Very soon after arriving in San Diego, I set about looking for a place to live. I was only going to be at the residential hotel for two weeks, so that didn't really give me much time to find an apartment. I was rather shocked to find out that studio apartments in San Diego were renting for more than double what I was paying in Denver. The only problem with that was that I wasn't getting PAID double, so I was going to have to set my sights a little lower and maybe even move in with a roommate.
I set about on my search. I remember driving by one location and didn't like the neighborhood. I didn't even bother getting out of my car. Then, I found a studio close to Downtown San Diego and was told I could just walk inside and look at the apartment without an appointment. I went in and found it was a rather small room with a kitchen. I thought it wasn't too bad. Then, I heard a loud noise. It was an airplane coming in for a landing at the airport nearby. I contemplated whether this was something I could live with. At the back of the apartment, I found a door. I wondered what it led to. On the other side of the door was a hallway. At the end of the hallway was the bathroom. OH, MY GOSH! That meant that everybody in this hallway had to use the same bathroom, AND it only appeared to have one toilet and one shower. There was no way I was going to be able to tolerate this. I left the apartment and never looked back.
I started looking for roommate ads. I found this one in the North Park neighborhood for $275 a month. I called up the person who had placed the ad and arranged to meet him that night. We both appeared to get along and he agreed to take me in as a roommate. I paid the deposit and told him I would be moving my stuff in about two weeks.
This was a two-bedroom apartment with one bathroom and was on the ground floor. It was part of a four-plex. In the kitchen was a back door that led to small outdoor area next to a hillside. Next to our apartment was a gate. This gate also led to the outdoor area and to a flight of stairs up the hillside. One day, I climbed the stairs to see what was up there. It was another four-plex. However, when I went up, one of the residents there started giving me the evil eye, like I was going to get him arrested or something. I decided to never climb those stairs again.
The one problem with this was that the gate was locked and the address up there was listed as being on Florida Street. I had a key to the gate, but it wasn't something I really needed. There was a way to drive to the other fourplex that involved going north a little ways, making the first left up a steep hill and making another left through the narrow alley. But the people who lived on top of the hill had a tendency to order certain kinds of labor services and they would almost NEVER tell the people coming how to get to their apartment.
We had people pounding on our door at least once every two weeks trying to get into the gate. Usually, Ped opened the door and would give them directions. Most of the time, we'd never see them again. Sometimes, they would come back a few minutes later demanding to be let in the gate. Ped wouldn't do it. I guess he was aware of the kind of people who lived there. I remember one woman who was absolutely panicked because she was supposed to work there and didn't want to miss getting paid. (And I can also assume that she was already late.) It was clear she couldn't speak English very well. She kept screaming while Ped was trying to give her directions and wouldn't stop screaming long enough to calm down.
By this point, I'd had enough of this nonsense. I mean, really. Everybody who lives back there knows they're in a secluded location and enjoys not being bothered by the types of people who go door-to-door soliciting. You'd think that they would know to give everyone explicit directions on how to find them. But all they would give out is the street address. One day, I was in the house alone and someone knocked on the door. It was a man wearing a white shirt and carrying a bag. He said he needed me to open the gate. I was thinking, "Really? The people back there have health issues that require a home visit and they're STILL not going to give out directions?" I told him, "If the people back there didn't tell you how to get there, then they don't want you there." He said, "I am a nurse. Trust me, they want me back there." I said, "Some time ago, I had some guy come here telling me he was a doctor and I let him in. It turned out he was a collector and the resident came down here, showed me his gun and told me that was the last time I would be letting anyone come through that gate." "I assure you I am a nurse!" "Well, there is a way to get back there without going through that gate, and if you're smart enough to complete nurse training, then you're smart enough to figure out how to get there." And I closed the door in his face. I had made up that story about the collector, but I guess I made it seem real enough that he didn't question it any further and I didn't hear him going to any of the other apartments to gain admittance. I don't know what happened, but I never had to deal with another person trying to get in the gate after that.
I never really got to know my immediate neighbors. There was a man about my age who lived in the apartment next to us. I only ever got to talk to him a few times, mostly coming and going. I also remember some police activity going on across the street and we chatted a little bit about that. I would compare this guy to Kevin Kline in "The Big Chill." In that film, Kline's character only allows music from the 1960s to be played in his house. This guy was a lot like that, but he played music from the 1980s. The problem was that he only appeared to own two albums. Very frequently, I would hear A Flock of Seagulls' debut album in its entirety and the first two songs from Dexy's Midnight Runners' "Too-Rye-Ay" album: "Come on Eileen" and their cover of "Jackie Wilson Said." I would hear those at least once a week. So he wasn't so much stuck in the 1980s as he was stuck specifically in March of 1983. This guy clearly was NOT about to get into Nirvana.
For reasons that I will detail tomorrow, I moved out of the apartment in September of 1992. Like a lot of the places I lived in San Diego, I never really felt like that was my home. It was more like I was a guest or housesitter who had to pay money for that privilege. This would be the first of 11 apartments I would live in during the time I was in San Diego.
I remember driving by the apartment a few years later and noticing that they had wired that gate to stay open all the time. I guess the residents who were giving everyone the evil eye finally moved out (or were arrested) and it was safe to start letting people up there again.
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