FOG CITY

I've made it to San Francisco, where my days are filled with wonder and veggie burritos. I'm about to pass out, but here are some snapshots of how I got here:

"Aug. 23 – 7:30pm

I’m on the ferry to Vancouver Island. After much deliberation, and finding out that a hostel in Victoria had room for me, I decided not to stay in Vancouver, nor get quite to Seattle or Olympia Washington (since that would’ve been undoable today by ferry), so I split the difference, and Victoria it is. I plan to leave first thing in the morning for Washington state.

I’m happy to finally be at the coast, at the Pacific Ocean proper (or at least the Georgia Strait… close enough) I feel like my Piscean nature is most at home near oceans. The Great Lakes often don’t quite cut it. I sat at the ferry terminal and watched the birds – seagulls and some grey birds and smaller birds that I didn’t know what they were. They seemed happy to be there, I thought. A girl on the bus had dreadlocks, and a big blue backpack with a gasmask attached, and strawberry shortcake (as in, the children’s toy) luggage. I overheard her talking to someone at the ferry terminal, saying she takes the gas mask with her wherever she goes, just in case shit goes down. She was going home to salt spring island. Ah, the left coast.

I’ve rarely felt as alone and as free as I do on this boat right now. And I think that loneliness is the price of freedom, and that freedom is the gift of loneliness."


"Aug. 24 – 8:30am

I’m in Victoria this morning, and the problem with my plan to come here last night is that, like whenever I get to a new place, I don’t really want to leave so quickly. But, as I write down the date, I realize that I can’t afford to linger, because if I do the weekend in San Francisco will slip away from me. Yesterday, as great as the ferry was, the bus+ferry+bus combonation took forever (left Vancouver at 5pm and didn’t get to my hostel until 10). And now that I’ve committed myself to this course of action, I have a day of ferries and slow buses ahead of me, probably getting no further that Olympia tonight.
Oh, I’m at a diner having a proper breakfast this morning – they have numerous types of egg benny here, including 3 vegetarian options (I had mine with tomatoes and asparagus, on homemade corn bread). The waitress called me honey. She also touched my shirt to feel how soft it was, which was weird. It’s my grey MEC fleecy shirt, the same one I was wearing in Missoula, actually. Apparently, it drives the small town (or smaller-city) girls wild… in this case, a 40 or 50-something girls. Oh well, I'll take whatever kindness I can get."

Actually people in BC were generally super nice, especially Victoria.

"Later that day, 3:20pm

I’m on my second ferry ride of the day, this one going into Seattle. Earlier I went from Victoria to Port Angeles, on the Olympic peninsula. I thought it would be a cool way to go, but other than the ferry rides themselves, the drive has been pretty blah, and so was Port Angeles itself. I could have gone to Port Townsend, possibly a nicer town, but I would’ve had to have taken a of local buses, which would’ve taken longer, especially since I just missed one of them, and the timing was perfect for this sort-of-express bus I’m taking that’s going straight into Seattle.
This is a cool ferry ride right now, though… I’m gonna go enjoy. Oh, but first, I’ll leave you with an anecdote… as I was getting on the ferry, there was a family ahead of me, and the mother said to her young daughters: “Uh oh, no pets allowed. I guess that means daddy has to stay in the car.” Zing!"

