their private space and surrendered to the rhythm.

In the City of Califonia, tu tu tu
Keep it rocking
Califonia, tu tu tu
Shake it shake it baby
A wild wide west indeed as the song suggests.

The statue of a sailor kissing his bride, fresh from war dominates the board walk. Tourists gather to catch a glimpse of the longest warmest Kiss.

The passion so loud you could feel it from a distance. I remembered my own waiting wife days when I waited until the children’s teeth fell out of their gums.Years of waiting, silenced by distance and Skype when skype was still a thing. Love is indeed heavy when it must travel oceans. I quit the Waiting Wives Association and left it for those with stronger hearts. Long distance is not for the weak hearted.

The waiting bride dressed in white also reminded me of harsh tongues when people would tell me “take care of the children” which also suggested that I should let my passion sleep. I was not capable of doing so at 27 and I am not capable of doing so now.

Long distance relationships can be trying and I salute those who have sailed through them.

My sister Katono Pauline captures this feeling in a beautiful song Bwolwayo mba nga omulwadde kudecka. (Please leave some likes).https://youtu.be/IuaKnz688XQ?si=PLeGlei-rQiOgNBz

San Diego’s love is not one to last forever.
I held onto too long, warm and salt-scented love
until I had to let go.

As I left very early in the morning,carefully tipttoing not to awaken the children, I heard the wisper “Come again…”

Words are my precious gift to you.

Thank you for being part of my story.