Like Hurricane Katrina refugees two years earlier in New Orleans, thousands of people rousted by natural disaster fled to the NFL stadium here, waiting out the calamity and worrying about their homes.
The similarities ended there, as an almost festive atmosphere reigned at Qualcomm Stadium.
Bands belted out rock 'n' roll, lavish buffets served up gourmet entrees and massage therapists helped relieve the stress.
"The people are happy. They have everything here," Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger declared Monday night after his second Qualcomm tour.
Indeed, although anxieties ran high, the misery index seemed low as the celebrity governor waded through the mob. Scarcely a complaint was registered with him.
"Oooh, I got a picture!" squealed Olivia Beard of Ocean Beach, one of hundreds who pressed toward Schwarzenegger with camera phones snapping.
"You are the best!" a young man bellowed at the governor, flashing him a salute.
Schwarzenegger returned the compliment with a hearty handshake.
The fires destroyed some 500 homes and 100 businesses in San Diego County, the greatest swath of destruction in a series of Southern California blazes that began Sunday.
Of the more than 250,000 people forced from their homes by the firestorms, volunteer coordinators estimated about 10,000 took shelter at Qualcomm, home of the San Diego Chargers.
Others camped out in hotels, at the homes of friends and family and in other shelters scattered throughout the city.
Qualcomm was one of the many shelters established for wildfire evacuees throughout Southern California, from schools to community centers.
The other main shelter in San Diego County was at the Del Mar Fairgrounds, home of the famed horse track, but that center stopped accepting people around nightfall.
Many of the 2,000 evacuees housed there were elderly. Schwarzenegger, touring the shelter Monday night, suggested they be moved out of harm's way to acute care facilities or nursing homes elsewhere in San Diego County, said the governor's spokesman, Aaron McLear.
"These are people who can't spend the whole night on cots," McLear said.
At Qualcomm, thousands of tents, many set up by relief organizations, provided temporary roofs, while hundreds more slept on open-air cots. Some elderly people were housed in stadium club boxes that serve beer and fries during games.
A combination of California cool and aggressive efforts by disaster-response officials to bring supplies helped ensure civility. A heavy police contingent and National Guard troops with automatic weapons stood by just in case.
The New Orleans refugees had dragged themselves through floodwaters and storms to get to the Louisiana Superdome in 2005, and once there endured horrific conditions without food, sanitation or law enforcement.
These evacuees, in typical California fashion, drove their cars and SUVs to the expansive parking lots in the San Diego suburbs. The worst that most endured in their exodus was heavy traffic and smoky haze.
But like the New Orleans refugees, some will have lost their homes.
Some of those forced from their San Diego-area homes were battle-tested veterans of earthquakes, floods, mudslides and previous wildfires. Several said they had narrowly escaped devastating fires in 2003 and shrugged off the inconveniences of sleeping at a stadium.
"You have to deal with it, right?" said Ashwani Kernie, who, along with six family members, had been evacuated from his Rancho Bernardo home.
He spoke while erecting a tent in Qualcomm's parking lot, as temperatures hovered comfortably in the low 70s.
"You can deal with it, or you can whine about it," he said.
Still, there was widespread anxiety about the fates of homes and belongings left behind. Many had packed up hastily as flames approached.
"They're scared, they're sad, they're losing their homes. They just want to relax and go to sleep," said Megan Malan, a massage therapist, as she rubbed the back of a man wearing a firefighter's T-shift.
She had little in the way of material goods to offer to the victims, so she provided her professional services, for free, to nervous evacuees.
Television sets hung from the rafters for the benefit of football fans, but on this evening, it was anything but Monday Night Football that drew their interest.
Hundreds sat in the stands watching the sets, transfixed as news programs broadcast images of destruction. Among them was Bruce Fowler, whose home in the Scripps Ranch neighborhood had survived fires in 2003.
That fall, the state's largest-ever complex of wildfires killed 22 people, destroyed nearly 3,600 homes and blackened more than 743,000 acres of brush and timber in Southern California, including blazes near Fowler's home.
"Every couple of years, you don't want to go through this worry," Fowler said while watching the news coverage overhead and sipping a root beer. "I never thought I'd be in a place like this, getting handouts."
Most people seemed happy for the free food and drink. A Hyatt hotel catered one buffet, offering chicken with artichoke hearts and capers in cream sauce, jambalaya and shredded-beef empanadas.
A woman working the chow line urged evacuees inspecting various buffets to come and get it; it wouldn't be as good as leftovers, she warned. Other food tables served pizza, ice cream, soft drinks and produce.
Daphne Lavi of Rancho Bernardo said she had watched her apartment complex burning on TV. She did not know whether her unit had survived the blaze or not.
"We really want to see what is going on at our home," she said as she sat in a minivan, part of a small village of vehicles and tents made up of her friends and family. Others in her van spoke nervously into cell phones.
Ester Francis, 90, clutched her cane as her son tended to her by setting up a pair of cots next to a large trash bin.
She does not know what she'll return to when the smoke clears but said she was grateful for the generosity of strangers. Qualcomm did feel something like a party, she said.
"Everyone's so friendly," Francis said. "I guess it's making us all feel secure at a time when we all feel so insecure."
