Walking in America, Vol. 4

Law and order and soccer

'Walking in America’ is a series that documents what it’s like to walk in America. You can view previous volumes here.

Sunshine and an assignment covering a San Diego FC game inspired me to take transit from my apartment in downtown San Diego to Snapdragon Stadium. As the crow flies, that’s roughly the same distance from New York’s Flatiron Building to Columbia University, a jaunt through the heart of Manhattan. My trip in San Diego was so amazing I felt compelled to show off my city.

The short trip starts at 4:42 p.m., and immediately, a driver of a white Audi makes an illegal left turn onto Seventh Avenue. Through most of downtown, only right turns are allowed from Broadway, but through sheer force and persistence motorists have turned that into a dead letter law.

On the bright side, the lack of law enforcement allows me to skip the gym. Having to unexpectedly sprint across the street, or pull up short and wait for the next light, provides fantastic anaerobic exercise. This conditioning came in handy two blocks later when a driver of a fully tinted Jeep performs the same maneuver at Fifth Ave.

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If an illegal U-turn is hit in the woods and no one is around to see it, then is it actually breaking the law?

I’m pleased to report that San Diego’s taxis have a new look. There is no identifying marks on them, and there is no way to know if they’re for hire or not.

Everybody knows that the laws, both of the city and of physics, don’t apply when the traffic lights are out.

In the era of austerity, governments require private developments to provide public space. It’s an ingenious solution to an age-old problem: What space is for who? This plaza is for everyone, at least between 7 a.m. and 9 p.m., and considering how inviting it is, with nowhere to sit and nothing to entertain people, I’m surprised by how little used it is.

On the next block I do find a bench. I think.

I do feel for law enforcement. They have a lot of road to cover. Like, a lot.

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I reach the venerable Santa Fe Depot to catch the trolley, and there I find a column of signs that tell me not to do a bunch of stuff. A sigh of relief: someone—or rather, something—is maintaining order. I feel safe, welcomed.

Just a short wait for the Green Line. I think.

(To suspend the bit for a second, and to be fair to MTS, arrivals were displayed on the board. For some reason, the camera on my phone can’t capture the digital lettering and it comes out scrambled in photos. Not that that information is worth sharing. The 15-minute headways on weekends are an embarrassment in this, the fifth-largest county in the richest country in the history of man. Bit back on.)

I get off at Fenton Parkway station and survey the redevelopment of the former Qualcomm Stadium site. Greeting soccer fans are a riverside park, natural landscaping, and wide sidewalks—until they don’t. I look forward to when they continue and finish this path so pedestrians don’t have to walk away from the stadium they’re going to and into traffic to actually reach the stadium.

They’re going to finish this path, right?

What’s the only thing more American than parking lots and sports? Parking lots and sports and dumpsters and self-storage containers. It feels good to be at the heart of our national culture.

I complete my journey at 5:47 p.m., a short five-mile, 65-minute trip. I look forward to the return trip after the game in the dark.