Modern architecture is garbage. A design reflects its designer. I have personally known two architects. They were too dumb to be engineers and too talentless to be artists. Hence, all modern buildings.

I missed not being able to talk about Hotel del Coronado again. It is a wonderful place and worth even a walk-around if you are ever in the area. But, I just write what I’m told. A bit more exposition about San Diego and Alta California before we get into the weeds with Gordon on the next segment.

Aside: I admit I do not understand how Graf can be so loyal to two women. I’m fanatically loyal to my wife but also know that if someone looking like Hatsune Miku winked at me, I’d drive her like a hammer on a bed of nails.

Enjoy my content? Buy me a beer!

“Mexico survived the Breakup for two reasons,” Pai lectured.  “One, it was, and kind of still is, a borderline failed state.  The government corruption was and is off the chart.  Two, occupying the broken State of California was a gold mine of resources to them.  They already had their own oil, now they had access to one of the richest areas in the world.  Oh, let’s go in here for a moment.”

She gently led him into a building whose sign proclaimed Banco Alta.  Sitting him down in the lobby, she went to one of the tellers.  After some back-and-forth with a manager summoned, she passed over a fistful of silver and was handed paper bills.

“Money exchange?” he asked, standing as she came over.

“Mmm!  Keeping our profile as low as I can.” She took his offered arm and leaned into him.  “Let’s see about Coronado, then at least one other place.”

“Where would that be?” he asked as they came to the water’s edge.  “And, is that really a, what were they called, aircraft carrier, over there?”

“Yes, it was a museum, pre-Change.  I admit I’ve no idea why the Mexicans didn’t break it up for parts.  You can see it’s nearly completely rusted.  So, maybe their natural laziness?”

That finally got them two looks from the men in their twenties leaning on a rail, smoking, and chatting.  Now staring.

“Pai?” he mouthed.

“Keep on forward, toward the ferry building,” he barely heard back.  It is very unusual for her to make a mistake like that.  The two men did nothing more than stare as they passed.

Walking in and asking for tickets for the next crossing, the man behind the counter looked at the both of them.  He said one word that even Graf understood.

“No.”

Pai launched into, for her, mild histrionics, so he guessed it was an act, while nattering away in Spanish.  When she paused, the clerk spoke slowly and clearly, ending, once again, with “No.”

She paused.  Stared.  Turning about, her face lit up in a smile and nodded toward the door.  Once outside, she explained.  “My suspicion was correct:  unless invited, no outsiders on Coronado.  I bet they tightened up the rules once forced to deal with my people.”

“Russians or Machines?” he asked softly.  The sun is bright and warm and I’m getting tired of all this politics.

“Russians,” she clarified, guiding to the south rail to look out at the bay and listen to the gulls demand food.  “I never answered your earlier question.  We’ll get a cab and go about ten miles north to what was UCal San Diego.  In the back of my head, I think that is where the signal interference is centered.  Mother could clue me in in moments…”

“But, as you said, that gives you, and us, away,” he finished for her.  He moved to take her arm and found she was rooted to the ground.  So much stronger than me.

“After we tool around there a little,” Pai said, pressing herself into his chest, “the beach is only a little walk to the west.  Some us time, Graf?”

She sensed what I was feeling and reacts instantly.  She’s wonderful.

“That sounds fine.  Last time I was in a cab was Knoxville.  Guess you’ll be doing all the talking?”

“Hee hee!”

“This,” he said, waving at the building to the west on the northern part of the campus, “has to be the worst piece of architecture I’ve seen since driving past what you said is their library.”

An uneventful drive north, Graf had been surprised as to how well the city had survived.  Not wanting to talk English in front of the cab’s driver, he sat in the back while Pai nattered away, pointing at one thing after another. 

She told me that, fearful of the hoards from LA in the first weeks of the Breakup, this city almost begged the Mexican army to occupy them.  With their deepwater harbor and naval and airbases, it didn’t take much persuasion.  I did read on my tablet just before we set down that there was one early uprising, mostly college students, and they were all shot.  Over time, they moved six hundred miles north.  Until…

He looked at the back of his wife’s head.

Until there was that little skirmish with the Russian army coming south.  Some Texian lady intervened and forced them to sign a treaty, with imperial units to patrol the DMZ between them. 

He looked left at some very large cove or bay before the view was obscured by a low ridge.  The houses and businesses all seemed fine.  At least a third of the signs were in English.  He guessed that perhaps the Mexicans didn’t want to push too hard.

He closed his eyes and dozed a little, only shaken away as the cab turned first left then right into the college area.  Pai waved the driver to pause by the curb for a moment as she closed her eyes.  A head tilt.  She’s listening, trying to find whatever it is she thinks is here.  She pointed ahead and kept on with what he assumed was Spanish for “left here, now right.”

After paying the driver, Pai laughed at her husband’s comment about the building.  With very few people about, he was comfortable to talk aloud.