those big airplanes, they go both ways
Aug. 13th, 2004 05:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timerippleButte County August has finally decided to manifest itself in its various forms. The temperature is approximately 101 degrees Fahrenheit, and the lovely golden glow in the air, while beautiful, must be attributed to drifting smoke from the various forest fires raging out of control in various parts of the North State.
San Francisco is possibly the coolest city in the world.
Saturday: Mom and I take the train and then a bus to Market Street and walk to the hotel. The hotel, I might add, is situated about halfway up one of the many extremely steep hills which crazy people saw fit to build their city on back when gold was something you tore mountains apart trying to get to. (Note: the miners actually did tear mountains apart. There are rubble heaps everywhere where the mining camps and towns used to be. I might not know much about world history or anything else, but one thing growing up in Northern California gave me was a thorough grounding in Gold Rush history and happenings.)
Blissful naptime is followed by even-more-blissful dinner at a real French creperie. O joy! I shall not attempt to describe the rapture of goat-cheese crepes followed by real homemade chocolate mousse with vanilla ice cream.
Somehow or other we acquire tickets to a rather short and sweet musical about the joys of traveling. It includes scenes dealing with getting ripped off in foreign countries, traveling with friends, and traveling on a group tour bus. (The last was particularly accurate. See my notes on Greece for details.)
Sunday: Mom and I awake to the sound of running feet. Either the inhabitants of the room above us are hyperactive children, or they are the noisy ghosts of hyperactive children. We are prevented from banging on the ceiling with a broom by the absence of such an instrument. Alas. This sound of running feet is to haunt us night and day for the duration of our visit. O for a broom!
We take a tourist-infested bus to the Ferry Terminal. We intend to get off at Pier 27 to meet Melanie, but the bus is declared inoperable and everybody disembarks at the intersection of Market and the Embarcadero. On the plus side, all passengers receive free bus passes good for the rest of the day. This unexpected benefit inspires us to walk the mile or so between the Ferry Terminal and Pier 27. Sure enough, Melanie’s ship has arrived early, and she runs to meet us across the almost-empty pier. My bright-orange “S.P. Wiggle, Esq.” sign, designed to attract attention in a crowd, is unnecessary, but I wave it enthusiastically anyway. Melanie gives us a tour of the ship, and I drool over the science lab in particular. Go figure. Her relatives arrive shortly afterward, there are photos all round, and we agree to meet the next day.
That afternoon we take a free tour of Pacific Heights and are instructed and edified by a docent belonging to City Tours. The subject: Victorian houses, which San Francisco’s residential districts by no means lack. Near the end of the tour is a mansion, not Victorian but noteworthy nonetheless. The view, I decide, would almost be worth putting up with the French Baroque architecture. I am no expert in architecture, nor do I particularly hate ornate buildings, but I draw the line at arches and corners adorned with enormous bunches of stone grapes.
A trip to Border’s results in the acquisition of a 20-pound encyclopedia of mythology (it was on sale).
We duly present ourselves at a stand-up comedy show that evening. Unfortunately it is not very funny. On plus side, I win some chocolate. Sleep is punctuated by running footsteps.
Monday: We ride the ferry to Sausalito and back, munching baguette and more goat cheese, then join Melanie & Co. for a trip into Chinatown. Lunch is Dim Sum! What crunchings and munchings follow, what sippings and drippings of delight! We very much enjoy spending time with Melanie and her family, who ply us with dish after dish of delicious who-knows-what. The slimy noodle-covered dough topped with cilantro is particularly good, as is the fried rice. And of course, jasmine tea! The lot of us then wander the streets of Chinatown in search of a bakery. Mmmm, egg tarts! We part with tummies and hearts full.
An attempt at another walk leaves my feet sobbing; I am forced to plead exhaustion. Alas. Dinner is Chinese pastries; the entertainment is our resident hyperactive foot-stomping neighbors. I finish The Neverending Story and leaf through my new encyclopedia. Finally, bored to tears, Mom suggests a return to Borders. Who am I to object?
Tuesday: We awake once more, breakfast on more Chinese pastries, and pack. The footsteps sound once again; I defiantly lob my blue stress ball (a gift from Allie) at the ceiling as we head out the door for the last time. One last trip to Borders before our bus comes. Were I allowed, I would no doubt set up camp in the children’s section and spend my life looking at the illustrations in mythology and fairy tale books.
Looking out the train window, the marsh grass and the little pools between the eucalyptus trees are inspirational; I scribble happily on the back of an old program.
I love San Francisco!
And now, I have a duty to attend to. I must studiously sit and mock the show I like to call “Frankie and Annette: The Next Generation.”
