So. Where did I last leave off?
Kelsey and I had returned from Tour de Nez in Reno. We spent a day recovering and, in that time period, made plans to travel to the Bay Area. We hadn't planned what we were going to do, where we were going to stay, or how long we were staying - we just decided to go. So the next morning, after walking the dogs, we threw some expired Builders bars (thanks Absolute Bikes), Lara bar samples, some shirts, pants, deodorant (showers seemed unlikely), cameras, and sweatshirts in backpacks, threw the backpacks in El Trook, and tore off at the blinding speed only a 1998 4-cylinder Toyota Tacoma can achieve.
By the time we got to Berkeley, we realized it might be wise to start making plans (at least to find a place to sleep) and that rush-hour was fast approaching. Both seemed to be great reasons to exit I-80. The Berkeley Apartments had "free" wi-fi, so we interneted it up on Kelsey's ipod touch, eventually getting a hold of another friend from Belgium. Her evening was booked, but she recommended exploring Mission and 16th Street. Rush hour was still jammin' at this point, so we went to a gross-out (grocery outlet) that Kelsey spotted to pick up as much food for as cheap as possible. The big find at the gross-out, beside the reduced fat Cabot cheese, was a $2.99 12-pack of GameDay Ale. Looking back on, I'm pretty sure they should call it "Malt Liquor" rather than "ale," but you can't beat 3 bucks for 12 beers.
(here's dinner for the day, eaten at the Berkeley Marina whilst watching wind surfers)
My my, dinner was scrumptious. The mixture of a cheap hummus, cheaper beer, processed turkey strips, an entire bag of lettuce, and some African Red Devil Chili chips didn't quite mix well in my stomach, but was we drove over the Bay Bridge I realized I needed to harden the fuck up and focus on finding a place to park.
(so this might not be from the Bay Bridge, but it's neat anyhow)
Miraculously, finding free overnight parking somewhere within ten or so blocks of 16th and Mission wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. My Pops told me horror stories about parking in S.F.; I think he skewed the situation a little bit, but that can happen when one goes from driving in Ohio to driving in San Francisco... But being parked in a free overnight zone left Kelsey and I to wander the Mission and figure out what was going on. We got our mosey on as hard as possible, avoiding the inevitable (going to a bar and getting some drinks), when the first of a few striking coincidences occurred: a friend, Anna, from Flag-istan who moved to San Francisco, called and said, "Oh, crap, I forgot you guys were coming in tonight. Where are you?" I had asked her about sleeping on her floor before, but it had seemed unlikely by the time we were walking south on Mission. We ended up being a few blocks from her house, so we met up in a jiffy, jumped on a few different buses, and found ourselves at a small bar in the Haight district that reminded me of a cave. The bar had lots of great beers on tap, and allowed dogs - it felt like a dingy, shrunken Mia's, as if some crazed Fijian witch doctor stole Mia's from Flagistan, doctored it up, and gifted it to San Francisco. The city, being as tolerant and multicultural as it is, couldn't deny the gift, even though it was a sort of abomination of a good thing. After a few beers, I found myself being called out by a middle aged black man in a navy blue polo. He said "you're one of those guys that taps girls on the knee." I still don't know what that means, but I did tap someone on the knee. Rather than letting it go, I pried, which lead into an hour and half conversation with this gentleman. I found out he was a nurse, had a degree in English, and wrote poetry. I asked him to recite some poems; they were a strange mix of Gil-Scott Heron, Iron Maiden, and Stokely Carmichael, complete with air-guitar interludes and solos. These poems were driven by some racial tension, so we chatted about that for a bit, then the he brought up the knee-tapping again, then asked for some money for a cab ride home. I figured he had performed some of his trade for me so shit-yeah, I'd give him five bucks. A few minutes later, after our conversation ended, he came back, gave me more shit about tapping girls' knees, then told me he was just a coke dealer and poet! Hmm... I think I may have been hustled. Tensions elsewhere in our group were elevated as well, so we left that bar for another across the street. They had Lagunitas GnarlyWine on tap, which sounds delicious, but reads dangerous. Kelsey, Anna, and I drank one each, followed by a few cups of water, and walked out with a total of five Maessomeone's inner 8-year-old took over and he/she hurled a cup into the street while we were waiting for a bus, which, of course, brought an onslaught of shattering glass. A local resident heard the ruckus while walking down a side street, picked up a construction barricade, and came to chat with us about breaking the glass. The conversation went something like this:
"You're defiling the city, what makes you think you can do that?"
"No, man, it's glass, it'll just turn back into sand." - me.
"But it doesn't look good and it isn't safe."
"While you might be right, I disagree." -me
"And why are you carrying a construction barricade?" -Kelsey
"I hope you're not planning on hitting me with that. That seems threatening." -me
"No, I'm taking it home to use in my garden."
