What it was like
A lowrider idles at the curb with its hood up like an open book, and the block smells like a grill and fresh spray paint at the same time.
Second Saturday, the studios open. Not a gallery district performing accessibility — actual working artists standing in their own doorways, printmakers and muralists and sculptors who will tell you what a piece cost them if you ask straight. Chicano Park's pillars hold the largest outdoor mural collection in the country, and the crawl happens underneath them, which is not a coincidence. DJs set up in corner storefronts. Food vendors take whatever curb is left.
It runs from midday into the evening, free, and the Blue Line drops you at 25th and Commercial so you can skip the street parking problem entirely.
Text it to the friend who keeps saying San Diego has no culture. Let them apologize in person.