Four years ago, I moved to San Diego on a whim. While on a road trip through town, I became instant best friends with a bartender at an Irish bar that no longer exists in Pacific Beach. It’s entirely possible that I was suffering from sunstroke after baking on the beach, or maybe it was all the booze she was feeding me, but a week later when she said, “My roommate is out of town for a month, move in with me!” I said OK.
Call it synchronicity, call it fate, or call it plain dumb luck, but within a month of squatting at her house, I met the then-editor for Thrillist San Diego at a party. The rest is history. I ate and drank, photographed, and wrote my way across this town. But I could sense my time here was running its course. After four years of sunny San Diego, another city was calling to me; which one, I didn't yet know. But I knew that it was time for me to leave this paradise everyone accuses San Diego of being.