All that was written after I got home on Tuesday. I'm going to visit a good family friend of ours in Canada on Monday, and will be back by the end of the week. Perhaps if I am favored with a deluge of adulation and grovelling I shall bestir myself to fine-tune and post GG&HTOTW...E,SI: The Epilogue before I leave.
San Francisco is possibly the coolest city in the world.
Saturday: Mom and I take the train and then a bus to Market Street and walk to the hotel. The hotel, I might add, is situated about halfway up one of the many extremely steep hills which crazy people saw fit to build their city on back when gold was something you tore mountains apart trying to get to. (Note: the miners actually did tear mountains apart. There are rubble heaps everywhere where the mining camps and towns used to be. I might not know much about world history or anything else, but one thing growing up in Northern California gave me was a thorough grounding in Gold Rush history and happenings.)
Blissful naptime is followed by even-more-blissful dinner at a real French creperie. O joy! I shall not attempt to describe the rapture of goat-cheese crepes followed by real homemade chocolate mousse with vanilla ice cream.
Somehow or other we acquire tickets to a rather short and sweet musical about the joys of traveling. It includes scenes dealing with getting ripped off in foreign countries, traveling with friends, and traveling on a group tour bus. (The last was particularly accurate. See my notes on Greece for details.)
Sunday: Mom and I awake to the sound of running feet. Either the inhabitants of the room above us are hyperactive children, or they are the noisy ghosts of hyperactive children. We are prevented from banging on the ceiling with a broom by the absence of such an instrument. Alas. This sound of running feet is to haunt us night and day for the duration of our visit. O for a broom!
We take a tourist-infested bus to the Ferry Terminal. We intend to get off at Pier 27 to meet Melanie, but the bus is declared inoperable and everybody disembarks at the intersection of Market and the Embarcadero. On the plus side, all passengers receive free bus passes good for the rest of the day. This unexpected benefit inspires us to walk the mile or so between the Ferry Terminal and Pier 27. Sure enough, Melanie’s ship has arrived early, and she runs to meet us across the almost-empty pier. My bright-orange “S.P. Wiggle, Esq.” sign, designed to attract attention in a crowd, is unnecessary, but I wave it enthusiastically anyway. Melanie gives us a tour of the ship, and I drool over the science lab in particular. Go figure. Her relatives arrive shortly afterward, there are photos all round, and we agree to meet the next day.
That afternoon we take a free tour of Pacific Heights and are instructed and edified by a docent belonging to City Tours. The subject: Victorian houses, which San Francisco’s residential districts by no means lack. Near the end of the tour is a mansion, not Victorian but noteworthy nonetheless. The view, I decide, would almost be worth putting up with the French Baroque architecture. I am no expert in architecture, nor do I particularly hate ornate buildings, but I draw the line at arches and corners adorned with enormous bunches of stone grapes.
A trip to Border’s results in the acquisition of a 20-pound encyclopedia of mythology (it was on sale).
We duly present ourselves at a stand-up comedy show that evening. Unfortunately it is not very funny. On plus side, I win some chocolate. Sleep is punctuated by running footsteps.
Monday: We ride the ferry to Sausalito and back, munching baguette and more goat cheese, then join Melanie & Co. for a trip into Chinatown. Lunch is Dim Sum! What crunchings and munchings follow, what sippings and drippings of delight! We very much enjoy spending time with Melanie and her family, who ply us with dish after dish of delicious who-knows-what. The slimy noodle-covered dough topped with cilantro is particularly good, as is the fried rice. And of course, jasmine tea! The lot of us then wander the streets of Chinatown in search of a bakery. Mmmm, egg tarts! We part with tummies and hearts full.
An attempt at another walk leaves my feet sobbing; I am forced to plead exhaustion. Alas. Dinner is Chinese pastries; the entertainment is our resident hyperactive foot-stomping neighbors. I finish The Neverending Story and leaf through my new encyclopedia. Finally, bored to tears, Mom suggests a return to Borders. Who am I to object?
Tuesday: We awake once more, breakfast on more Chinese pastries, and pack. The footsteps sound once again; I defiantly lob my blue stress ball (a gift from Allie) at the ceiling as we head out the door for the last time. One last trip to Borders before our bus comes. Were I allowed, I would no doubt set up camp in the children’s section and spend my life looking at the illustrations in mythology and fairy tale books.
Looking out the train window, the marsh grass and the little pools between the eucalyptus trees are inspirational; I scribble happily on the back of an old program.
I love San Francisco!
And now, I have a duty to attend to. I must studiously sit and mock the show I like to call “Frankie and Annette: The Next Generation.”
All that was written after I got home on Tuesday. I'm going to visit a good family friend of ours in Canada on Monday, and will be back by the end of the week. Perhaps if I am favored with a deluge of adulation and grovelling I shall bestir myself to fine-tune and post GG&HTOTW...E,SI: The Epilogue before I leave.
