San Diego

Every spring, the Anza-Borrego Desert ditches its usual barren charm and decides, for just a fleeting window, to throw the most flamboyant floral rave you'd never expect from such sandy austerity. Imagine Mother Nature having a midlife crisis, painting her ordinarily sensible landscape in psychedelic splashes of purple sand verbena, electric yellow desert sunflowers, and the vivid pinks of blooming cacti-like a Grateful Dead cover unfolding across the desert floor. This spectacle-eerily dubbed a "super bloom" when the rain gods have had an especially generous winter-is strictly limited edition, typically peaking between late February and early April, so you'll want to track rainfall reports and bloom forecasts obsessively like a botanical stockbroker. Plan to dodge peak weekend crowds by heading out at sunrise on a weekday, armed with sturdy shoes, sunscreen, and snacks (because desert-induced hangriness is real, believe me). Budget-wise, this beauty comes nearly free-just gas, snacks, and perhaps an overnight campsite if you're keen to stargaze alongside the resident coyotes after dark. And even if flowers aren't your usual thing, go anyway: how many times in your life can you say you partied with thousands of extravagantly dressed wildflowers in the California desert wilderness? It'll be worth it, if only to fill an awkward silence someday with, "Did I ever tell you about the time I chased down a psychedelic desert bloom?"

Comic-Con International is like Mardi Gras for introverts, a colorful collision of die-hard fans, seasoned cynics, and cosplayers taking themselves gloriously and delightfully too seriously. Every July, the Marina District morphs from a serene seaside haven into a wild bazaar of pop-culture pilgrimage, where Klingons casually sip espresso, Batman argues parking tickets, and anime heroes battle existential crises outside taco trucks. Historical note: launched humbly in 1970 as a modest gathering of a hundred comic book enthusiasts trading vintage Spidey issues, today's Comic-Con attracts over 130,000 people-so book your tickets and hotels at least six months in advance, or risk sleeping in a tent dressed like Chewbacca. Bring cash (around $300-$500 should suitably fuel impulse buys and overpriced convention-center nachos) and a sturdy backpack for hauling your freshly acquired bobbleheads, autographed sketches, and existential dread. Early mornings or late afternoons are prime, when lines for legendary panels thin marginally, and zombie hordes temporarily retreat for overpriced lattes. Love it or scoff at it, Comic-Con International is unquestionably worth enduring-for the sheer spectacle, the thrill of communal fanaticism, and, if nothing else, the bragging rights of having elbowed past a sweating Deadpool to shake hands with the guy who designed Iron Man's left sock.

Out in the scorched nothingness of Imperial County, rising like an acid-trip mirage from the wastelands near Niland, Salvation Mountain beckons pilgrims, skeptics, and Instagram devotees alike. Constructed piece-by-raucous-piece by eccentric visionary Leonard Knight over three decades, this Technicolor monument embodies a peculiarly American blend of earnest devotion and outsider-art rebellion-imagine if Dr. Seuss found religion after a long weekend in Joshua Tree. Plan your visit early in the morning or closer to dusk, when the desert sun isn't relentlessly trying to murder your enthusiasm. Pack sunscreen, water, and a willingness to chat with the nomads of nearby Slab City; they'll share stories you'll swear must be partially true. There's no real admission fee, but donating five to ten bucks (or a fresh bucket of paint) helps keep Leonard's fever dream alive. Ultimately, Salvation Mountain is worth the dusty trek-not merely for the surreal selfies, but because you'll return home with the unbeatable tale of the day you found redemption- or at least a decent anecdote- in the psychedelic heart of the Californian desert.