"Aug. 25 – 10pm

A lot has happened since I last had the chance to write anything. I’ve made it a very long way down the Pacific coast to the most beautiful city of them all, San Francisco. As to how I got here….
Well, I got to Seattle, which I sort of wanted to miss initially, but I’m really glad I went. I got off the bus, put my big red backpack in a locker at the bus station, and went for a walk, intending just to use my laptop to get on the internet at a coffeeshop and hop on a bus or train that evening, within a few hours. I walked, almost accidentally, right to Pike Place Market, which was great. Lots of coffee shops, local produce, and right on the water too. A lot like St. Lawrence market, but bigger and better and almost right on the water. On my way in, I passed Safeco field, where the Mariners play, and while drinking my triple-espresso Americano, found out there was a game that night, within a few hours. Since the train I wanted to take didn’t leave until the next morning, I thought it would be a great idea to stay the nigh. According to my travel guide, there was a hostel right up the street – everything was working out perfectly, and I was high on life… and probably also caffeine.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans in store. As I approached where the hostel was supposed to be, I saw scaffolding around it, and up close I found a sign that said the lease had expired and the hostel had to move around the corner… to be opened in September. I found another hostel near Pike Place Market with a view of the water… cool! Except it was full for the night. Another hostle was out of business. No luck with the cheaper hotels in my guide book, either.
Luckily, I’d also been checking out craigslist for the possibility of a rideshare going south. There was one person on there that wanted to leave either that night or tomorrow morning. I called, and at first the girl riding down to San Fran wanted to wait until the next morning. But soon she called me back and said she’d found someone else who wanted to leave that night, and we arranged to meet later that night at the Greyhound station.
This was ok by me – this would be even more of an adventure, and way cheaper too.
My first inkling, however, that this driving option might not live up to my romantic expectations came fairly quickly. After waiting about a half hour past our arranged meetup time at the particularly dodgy greyhound station, this girl Paula called me, while still driving, saying she was just pulling up to the station. Our conversation went something like this:
“Hey, I’m just about to pull up to the sation, but I’m not sure where to stop or park or anything. I thought there’d be somewhere obvious, like, at the front. Is there somewhere obvious where we can meet up at the front?”
“Well, there’s sort of a front. I’m near it right now, right on Seymour Street.”
“I don’t really see anywhere that could be the front. It’s not really obvious. I thought it would be obvious, you know. I’m just gonna park my car.”
“What does your car look like?”
“It’s, like, just a grey truck.”
“What street are you on? I’m on Seymour St., between 8th & 9th.”
“I don’t really know. Let me see. Okay I’m getting out of my car. I see some greyhousnd buses. Can you see me? I’m wearing a feathered hat.”
“No, I can’t see you. Do you know what street you’re on? Then I can find you.”
“Uh, I’m on . You know, I really hate driving in the city. I get all turned around. You know, like, this isn’t really my city. I see these greyhound buses, and a city bus stop with a lady waiting at it. Can you see me now?”
Around this point I’d walked around the Greyhound station at least once.
“Listen,” I said, “Can you get to a street corner? What street corner are you near?”
She went on for awhile about hating cities, and this not being her city, etc, etc., until eventually telling me a street corner that, as I quickly found out on my map, was sort of close to the bus terminal but was definitely quite a few blocks away. When I figured out roughly where she was, and after she complained and rambled about how stressed and confused she was, I suggested she relax, and I could come to where she was. She didn’t like that idea, and hung up on me, saying she’d call me right back.
After all this, thankfully Paula managed to figure out htat she’d been at the Greyhound courier terminal the whole time of our 10 minute expensive roaming-charge cell phone conversation, and made it to the passenger terminal where I was."

