And Crown Thy Good With Brotherhood

Here in Central Florida, we get people from everywhere. They come on vacation to see the Mouse, and they say, "Nice weather. We should live here." When they arrive, they never quite let go of the places they came from. New Yorkers will tell you all day long what a shithole Florida is while extolling the virtues of Brooklyn or Queens. Puerto Ricans, Britons and Russians display their national flags on their cars. On my street during college football season, I can find the flags of Notre Dame, Michigan, Ohio State and Boston College flying on porches. At the local park on any given weekend, I can watch a Dominican soccer team play a bunch of pink-faced Germans in a friendly match of national pride. Even in that loose, pick-up, amateur league, you will find the players shaking hands at game's end.

This is a transient area, a microcosm of the Great Melting Pot, where every color, country and 49 others states are represented in a simmering stew. And just like every other area that boasts a Chinatown or a Little Italy or a Spanish Harlem, we manage to get along. We're Americans first, but we're not about to let go of the places we truly think of as "home."

That said, this is my 619th blog post. 619 is an area code in San Diego. Go Chargers.