(a second or two of silence)
"Well isn't theft defiling the city as well?" - Kelsey or me
The guy left after that, came back again and really seemed like he wanted to fight. I don't why he didn't take a swing, maybe he was too stoned or something. Regardless, I'm glad he didn't - and he was right - we shouldn't have been breaking glass in the middle of the street (that doesn't mean it wasn't fun though). We caught the bus, walked to the truck, shotgunned the rest of the GameDays (as if we needed to drink any more), grabbed blankets, and promptly passed out at Anna's house upon arrival.
Kels woke me up early the next morning and we loaded up into the truck to drive to some suburb in the South Bay area in order to meet up with Casey, Rae, Lyssa, and Erik, after some requisite coffee. We all decided to hop in the cars and drive to Santa Cruz, which initially seemed like a great idea, but after about 45 more minutes heading over the mountains between suburb and Santa Cruz, people started driving like lunatics. In order to survive, I had to pretend like El Trook was a F1 race truck with carbon fibre (miss-spellling intentional) skid plates and supercharges. And that was just for survival. Somehow Eric was actually passing people, drifting corners, jumping banisters, and doing wheelies. Note that he drives some generic silver colored Japanese-made sedan, the make and model of which I don't remember. He's an amazing man. Once in Santa Cruz, we went to a tiny local brewery and order up big frosty, liter mugs of IPA. I guess it was organic and all that crap, but most importantly it was delicious. I may have even tasted hints of raspberry and kelp (in a good way, I guess). Post-liters, we loaded up with sandwich fixin's and head to a beach north of town.
(pretty, but not an ideal beach day)
We walked around, drank more beer (Pacifico and Pabst, duh), ate, and swam for about 19 seconds. The water was cold, the breeze was stiff - the main reason for the dip was obviously man-hood. We had talked about it, and by that point nobody could back down; we were all committed to the core. It was refreshing and eliminated any traces of a hangover I may have had. The Minorly Extended Hall Family had to get back to the old folks for dinner, so Kels and I moseyed our way up the One back into town, found free overnight parking again, ate some burritos (delicious burrito al pastor!), drank Tecate, and called it an early night.
Shit, this is turning into another novel. Oh well.
Kels and I were up early again, searching for postcards, coffee, and a way to get to Fisherman's Warf in the Castro area.
(good coffee just below the sign)
(A view from the Cable Car we caught to get to the Warf: is this what happens when you get too educated?)
Coincidence Number 2: Kelsey got hooked on a particular kind of coffee at the Castro Coffee Co., drank too much, and needed to pee really badly while on the cable car. We exited at the Ferry Station, found bathrooms, then jammed ourselves into the corner of the next cable car. When the car started unloading, we hoped we could find the Hall family without too much hassle. I looked to my left and said "Well, shit, there they are!" They were on the same car we were. For the majority of the rest of the day, we moseyed hard with the Hall family, visiting Haight street, the Presidio, the Warfs, and drinking a lot of coffee.
(you have to take their picture)
(the heroes of our story, the Hall Fam)
(goddamn I like the fog)
Eventually the older folks trailed off and caught the Caltrain back to the burbs, the younger folks found a happy hour in the Haight at some Middle Eastern restaurant called Hookas Not Bazookas. They had cheap beer and expensive food, which isn't a terrible combination if you don't eat the food. The resto had minimal graffiti in the bathroom, but the little it did have seemed strange for San Francisco.
(Kill Hipster Invaders?)
After some beers (or maybe it was before, I don't remember), we went to a little taxidermy shop called Creepy Little Things. It was the creepiest store I've ever been into. They had human skulls, preserved human hands, and feet, shrunken monkey heads, crow wing necklaces, old Victorian pocket bibles, doorknob canes (not that strange), jellyfish in glass, and a gaggle of other peculiarities. The strangest things in the store weren't for sale: enclosed glass boxes with small mammals or birds taxidermied, dressed in Victorian clothes, and put with miniature, but typical Victorian mis en scene. Everyone got the heeby-jeebies real quick, and so we left, and even left the Haight back toward Mission. This was gunna be a last night out with Casey and Rae, so beer was purchased and consumed on Anna's stoop, but energy was low. We had walked a shit-ton that day, and one can only handle so much of the bizarre nature of San Francisco if one is not accustomed to it. Casey and Rae decided to stick around the entire night, which meant hard partying. The first bar we came upon was called the Beauty Bar - which was themed like a 1960's beauty salon. Except the bar owners had outfitted the joint with a laser light disco ball and a DJ spinning ridiculous dance tunes. We ordered the cheapest thing on the menu (Pabst), and started dancing. The first song to start while we were there began in a very straightforward manner: you know, generic house beats, synth noises, high pitched girl singing. When the first lyric was belted, I looked around at my compatriots to make sure I had heard right. The song said: "I wanna fuck you in the ass." That ended up being the only lyric in the song as well. And our only beer in that bar. If we wanted to party harder, we needed to move to Castro. Rae suggested going into a place called the Q-bar and it ended up being everything we ever wanted from a bar in that part of town. Topless (male) bartenders, 2-4-1 wells, heavy dance tunes. Everything was going smoothly and the drinks were going down quick, when, all of a sudden, I found myself on a table bumping and grinding with what appeared to either be a cross-dresser, or a straight up transgendered individual. Kelsey and Casey joined in as well. Man, were we gettin' down! I noticed Rae taking a picture, and immediately felt bad. The transgendered individual noticed as well and left the dance table, he/she/(goddamn it while gender may not be black and white we don't have a continuum of pronouns) recognized the objectification and objected. I felt like a mean hearted tourist and vowed not to subjugate the locals much more that night.