"Sat. Aug. 26 – 11:30am

Okay, I had to stop writing last night because I was just too tired. I slept almost 12 hours of much needed rest. I’m eating Huevos Rancheros on Mission St., and a Mexican country band just walked by wearing full, black and red cowboy gear (tassled shirts, cowboy hats, boots, etc.) and carrying their instruments. This neighbourhood is considered “Little Mexico” and most people are speaking spanish. Swoon.
I’d like to finish my story of my journey down here, but I’m sitting near the open front of this café, and a big black guy just came by and asked me for something to eat, then told me about god for a little while. He gave me a bible passage to read: 6 Timothy 6:10. He even wrote it down for me.
Anyway, as for my trip from Seattle… Eventually, about 10:30 or 11pm, we were on the road. Me, Paula, and this other girl Chris who responded to the craigslist posting, and who apparently had no money to put towards gas, but was willing to do most of the driving. (Dodgy!) It was good to be on the road, and on an adventure. Paula’s 36, and as our meeting demonstrated, a world class flake of the the sort the west coast attracts like wildfire. However, also a pretty interesting person. She told me she lives in Maui for about 6 months of the year doing massage therapy. 3 months she works trimming marijuana, and the other 3 months she just travels. She was on her way to San Francisco to meet up with some people, and then was on her way to Burning Man.
Chris, well, as for Chirst, I never did really find out what her story was. Despite not having money for gas, she was wearing a fleece shirt and down vest, both emblaxoned with the “North Face” logo (not cheap) and nice new-looking shoes. She was 34. She never really told us why she was going to San Francisco, much less how she ended up with no money.
The only thing I know for sure about Chris is that she absolutely did not get along with Paula. The trouble started after Chirs took the wheel for a while, late at night after Paula had been driving for a few hours. Paula went to the back of the covered bed of the pickup truck to try to get some sleep. After a couple of hours in which Chirs did, admittedly, drive fairly fast, and almost nod off I think because the car went off the highway a bit a few times, Paula knocked on the back window and said she needed to pee. When we stopped, I got out of the car and Paula told me she wanted me to drive because Chirs was “scaring the fuck” out of her, and proceeded to list the ills of her driving all while the window to the back of the cab was open and Chirs could obviously hear everything. But, just in case Chirs didn’t hear, Paula made sure to give her a thorough list of her driving problems to her face. Paula ended her rant by saying “I’m not criticizing, I’m just giving you some suggestions.” Which in my book doesn’t mean you’re not criticizing, it just means you’re a hypocrite. I appreciate that Paula was worried about her car, but her reaction was, uh, shall we say, less than tactful. I mean, why agree to take someone without gas money in the first place? Chirs, needless to say, did not drive the rest of the trip. In fact, Chris slept for the vast majority of the first 10 hours of the 15 hour drive.
I was willing to put up with Paula’s idiosyncracies for most of the trip. We stopped in a cool town called Weed, near Mt. Shasta in California close to the Oregon border, at this organic café where I had a homemade blueberry muffin. Paula drove around trying to find a friend of hers near there who had a pair of her pants, apparently (don’t ask). We had no luck. We also stopped at a Walmart so that she could look for a small scooter to take to Burning Man.
Eventually, it was all a lot to take, especially on a practically non-stop 15 hour drive, and things came to a head towards the end of the ride. Firstly, once Chris was awake, Paula basically treated her like a leper, which I found pretty hard to witness. I drove the last leg, and approaching Sacramento, we got to an exit which split off the I-5, onto a highway called the 505, I think. The sign said it led to San Francisco… but Paula wasn’t sure and didn’t have a map out, of course. I was hesitant to get off the I-5 when we weren’t sure, and Chris thought we could switch on to the I-80 leading to San Francisco further along and it would be quicker. Paula was no help at all, basically; she blubbered and sputtered about being too “cracked-out” from lack of sleep and too much driving.
As we drove further along the I-5, Paula finally dug out a map. It turned out that the 505 was, in fact, a shortcut to the I-80 towards San Francisco. The I-5 went south for a little while, and then would turn east, towards Sacramento and away from San Fran. As Paula started freaking out, I saw on the map that around where the I-5 turned east, there was a smaller highway that continued straight south, going through Davis and connecting with the I-80. I could see which highway while driving, but when I saw a sign with an exit heading to Davis, I took it. Paula, in a state that could only be described as increasingly hysterical, wasn’t sure about anything. In an effort to appease her, and to make damned sure we were going in the right direction, I got off the highway. Despite looking at the map and proving that, in fact, this was the correct way and the right highway, and only took us in a slightly different route than the 505 would have, Paula just couldn’t stop herself. She laid into Chris because she gave us the wrong directions, as well as everything else Chirs had done wrong. She didn’t attack me directly, but pointed out repeatedly how stupid it was to have gone the wrong route, and how we would end up driving through San Fran in rush hour, and how it was wrong to have pulled off the highway into a busy area, and generally just did an excellent job of making sure everyone was at least as miserable and stressed out as she was, with absolutely no constructive suggestions. All this while I was trying to drive. How I managed to not have a heart attack, and not snap at her, I have no idea. Somehow, I bit my tongue except to point out, early on in her freakout, calmly, that now that we missed the exit, that there wasn’t anything we could do about it. I kept on thinking about how I hope, as a teacher, to never have to deal with a child as immature as her.
Once we got to the I-80 leading to San Francisco, Paula calmed down for a bit. I’d say our route added 15, maybe 20 minutes tops, to our trip all told. Maybe not even that. She apologized to me for freaking out, sort of. But never apologized to Chirs, despite treating her in a way no human should ever be treated. And, of course, once we got over the Bay bridge and into the city, Paula started freaking out about directions once again. If it wasn’t for the fact that Chris navigated me perfectly by whispering over my shoulder from the backseat, I might never have escaped from that damned car.

