Vacation 2012: San Francisco

First I'll buy some beads
And then perhaps a leather band
To go around my head
Some feathers and bells
And a book of Indian lore
I will ask the Chamber Of Commerce how to get to Haight Street
And smoke an awful lot of dope
I will wander around barefoot
I will have a psychedelic gleam in my eye at all times
I will love everyone
I will love the police as they kick the shit out of me on the street
I will sleep . . . I will, I will go to a house
That's, that's what I will do I will go to a house
Where there's a rock & roll band
'Cause the groups all live together
And I will join a rock & roll band I will be their road manager
And I will stay there with them
And I will get the crabs but I won't care

--Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, "Who Needs the Peace Corps?" (1968)

Ah, San Francisco. The romance! The joie d'vivre! World Series Champions! Cultural Beacon of the West. Oasis of Civilization.

Yeah, about 10 seconds after I got off the 101 onto 7th Street, I almost ran over a few dozen zombie street people walking into traffic demanding money and just generally screaming at cars and people. Walking Dead thinks this town is jacked up. Welcome to San Francisco. Now empty your wallet, cause its going to cost you here.

How in the hell does anyone actually live here? Granted, the city boasts some breathtaking views, spectacular architecture, and incredible food. But. Prices are astronomical. There's nowhere to park, yet there's cars everywhere. Parts of town look like the aforementioned zombie apocalypse, and the other parts cost the gross national product of Singapore to live there. Its warmish when it should be cold, and cold when it should be warm. "Business" is a dirty word, and unless you made your money doing something cool, like working on Star Wars movies or designing shoes, you better not let anyone know that you have any money. The two most famous landmarks are a bridge and a federal prison. Put it this way. This is the town where the newspaper editor married Sharon Stone and had his foot nearly eaten off by a Komodo dragon (not sure which was more painful). That kind of says it all.

By the way, I just heard from the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce, which wants you to know it disassociates itself from this post and is considering filing charges against the author (that's me!).

But I'm a veteran traveler who's, you know, been around. Like, to the mean streets of Christchurch, New Zealand. So I can hang. Plus, sightseeing is a horse of a different color from living somewhere. I wasn't going to let that grimy introduction ruin the next couple of days in San Francisco. Particularly when the next couple of days would bring the most gorgeous weather I've ever seen in this city.

I headed straight for my hotel, the ubiquitous White Swan Inn, close to Union Square. I've stayed there before; it tries to evoke the style of an old English inn, with a creaky "lift" style elevator (that couldn't possibly comply with modern building codes...I assume someone's been paid off), an afternoon wine and tea service, and a nice little basement library/fireplace sitting area. The valet parking charge seems like a huge BOHICA, but the Inn doesn't charge too much more than many downtown and French Quarter New Orleans hotels, so I just thought of it as part of the room rate. Which, for the area, wasn't especially outrageous. And I scored a fairly large room, at least for San Francisco. It had a sitting area (I do like to sit, you know), a small fireplace, a small sink and refrigerator, and lots of windows (which viewed only other hotel windows, but it let in some natural light). I generally like old hotels, even if they don't offer quite the same amenities as the chains. They may have a little peeling paint and some other rough edges, but the chains are just so antiseptic. And they give you nothing to talk about later. "How was the Hyatt where you stayed in St. Louis?" "Oh, it was exactly like the Hyatt in Austin in every single possible way." Yeah, great). Generally the staffs are a little more personable, and even in cases where they're not, at least they're not corporate automatons. Like at the Hyatt.

After arriving in town around 5 or so and getting settled in, I tried to take in as much of the area as I could before sunset. This part of town seemed seedier than the last time I was here. By that I mean more obvious street hustlers and panhandlers, more garbage, more graffiti, more decaying buildings...just generally more Cleveland-esque. [The Cleveland Chamber of Commerce wishes you to know Cleveland is a fine city with lots of friendly people, good schools, and competitively priced real estate, and without too many personal appearance hangups]. Walking around the area made me feel unsafe. New York used to make me feel that way, but after Giuliani cleaned up the town, its much better. New York pretty ruthlessly cleaned out all the street-level detritus, and while doing so did lose some color and, in some ways, urban charm, New York's tourism revenues (and jobs) no doubt exploded once people felt safe visiting the city again. While New York actually enforces its laws, I didn't see one San Francisco police officer the whole time I was there. The resulting Escape From New York street charm reflects what happens when government tries to run a town like its a Montessori school. I suppose if I were a real Texan, I could have just been packing some Walker, Texas Ranger style heat and blown away any attackers. Problem solved. But while there's some things I do well...a few things at least, I think I'd make Barney Fife look like Dirty Harry if I tried to use a gun to fend off some sort of attack. I'd reach for my gun and drop it, or not get it out of the holster, or shoot my little toe off, or it would backfire on me. Better to be wary (thanks Jen Jen) of my surroundings and avoid threats altogether. But my point is...what kind of vacation is this anyway? Can't I go somewhere that the biggest  personal safety issue comes from the fact that I'm the only man within 50 miles of dozens of unruly Hawaiian Tropic bikini contestants all mad at their boyfriends and looking to get a little payback?  Note to self: carefully research Lonely Planet guides for such a place.

