Banish all thoughts you have of the stodgy chain this is not your typical business hotel. Upgrade to a room in The Enclave, which has its own separate entrance and elevator. More a city apartment than a hotel room, there's lots of sunlight courtesy of the floor-to- ceiling windows that drenches the bedroom and sitting area. The bed is fluffed with a down comforter and pillows and the marble bathroom is suitably luxe. The public spaces, including the bar area, are more like a hipster's living room and at night there's a fire pit where you can lounge with a cocktail. A bench at the front entrance reads: Sit/Sleep/Heal.

Founded by explorer Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo in 1542, San Diego, the birthplace of California, has the best weather in the nation, hands-down. A remarkable 71 degrees year-round. The vibrant downtown is in a full resurgence, yet for all its dynamism, there's a certain warmth that emanates from the streets, among both residents and visitors, that other California pedestrian-friendly cities lack.

The first thing I do is head down to the waterfront, an easy 15 minute walk under a remarkably blue, smog-free sky. I visit the Maritime Museum of San Diego, a collection of historic ships you can walk aboard and explore. It's hard to say which is more impressive: the 1863 Star of India, the world's oldest active tall ship or the replica of the 18th century Navy frigate, the HMS Surprise that had a starring role in the movie Master & Commander. Pedicabs, pedaled by thick-calfed men and women, ply the sidewalks in front of the water, so I hail one for the ride back to the hotel.

I've been told that Croce's, run by Ingrid, the wife of late singer Jim Croce, is the heart of the Gaslamp, so I am having dinner at an outdoor table, where I can people-watch. Open since 1973, the restaurant is really an entertainment emporium, with live jazz and R&B nightly. The cuisine is eclectic: red pear salad with bleu cheese and grilled pork chop with a rich brandied cherry demi-glace. Afterwards a friend takes me to a secret spot that even some locals don't know about: the roof of the St. James Hotel. We order drinks from the mahogany bar downstairs (which once belonged to Joan Crawford) and carry them up to a panoramic view of the twinkling night city. I can see and hear strains from the impressive new Padres baseball stadium, PETCO Park.

It's been years since I have been here, and on my last visit I stayed in posh La Jolla. To reacquaint myself with the area, I take a Historic Tours of America city excursion, which is how I plan to see some of the more far-flung city destinations for the bargain price of $30. Curly, the driver, hands me a day planner which lists the stops I can get off at, including Old Town, Balboa Park and Coronado Island. The open-car trolley features his good-humored live narration. I smell coffees as we pass a factory.

Often dubbed the "Smithsonian of the West," Balboa Park features 15 museums (there are 90 county-wide). The country's largest urban cultural park, it was the site of the 1915-16 Panama-California Exposition and covers 1,200 acres of garden and features, among other things, several Spanish Colonial Revival buildings, an award-winning theater and the world's largest pipe organ.

I decide to take in the Museum of Photographic Arts, the San Diego Museum of Art, the Japanese Friendship Garden and the Mingei International Museum. My favorite was the Mingei, with two floors of changing Asian art exhibitions and a marvelous gift shop.

The free red tram, had I decided to go, would ferry me to the world-renowned San Diego Zoo. Instead, I had a late lunch at The Prado, with its eye-popping decor (Frisbee shaped blown glass caught in antler horns) and snappy food (a Pisco sour, the national drink of Chile and Peru and a chopped chicken salad with chicken, mango, cabbage and snow peas).

Perhaps the last bastion of urban redevelopment in the San Diego is the East Village, which is the next neighborhood over from the Gaslamp. The buzz has been positive about Cafe Chloe, a stylish European-style bistro run by a husband and wife and named after their daughter. There are no reservations, but I luck out and snag the sole two-top table on the trŠs petite patio. I sip a viogonier (there are 25 wines by the glass) while melding into the gurgling fountain behind me and browsing the tiny retail area with candles, books and teas. The short menu features one of my favorite brasserie dishes, steak and frites, done to near perfection. I stroll the Gaslamp, which has come alive after 9 p.m., reluctant to trade the cool night air for crowded, noisy clubs.

On my final morning, before I take a $10 cab to the airport (think of all I've saved in car rentals and parking fees), I head to Cafe 222. This quirky local joint has national chops: its pumpkin waffle has been featured in Gourmet and on The Food Network. I've brought two friends and we tuck into Joe's special frittata with spinach, potatoes, peepers and peanut butter and banana stuffed French toast. With meals like this, it's a good thing I'm walking.