8:45pm

I had to head out from my morning spot, café la Taza… the day was getting on, and I’d spent quite a while writing there and my huevos rancheros had long gone cold. Las night, I had a quick verrie burrito at one of the many little joints in the Mexican neighbourhood my hostel is in. Now, after a day of walking around the city, I find myself in a neat little place in an Italian neighbourhood, drinking montepulciano from a little cup instead of a wine glass, at Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store Café. It overlooks Washington Square park, where apparently Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe got married. I’m sitting right at the bar in this cozy spot whose ambiance is only diminished by the bad classic rock played too loudly. They just played Thin Lizzy’s “the boys are back in town”.
Anyway, I pretty much finished my rideshare story, but one last rant to get the last bits of bad taste out of my mouth. Yes, that girl Chris was super dodgy. After we got dropped off, I asked her if she had a place to go and stuff. She said yes, and then (ominously) that she had “something to take care of first” I’d love to know her full story. As for Paula – so many questions that I probably shouldn’t even think about… why even offer a rideshare, much less take somebody with now money for gas, when you’re so damned self-centred and have no tolerance for other people… or any adversity, for that matter. How can you lead such a charmed life, and yet be so resolutely determined to be miserable, and to drag everyone else down with you? I thought about telling her that as I left, that other people would love to lead the life she does, to tell here that she really should take the time to enjoy it.
Oh, and I almost forgot. We pulled off the highway just before the Paula freakout, and she suggested her and I split a hotel room in town. She had people she could stay with, but she reasoned that she couldn’t meet up with them right way, and wanted to sleep as soon as she was in town. She knew of some hotels that would be almost as cheap as a hostel bed if we split the room. I hesitantly and tentatively agreed at the time; but obviously backed out as quickly and as delicately as I could when the time came to actually reserve the room as we got near town. In conclusions, Americans are crazy.
I would almost go as far as to advise staying away from Americans altogether, but I have to say that would mean you’d miss some great stuff. Foremost amongst that greatness is San Francisco, which is, incredibly, worth all the suffering it took to get here. Practically everywhere I go almost brings tears to my eyes. Last night, I only had to walk the block around my hotel to go past some of the coolest bars and cafes I’ve ever seen. One little spot had a guy playing acoustic guitar and singing in a wistful Ryan Adams/Mark Kozelek/Elliot Smith sorta voice. I felt like I was in an episode of the Gilmore Girls, with a Grant Lee Phillips character as my personal troubador. Bah, I hate to compare stuff to television… how about this… it was like an even cooler Graffiti’s that I’d stumbled across, and I was filled with the sense that there were thousands of places like this throughout the city. The bar opened all along the front, with chairs and tables spilling out all over the sidewalk. To top it all of, it’s called Revolution and had a big red star as a sign. Swoon! Later on last night, the same bar had this group playing almost classical music, with a violinist and a girl who sounded like she was singing almost operatically. Cool.
Tons of history all over this town. As I said, I’m sitting now in a neighbourhood with many Italian places and there are old neon signs lining the streets, like in old pictures of the 20’s or 30’s or something. So many little bars make the best of their history, as if nothing’s changed except the culture around them and the people inside. To say San Francisco is vibrant would be an understatement – it makes other cities seem like lifeless carcasses in comparison.
Today, all I did was basically just walk. I went to City Lights bookstore, where the beats used to hang out and have their stuff published. I went to a “really really free” market near where I’m staying, where people were playing music and just giving stuff away – even barter was way too uncomfortably capitalist for them. I walked right through downtown. I went to Pier 39 on the waterfront, which was kinda sucky and touristy, with the very notable exception of the incredibly number of sea lions which hang out right near there – you can practically reach out and touch them from the pier, and they lie on floating docks. They look super cool.
I walked up Telegraph Hill, with a great view of the bay… even though it got really foggy and cloudy this afternoon.Didn’t see any parrots, like in the movie, but walked right where much of it was shot. (if you’re reading this and haven’t yet seen the documentary “The Wild Parrots of Telegraph hill” go rent it, you’re missing out.)
Oh, also, I bought a bottle of wine for $4. Tomorrow, I’m planning to go see a Giants. Game. I love it here. I hope someone tells me the winters are really bad, otherwise I might never leave. "