The next morning I made my way over to Golden Gate Park, the Jewel in San Francisco's Crown. The Park spans slightly more than a thousand acres, abutting on its far west boundary against the Pacific Ocean. It features Dutch windmills and a spectacular tulip garden, buffalo, a Japanese garden, the Conservatory of Flowers, a rhododendron garden, several rose gardens, and lovely little trails leading into the thicket. I made it about five miles, on a soupy, foggy, chilly morning. Just the sort of morning you'd hope to have on a San Francisco trip. After a surprisingly good hotel breakfast, I got on the bus. The open air tour bus that is. Some of you may recall that I've relaxed my normally well-advised rule against engaging in any organized vacation activities so as to allow taking these on/off buses. [One of these days I'll write about my travel rules. They're a little...fussy]. They go by the main scenic points, there's usually some semi-knowledgeable person (usually some student type wasting his or her life getting a graduate degree in some useless field like law, or business) narrating the tour and passing along interesting information. You can get off at any stop and explore a particular area further, then catch another bus to resume the tour. That's how I spent most of my first day. This allowed me to cover a lot of ground and learn a few facts I didn't already know (shocking, right?) along the way. Fortunately, the fog burned off and it turned into a lovely, breezy day with clear skies.

Highlights included the major scenic areas you probably associate with San Francisco. Golden Gate Bridge and the Presidio, Civic Center area, Haight Ashbury, the Park, Pacific Heights, the cable car lines, North Beach, Chinatown, Coit Tower, the Embarcadero and the Ferry Building, and so forth. I've seen these places many times, but usually shrouded in clammy fog that leaves me looking for the nearest warm, dry place I can find, wondering why the hell I left Texas in the first place. This truly was a spectacular day, in the upper 60s, with brilliant sun. All these San Francisco landmarks take on a new dimension when you're not shivering and can see them from more than 100 yards away. On this day, the Bridge really stood out. I'd never walked across it or even opened my car windows, so I'd never experienced just how strong the winds are going through the bay. Its really an architectural miracle.

As for other interesting facts, I learned that San Francisco has over 13,000 homeless people within the city limits, which strikes me as being incredibly high. But this confirms I wasn't just being all Kingwood about the thing. I learned that the Sunset area, close to the Park, has the cheapest home values, while nearby Pacific Heights has the highest. I learned that much older architecture survived the 1906 earthquake west of Van Ness than east of it because the Mayor blew up all the structures along a corridor east of Van Ness to act as a firebreak, stopping the rapidly advancing fires from consuming all of the city. And then he lied to all the insurance companies who couldn't know any better because of communication difficulties, and told them San Francisco had not suffered an earthquake, just a big fire (because no one had purchased earthquake insurance). I learned that the former base housing at the Presidio now fetches as much as $8,000/month in rental (you can't buy; the Federal Government still owns the Presidio property but leases it to private companies and others). I learned the Russian cemetery near Russian Hill was founded by Spanish explorers. I learned the Golden Gate Bridge was originally intended to be painted silver (like the Bay Bridge), but people liked the red undercoat so much they left it red. And I learned that San Francisco named a street in Golden Gate Park after Nancy Pelosi. Vomit.

Somewhere around 1 or so, I got off the bus in the horrible Fisherman's Wharf area. Did you know the dictionary (do people still use dictionaries?) has a photo of Fisherman's Wharf next to "tacky." The farthest edge of the Embarcadero, however, offers tremendous Bay and Bridge views on a sunny day (like today). Unless you've come to shop at t-shirt shops, eat at chain restaurants, and do the same stuff you could do at home makes for the perfect vacation, however, tourists should avoid the area like it was plague zone. Or a Clay Aiken concert. But I got off the bus to walk over to McCormick and Kuleto's restaurant, in Ghirardelli Square. That's the first place Kimberly took me to the first time I visited her in San Francisco. It has spectacular Bay views, and a really nice seafood menu (it was the original restaurant on which the McCormick and Schmick chain was founded). So it has a certain sentimental quality, and I enjoyed a nice seafood lunch before getting back on the bus.

