FIVE
Kieran had been in Encinitas for almost six weeks, and he still hadn’t properly explored San Diego.
Living this close to a city he’d only ever seen in pictures seemed like a missed opportunity. So on Thursday morning, he dropped Hank and Mabel at a boarding center in Carlsbad, receiving identical looks of betrayal from both in exchange.
Then he drove to the Park & Go near the Solana Beach station and hopped on the COASTER.
The commuter train rattled south along the coast, hugging the bluffs. Ocean on one side, suburbs on the other. Kieran pressed his forehead against the window and watched the scenery shift from beach towns to urban sprawl.
He’d booked a hotel downtown for two nights. Nothing fancy, just a mid-range chain with a decent review score and a rooftop bar. The kind of place where you could be anonymous and comfortable at the same time.
It wasn’t running away.
It was exploring. Seeing what else was out here. Reminding himself that his world didn’t have to shrink because he’d moved somewhere new.
On Thursday afternoon, he went to the zoo.
It was an absurd choice, crowded and loud, but he wanted the full San Diego experience. He wandered longer than he meant to, pausing in front of the polar bears. They paced back and forth with surprising focus, big bodies in contained spaces, moving because the space allowed it.
He took photos. Of the giraffes. Of the sky through the eucalyptus trees. Proof-of-life documentation he knew he’d never post but liked having.
There was a moment where he watched a woman argue with a zoo employee about whether her emotional support peacock could enter the petting zoo area. The peacock, resplendent and seemingly unbothered, stood beside her like it had done this before.
“Ma’am, it’s a health code violation.”
“He’s certified. I have the paperwork!”
“It’s still a peacock.”
The peacock spread its tail feathers as if making a closing argument.
Kieran wasn’t sure who won, but when he left ten minutes later, the peacock was inside the gates, and the employee looked defeated.
Only in California.
Thursday night, he went to the Rady Shell, one of those outdoor concert venues that looked like a giant contact lens dropped on the edge of the bay.
The Symphony was playing strings, lush and sweeping—like longing without desperation. Kieran sat on the lawn with a sixteen-dollar plastic cup of wine and let the music wash over him.
The bay stretched out behind the stage, lights flickering on as the sky darkened. Boats drifted in the distance, indifferent to everything happening onshore.
It felt good. Being here. Watching the city exist around him while he took it in.
On Friday morning, he walked the harbor before the city fully woke up.
The boats creaked against the docks. The air smelled clean and metallic, like rope and salt and early starts. Joggers nodded at him like they were all members of the same quiet club. Fishermen ignored him entirely.
Kieran stopped near the water and took a selfie.
It was unflattering in the way all honest selfies were—sun in his eyes, hair doing whatever it wanted, hoodie zipped halfway. Behind him, boats blurred like he was trying to sell a lifestyle.
He sent it to Emory.
KIERAN: Behold. My new personality
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
EMORY: oh my god you look like you’re selling boat timeshares.
KIERAN: this is my rebrand. emotionally stable man with maritime accessories.
EMORY: downtown San Diego? are you having a moment?
Kieran watched a sailboat drift by as he typed.
KIERAN: I’m being a tourist.
EMORY: look at you. main character energy.
KIERAN: I contain multitudes.
EMORY: you contain multitudes of neuroses in a single tote bag.
Kieran laughed too loud, startling a passing runner.
Friday night came quietly.
Kieran showered longer than usual, changed shoes twice, then told himself to stop being ridiculous. He was going to the hotel bar to eat fried food and drink something aggressively adult. That was it.
The bar was dim and polished, the kind of place where the lighting forgave you for existing. He ordered a dirty vodka martini with extra olives, a tower of onion rings, and a plate of calamari that arrived hot and indulgent and unapologetically expensive.
He ate. Drank deliberately. Let himself enjoy the fact that no one needed anything from him.
Halfway through the martini, his shoulders dropped. By the second, he was loose. Pleasantly unguarded.
He went back to his room tipsy and aware of how nice the quiet was.
Kieran sat on the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on his knees, and stared at the blank screen.
He was at the exact level of drunk where observations felt urgent.
Or in this case, worth writing down.
His fingers started moving before he could talk himself out of it.
Honestly? San Diego: Month One Observations from a Pale Man in Paradise
I’ve been in Encinitas for a month and I’ve learned a few things:
“Full sun” means different things to different people. To me, it means second-degree burns by 9 a.m. To locals, it means a light Tuesday.
There is a flip-flop hierarchy I was not informed of. Mine are “too clean.” I don’t know what this means, but I’ve been judged for it at least four times.
“Beginner-friendly surf lesson” is marketing speak for “we will tolerate your presence while you flounder.” My instructor, Jax, demonstrated a pop-up exactly once—at full speed—then spent the rest of the hour checking his phone while we all slowly drowned.
I paid eighty dollars to feel inadequate in saltwater. Worth it? Unclear.
I witnessed a woman argue with a zoo attendant about whether her emotional support peacock could enter a petting zoo. The peacock spread its tail feathers mid-argument, as if presenting evidence. I’m pretty sure the peacock won.
I’m terrified of the ocean but I moved here anyway. Not sure what that says about me. Probably something good?
He read it back. It was funny. A little mean-spirited. Mostly honest.
He should probably edit it down. It was more than he usually shared. But the martinis had made him bold, and the words felt true, and fuck it—he hadn’t moved to San Diego to keep playing it safe.
He opened his email.
Typed in Emory’s address. Then added three other friends from Sacramento—people who’d get the humor.
Subject line: Help…I’ve moved to a beautiful cult
He hovered over the send button.
For approximately five seconds.
Then clicked it.
The email whooshed away into the digital void.
Kieran closed the laptop, flopped back against the pillows, and was asleep within minutes.
He woke up the next morning, hungover, deeply regretting the second martini, and vaguely embarrassed by everything he’d written the night before.
His phone was buzzing.
He squinted at the screen—twelve new texts.
EMORY: OH MY GOD
EMORY: this is HILARIOUS
EMORY: I’m forwarding to my book club
EMORY: you need to make this a THING
Kieran stared at his phone.
He sat up, head pounding, and opened his laptop.
Scrolled back through what he’d written the night before, cringing at some of the phrasing but also somewhat impressed with drunk-Kieran’s comedic timing.
His phone buzzed again.
EMORY: Seriously. Make this a Substack or something
KIERAN: I wrote it drunk in a hotel room
EMORY: it’s GOOD
KIERAN: what do I even write about
EMORY: YOUR LIFE. The thing you’re already observing. Just write it down.
Kieran looked around the hotel room. At the half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. At the San Diego skyline visible through the window.
He had observations. God knew he had observations.
He opened a new browser tab and googled “how to start a Substack.”