Wasteland Valentine

Most of the time I think that the Atlantic Ocean is the end of the world. Going out to Coney Island and Far Rockaway Beach in New York always felt as though I was looking for the cliff of the earth, that mythical point that has been embedded in my mind since first hearing about Columbus trying to prove we were on a sphere. I know that point does not exist, but I felt that each and every time I dipped my feet into the East Coast beaches. Now I have that on the West Coast.

I took my Valentine to Coronado Island to go biking (per special request), but instead of hanging around the hotel and main drag, we went south to Imperial Beach. Stripped of all its glory and prestige was the main tip of the island right off the coast of Northern Mexico. The main drag was lined with nearly empty shops, beach bums and local vagabonds puttering around, looking for nothing to do in the midst of more nothing. And at the very end, when we had rode our bikes all the way to where the sidewalk lived up to Shel Silverstein’s poem, we came to the sewage contaminated beach (of course, the sign read anything south, towards Mexico, was contaminated and don’t go in). We parked our bikes, dodged swarms of flies leeching off of dead kelp, and walked along the wasteland of a paradise.

Truly lovely.

In the wreckage of something nice and pristine and clean was a barren landscape where two people walked hand-in-hand. Having nothing and everything all at the same time. The night was fantastic as well, but it was nothing compared to the day. We had a fantastic dinner, went to meet up with some friends, smoked some hookah, drank some wine…but the day was ours for each other.

Extremely sappy, yes, but I know I’ll never have another Valentine’s Day like it.