I lived in San Diego, a beautiful, tourist-attraction-filled city, for four years. Someone from my family on the East Coast visited at least once a year, and everything about their visits was easy.
It was easy to drive to the zoo or the beach. It was easy to find a nice place to eat. No one needed help reading the menu or figuring out how to ride mass transit or get over jetlag. When we were out of new places to visit, or they came for a second time, everyone was happy spending the day at the beach or, when my parents visited, the Hotel Del pool. Once I took my older sister to the movies. Once I took my younger sister to the DMV (Kate, I’m still very sorry). They were seeing a new place, but it always felt like the purpose of the visit was to spend time together — not “do San Diego.”