Iconoclastic fiefdom and other curious phrases

When we last spoke with you, Jon was bringing you up to speed from the Fillmore neighbourhood. Which, not meaning to get a little Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on you all, was delightful. Boutique shops, great cafes, good vibe, respectable looking art house cinema, semi-notorious concert venue, tasteful art: it was a treat. The embodiment of everything I enjoy about San Francisco, a city where you don’t really have to try to hard to soak up the atmosphere. It’s just under your nose.

The peaceful ambience of Fillmore was literally blown the hell out of me, though. Jon and I had decided to stroll across the Golden Gate Bridge in the afternoon. A walk that including distance between our current abode and the bridge was close to a four-mile walk. Not a particularly strenuous amount of space to amble through in an afternoon, it seemed.

Walking the Golden Gate Bridge: not as enjoyable as expected.

It turns out that the Golden Gate Bridge is far more pleasant to look at from the comfort of a car, or from a comfortable distance. Walking over the bridge you are inundated with the overwhelming and endless drone of passing cars, with the occasionally staccato exclamation as the cars pass over the slightly raised vents in the road. Now San Francisco is also a very exposed city in parts, so the bridge also had a mighty and very chilling crosswind. And after the relaxing Fillmore romp I was in jandals, shorts and t-shirt. So it was a physically unpleasant walk. Let’s not forget that I was quite hungover (oh James! Again! You aimless buffoon.) after Lauren and I had decided to get drunk for the ballgame (and after faffing most of the afternoon away found ourselves with no time to drink, so wolfed down two glasses of cheap vodka, then filled up a 1.25 litre bottle of vodka, soda water and ginger ale to make up the numbers. We then drank that on the bus. Sorry Mum?) and then happened on a lovely concierge at the Hyatt after the game who dolled out free champagne to Jon, Lauren and myself who were walking around the hotel looking for some mischief to cause. So I’d had a big night.

We survived the walk though. The view was great, just decidedly not tranquil. (The crisis phone lines and don’t jump signs everywhere were pretty creepy.) The walk home was interesting as well, winding around cliff hugging roads with no footpath.

Van Halen wants you to jump.

Lauren was a charitable guardian, and came hunting for us in a car twenty minutes or so from home. It was appreciated. Then the night was spent relaxing, and then enjoying the cuisine of Shimo’s; maybe (and who knows? I don’t. My knowledge of the workings of the San Francisco cuisine scene is limited) San Francisco’s finest Japanese restaurant. I’ve now been there three times in five weeks. I realise now the wonders of Vegetable Tempura. And boy, the green tea ice-cream! Hmmm. Tasty.

So we got over the Bridge struggle pretty easily. And who are we to whine? I guess even a hangover isn’t even a pressing concern when you’re embedded in a four month holiday. Sucks to be us. (However on a side note, I realised the other day that I’m closer to the end now than the start. Life will soon beckon us back to reality. To compensate I started flipping through an IKEA furniture catalogue and dreaming about how I would furnish my hypothetical Toronto flat. Which isn’t something I’m filing away under “pleasing personality developments”.)

And while I’m off topic, it’s been twenty days since I had myself a cigarette. I’m halfway through a double espresso at a local café and nothing seems to be missing. Is James cigarette free forever? Stay tuned dear reader.

The following day we set off to Berkeley, part of the ‘Bay Area’ that encompasses San Francisco. Berkeley has a superb university that is academically renowned around the world (throw me a spare 200,000 dollars and I’ll happily do their two year journalism masters course. Any day of the week) and it was a pretty good-looking campus as well. The stylish Greek lecture theatres looked more like amphitheatres, and the campus was rife with lush green outdoor areas, shrubbery and a river. Having spent five and a half years in the crushing concrete metropolis of Victoria University studying and working, I was driven half mad by the oppressive architecture (Hunter excluded) of our learning institution. The University of California in Berkeley was nice, and probably a far less maddening place to spend time. We also strolled around Berkeley town, and it’s a pretty peaceful town. The more student-y Telegraph Hill was semi-chaotic but still trendy.

It’s very much a student dominated down. Everyone seems of the same age, and I’m not quite sure what that would be like. It did seem like the sort of place where you could seem over the hill at 25. Only having to spend the day there, I’ll leave my assessment of it’s long term pitfalls. I had a good time…

… and a burrito, which are becoming a staple of my diet. And are probably the finest and most perfect take out meal. They’re healthy, they’re stacked with rice, vegetables, beans etc. and without the disgusting grease of the kebab, I’m hooked. Serious money is to be made in New Zealand in exploiting the complete lack of burrito take-out places. The kebab strangle hold on New Zealand must end. I even taught myself in Berkeley that the “super” size is impossible to eat and toned down to a regular last night, which was the perfect size.

Life is a continual process of adjustment if anything. You can quote me on that.

We were over there to see some of Lauren’s friends. We met Mario, Lauren’s friend’s boyfriend, who manages cage fighters and fights himself. His card is nestled in my wallet next to the president of the New Zealand Jedi Foundation. Mario also fishes for sharks. I was in awe of him. He has his own company, and says he’ll send Jon and I some merchandise when we get to Toronto. The shirts have “Don’t be scurrrrred” in big letters on the side.

Look out Canada!

A hot little Honda.  And a car.

The rest of our night was spent hanging out with another of Lauren’s friends and her crowd. A dinner was put on for us, and I learned that macrobiotic isn’t synonymous with
flavourless and gross. (The kindness and hospitality Jon and I receive continually is astounding. I’ll be repaying this for years I hope. All future houses I own will have a spare room for what I imagine will be a continual stream of Americans looking to get something back on their investment in Jon and I. The kindness of strangers is often overwhelming.) Interesting mealtime discussion involved Step by Step and it’s dream team prime time combination with Full House and whether or not Jamie Lee Curtis was naturally born a hermaphrodite.

Oh, the Berkeley set.

We also watched a good part of Die Hard: With a Vengeance in the afternoon. Which leads me to this very pressing question. Since when did Samuel L. Jackson become constantly referred to as Sam Jackson? Did I miss that memo?

Friday was supposed to be Alcatraz day, followed by a show, where we were to watch Lauren’s friend’s boyfriend’s band open for some semi-prominent local acts (a pretty tight connection to the band I think), but both were sold out. We have had disgusting luck with tickets. Everything seems to be sold out. Rock the Bells, Wilco (sold out before I’d even heard of it) and then the Wolf Parade concert in Los Angeles that we went to buy tickets for 2 weeks in advance to avoid another sold out fiasco. I’ve made a list of tickets, and I’m going to have to buy all of the shows I want to go to in one go. I miss the New Zealand attitude of getting a ticket on the door.

So instead of Alcatraz, I had an amble through Union Square in the downtown shopping area, while Jon checked out Golden Gate park: Lauren unveiled a gem in Union Square, the 36th floor viewing deck in the Hyatt with panoramic San Franciscan views. Sigh. San Francisco. Be still my beating heart! Instead of going to the concert we stood outside for a while, making a feeble attempt to sneak in, before chickening out.

We leave San Francisco today for Stinson beach, about forty minutes up the coast. The hard times continue with four days up at the beach.

I was unsuccessful in even seeing a bear in Montana, but Stinson is said to be one the most shark laden beaches in the world. Maybe I will catch one with my bare hands. Maybe I’ll sit in the sun drinking for a few days.

I just don’t know.

(NB: From now onwards this blog may be updated every 3 days, rather than 2. Internet access has been harder to come by in San Francisco, and the 2 days cycle can be intense at times.)

Posted by James

Tags: Movies, Music, San Francisco