That night I got in some culture, attending a performance of My Fair Lady at the San Francisco Playhouse, happily located two blocks from the White Swan Inn. My friend Donna's cousin Monique Hafen played Eliza, and Donna recommended that I check it out. I'm really glad I did; both the overall performance and Monique's Eliza were fantastic. It garnered some very good reviews as well. Doing a show like that, where everyone will inevitably compare to the landmark movie, strikes me as a real challenge. How can you play Higgins without the audience automatically gauging whether you're "as good" as Rex Harrison, for example? Some productions deal with this factor by twisting the show into something you would barely recognize. Like when my brother starred in a lesbian version of Romeo and Juliet (no, he didn't have a title role, I don't think). They could have set it in a different time. Like that horrible Ethan Hawke version of Hamlet set in modern day New York (the "Denmark Corporation"? ugh...). Or had Col. Pickering swish about like Jack McFarland (although I guess that's pretty much how the movie version played it). But they this seemed fairly close to the original. I'm no expert of course (although, really, I am an expert...), but I really enjoyed Monique's performance, particularly her excellent singing. I was almost disappointed to meet her after the show, breaking the illusion of her Eliza. What was not disappointing was my shocking and unexpected encounter with Donna's cousin Jude Bourque, whom I've known for years, in the men's room no less. I was washing my hands and glanced up to see Jude walking in. I had no idea he'd be there. He'd planned to fly out from Baton Rouge to see the Saturday show, but changed to the Friday night show when Donna told him I'd be there. He had just flown in and no doubt was really tired, but it was a lot of fun seeing him again and catching up. Donna, you minx!

The next day was not as intense. After waking up and running in the park again, I ate and got cleaned up, then walked the 20-30 minutes or so down to the Ferry Building to check out what Jude told me was a really fine farmer's market. Because, as we've established earlier, white people dig on farmer's markets. Happily, the angry and aggressive panhandler crowd was still asleep or making plans for the day, so the walk along the empty downtown building canyon wasn't as scary as nighttime. And Jude was right. The Ferry Building farmer's market had a little bit of everything, and lots of samples of each. All the yuppies were out enjoying the sun and the cornucopia of organic produce. Walking inside, I found the Building has become what amounts to an extremely upscale, gourmet food mall with several small restaurants. The awesome Point Reyes cheese company Cowgirl Creamery maintains a store bigger than at its factory. Other shops sold meat and fish, breads and baking items, ice cream, cheese, and other dairy products, flowers, coffee and tea...hell there's even two different olive oil stores. Recession? What recession? The place was buzzing too. Tourists and locals both had descended upon the Ferry Building, all looking for nitrate free meat and fair trade coffee. [Cough! douchy Cough!]

After getting my fill, I ambitiously walked back up Russian Hill to check out the magnificent Grace Cathedral, another city landmark yesterday's bus tour missed. Russian Hill is a beast hill, but it offers some great downtown and cable car views (see above photo). Grace Cathedral (Episcopal) sits across the street from a nice little park, and one block over from the Fairmont and Mark Hopkins hotels (the latter being home of the famous "Top of the Mark" lounge). From there I walked back to the hotel and got into the Red Shark, and headed over to Alamo Square in the Western Addition to check out the famous "Painted Ladies." These Victorian row houses set against the city skyline appear on countless postcards and San Francisco travel brochures. In fact, the entire area boasts many well preserved classic Victorian homes. The square itself is nothing special, though it offers great views of downtown and Twin Peaks, and certainly residents must enjoy the open space within the intense urban area.

After that I pretty much killed time driving around the city and environs. Chief among the tour destinations was the Palace of Fine Arts, the Italianate rotunda and lagoon in the Marina District. I ate lunch at Mel's Drive In.  Review: meh.  Nothing special. I guess the one in American Graffiti was pretty cool. But that one had roller-skating waitresses and Suzanne Somers in that white Thunderbird. This one just had mediocre food. The main highlight was rejoining Kimberly and Terry and their friends Allison and Tom. We went to Barbacco, an Italian place, on California Street downtown. A great meal was had by all; its been two months so I can't quite remember what I had, but recall it was a really excellent fish dish. I just remember we ordered tons of food for the table. Allison and Tom had planned just to meet us for a drink and then go to the opera (they simulcast the SF Opera on the big screens at AT&T Park for free), but they couldn't seem to extricate themselves from the meal. I know the feeling.

The next morning I had to wake up at what Kimberly elegantly calls the "butt crack of dawn" to get from the city over to the Oakland Airport, return the Red Shark, then make it over to the terminal with enough time to spare for a good TSA rodgering. It was a special experience. What can I say?

OK, so two months after the fact, that's it. Won't be too long before my next vacation. All you East Coasters stay safe these next few days. Hurricanes are serious business. Hang loose, blood.