Rum and coke felt like the right beverage for that bar, so we had a few more of those, then went off to find bigger and better things. Specifically, Casey and I developed the notion that there must be dubstep around somewhere, and began hassling people on the street about where to find the Bah-Wha (as named by our friend, Ryan, from hitching a ride around Lake Tahoe). So much for not subjugating the locals. We interrupted 2 ladies heartfelt goodbye, then felt like assholes, and interrupted again to apologize for being assholes, and double check that they didn't know where the Bah-Wha was. Instead of dub-step we landed in this old-timey punk bar with the Clash, Ramones, Sex Pistols, etc. playing. Oddly enough, someone bought us a game of pool, and the bar had free popcorn. The drink here was Pabst, of course, so we drank some drink, ate some popcorn (which I am convinced saved our lives), then headed out around 1:30.
We all got lost in the excitement of a big city, and forgot that the bars still close at 2, so we walked down toward 17th and Harrison, where a late night speak easy themed bar should have been located. Before we got there, I threw two Pacifico cans from the top of a newspaper machine into the street, right in front of a police car. Great. The cops stopped, and I reached in my pockets to pull out my I.D, and the police had to politely inform me to never reach into my pockets like that again - it's a good thing I was an intoxicated tourist and obviously both. One cop went to supposedly write me a ticket, while the other chatted to Casey, Rae, and Kelsey about the Haboobs in Arizona, also explaining that we weren't looking for Henderson, we were looking for Harrison, and that the green bins were for compost. The other officer came back to me and told me he wasn't going to write me a ticket, and I was all "Yes, Sirs" and "No, Sirs" and full of drunk, polite, good charm, when he told me to go ahead and put the cans in the green bin. Yup, an officer of the law told me to compost two aluminum cans, while the other officer had instructed my friends to recycle the can. What does one do in such a situation? Well, you hope that aluminum really is as biodegradable as everyone says it is, and maybe say a prayer or two. Then you walk home and try to stop laughing before you stumble into your hosts house at 4 in the morning.
The next day was suuper mellow, do to the ruckus nature of the night before (a fair amount was intentionally left out...). We cruised down to Union Square, drank coffee, saw Rae and Casey off on their Caltrain, and found a great little park with lots of sunshine to sleep a bit in. Somehow, I got sunburned in front of Grace Cathedral. Well, not somehow, I feel asleep with my shirt off in the sun, but who gets a sunburn in San Francisco?
(I was going to upload some more photos, but the uploader crapped out)
That night, Anna took us to a neat little bar called the Phone Booth that was sorta decorated like Creepy Little Things, Ultra Light. They had a Barbie chandelier, matador paintings, jukebox, pool table jammed into a corner, and cheap Tecate tall-cans. From what I experienced in San Francisco, pool playing is a serious endeavor. You don't throw some quarters down to play doubles with your homies, you right your name on a chalk board, wait your turn, and try to win the table. Singles only, I guess. The most interesting thing about the Phone Booth is that you can still smoke inside, if you like to smoke. But shit, if you don't smoke, and you're hanging out there, you might as well due to second hand smoke. I don't know how they get away with it, in the same way that I don't know how the little taxidermy store could sell human body parts, but both establishments seem to be about as legit as places like them can be.
We called it an early night, woke up, drove Anna to work, ate some food at her place of work, and got the hell out of the city. I realized, after driving east, back over the Bay Bridge, while the next toll bridge attendant told me I was going to get a 30 dollar ticket for not having a 5 dollar bridge toll, that I don't understand San Francisco one bit. Human Skulls, smoking in bars, german chocolate flavored coffee, 8 dollar breakfast sandwhiches, Kill hipster invader tags, Chrome bag stores, bums ranting about disrespect to trash cans and newspaper machines, city-wide compost, public transit, cheap beer, expensive food, cheap food, expensive beer, yuppies, Diesel, Castro, Mission, Haight, Presidio, Warfs, outrageous rent, low wages, Golden Gate Bridge, Jesus Christ. It all makes so little sense together, that you might as well be able to find all of that stuff within a 10 mile diameter circle. When it boils down to it, who doesn't want Chinese pastries right next door to some of the best huevos rancheros on the planet?
(Quick update: It looks like I found a place to live in Missoula and I'll be heading there around the 17th of august. Kelsey left a few days ago, and since then, I've been spending time with my grandparents doing yard work and thinking in the boondocks of Nevada.)
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