I've been going to La Jolla on a somewhat regular basis since high school.
It was a glamorous destination reserved for homecoming dinners, family outings, first dates and shopping excursions. I have fond memories of finding my prom dress in a tiny boutique in the Village, meeting Allen Ginsberg at the art museum, staying up until midnight to see the Spike & Mike animation festivals, riding bikes by the water even though I didn't really know how to ride adult bikes, watching the seals with my first roommate and imagining our futures.
Even more recently, I had a close group of friends who were raised and lived in La Jolla and I'd spend days on end lazing around, getting vanilla coffees, watching them surf and seeing indie movies at the now defunct Cove.
But I was always a guest. There was always a different home for me to get back to that had nothing to do with the beach.
Since La Jolla has recently become my home, it's been difficult to shake that feeling that I'm on the outside looking in.
Sometimes when I walk to the grocery store and pass people on the sidewalk in their yoga pants and Chanel bags, I feel like an imposter. Even though I know where all the cafes and restaurants are, I didn't discover them or have any meaningful memories there. I don't have a Blind Lady pizza and beer place thats friendly to kids, an Ould Sod Irish bar where I made many 20-year-old type of mistakes, a Lestat's cafe that provided me with a daily destination and some sanity when I had newborns.
La Jolla is my new neighborhood, but it hasn't completely been home.
Then on Monday I found it. A secret beach hidden behind a row of mansions.
It's an actual beach, not a cliff, with white sand for sandcastle building and waves to jump around in. There were mid-afternoon surfers and toddlers running in the waves without fear. La Jolla High kids ditching school on a hot day. I'd never seen it before, I never knew it existed. And after a day of exploring, there it was, something I found that was mine.
And just like that, I was home.
