Twenty-two years ago today is the day that I decided to live permanently in San Diego, California.
My journey started on April 15, 1993. I was standing in line at the Bank of A&M in College Station, Texas, to transfer money from savings to checking so I could pay my income tax due. That’s when it hit me: “There has to be more to the world than the Great Nation of Texas.” After mailing my tax return, I went home, packed the Mustang GT with enough clothes to last a week, $5,000 in cash, and 100 CDs, which included all of The Beatles, of course.
I drove from College Station over to Shreveport, up to Fargo, over to Seattle, up to Vancouver, down to Sacramento, down to Bakersfield, and down to San Diego, arriving here on April 27. I spent three days at Blacks Beach (↓picture↓), coming up only at night to sleep at the KOA Kampground in Chula Vista.
On the evening of April 30, 1993, as I was eating at a restaurant in the Hillcrest neighborhood of San Diego, the weatherman came on the television to announce that for the third consecutive month, San Diego did not have any rain whatsoever, not a trace. I said softly to myself, “I could live here.”
And here I am!
There’s a little more to the complete story should you care to read it: A suicide journey ends in failure.
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