Could San Clemente be my next home?

In my last blog, I had taken the number One Orange County Bus south down the Pacific Coast Highway to pick up my retirement check in Carlsbad. It made several stops to allow the workers to get off at a hotel or a restaurant. Many had taken earlier buses to get to the Costa Mesa and Newport Transit Station.
   After one hour and fifteen exact minutes I had arrived at my Pico Stop, across the street from the Seven Eleven and a sushi restaurant. It felt like a heavy weight had been removed from my back, with my friendly coffee shop up ahead.
   For the first time in weeks, my mouth did not ache. I had no idea how many teeth had rotten away during my 77 year stay on earth. The God of Moses never intended us to live so long on his little sphere called earth.
   I nursed the coffee and read their local paper about tons of sand moved here to build up the sandy shoreline as erosion had removed tons of its golden Carlsbad sand. In an earlier trip, I visited the  President Nixon favorite hamburger stand when cars were bumper to bumper on the way back to San Diego. Nary a unhappy face spoke to me. Everyone befriended this old man in a San Clemente Coffee Shop.
   I had spent about two dollars on my coffee and felt happy that the Metro Link ran another one hour earlier at a bit over nine o'clock. Never did the conductors check for a ticket on this last leg to Oceanside from San Clemente. I knew the city had a great library and also wished to stay a night somewhere reasonably priced.
  The clear blue sky and flashy white breakers made it a piece of art to view from my window. Beside the second stop, the pier. The Western Surfing Association meet was going on. Unlike other beaches, the sandy shore was slim. Barbecue pits and volleyball courts told me I would be using them one day -- of course God be willing.
  I even began to forget how my brother Mel had been mistreated at the Pacific Royale Assistant Community would pay for their negligence again. The owner, Sir Edward Maslobodsky, yes that is his spelling, would pay for his mistreatment of my brother Mel in this Midway City converted apartment.  But it was about today. and not the bitterly sloppy days inside Midway City where my brother had been treated like refuse, what with bed bugs, nasty bed partners and a doctor who overlooked his health, one Dr. Jennings. On the other side, the Rusty Cliffs of San Clemente peered down on me and spoke.
   "George, only look, but you will not ever have enough money to walk my cliff-walk."
    "Just you wait Mr. Clifford. I will be able to afford your lofty hills and miraculous view sooner than you think. Do you allow Jews?"
  The Metro 666 now descended on San Onofre, a name hard to pronounce where Barbara McAfee's husband worked as a Vice President. I even saw Amby Schindler waxing his board as this section of beaches had the best rolling waves where a Barney Wilkes, who he called the Mayor, began a club of surfers.
   The train stuck to the beach route until a bridge stood up and it waved more to the center of these
 rolling hills that belonged to Camp Pendleton. I felt happy not to have taken the Camp Pendleton bus the one hour and thirty minute ride on its 395. (More to Come.)