Why does one taster say butterscotch where another says vanilla? Did her grandmother used to slip butterscotch candies into her coat pocket before hugging goodbye? Why does one taster say tobacco where another says chocolate? Does he smoke cigars by his backyard fire-pit? Lavender rather than violet? Slate rather than soil? 

We had planned on living in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego for a full month, but after some unseemly moments on our block, decided to pursue an early exit strategy.

“What did you enjoy about it?” I asked. 

“The sun,” she declared. 

Well, okay. The sun is sort of the one thing that is literally everywhere — yet, I know what she means. 

The Gods of concrete and rubber lifted their broad chests and raised their scepters high to usher my most epic test to date. We drove into the storm through a wall of water like something out of a Marvel comic, a metaphorical energy suction pulling us through.

On Frenchman Street, music pours from the windows of every bar, through the slatted shutters painted “French Quarter Green”, an impossibly lush, rich hue. We were early for the show at The Spotted Cat, catching the end of the earlier one — a treat beyond our expectation.