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.

ACL Music Festival 2012: Saturday. Rust Never Sleeps

You'll have to bear with me. I didn't plan on writing this so I didn't take notes or try to commit much to memory. And I don't really have the time to spare either. But I'm still riding the wave of exhilaration after tonight's Neil Young and Crazy Horse performance at the Austin City Limits Music Festival, and wanted to say something about it. Maybe you should just skip past the pompous freshman literature babble at the start and get to the review.

But here's what I was thinking as the Horse washed over Zilker Park just now.

Once upon in America, everything sucked. Culturally that is. Art and music, as such, existed within a narrow post-war strait jacket, in which anything the slightest bit unusual risked being smeared as Red, and sent off to Leavenworth, or blacklisted. Doris Day and Perry Como topped the pop charts. Hank Williams was incomparable, but burned out quickly. Whatever art existed was forgettable at best. Women stayed at home and raised kids. Men went to school and got jobs. Everyone did what they were expected to do. Blacks could barely vote, and couldn't mix, so they had long developed their own art and music. Jazz and blues, primarily. But whites had no regard for it. Then, white kids started listening to "race music." In small numbers at first, but it began to grow. Alan Freed sponsored the very first rock concert in Cleveland in 1952, which ended in a riot after three minutes. Writers, artists, even comedians started questioning this cultural conformity, with "subversive" expressions. A lot of it was ridiculous, but it started moving this country's cultural needle. Then this Memphis huckster named Sam Phillips had the idea that he could make huge money if he could find a white guy who could sing black music. He did...Elvis Presley. That sparked the first wave of the revolution. All of the sudden, the established cultural order was under siege. The new music was raw, animalistic, guttural, desperate, and sexual. The Man fought back of course. Chuck Berry was jailed. Jerry Lee Lewis was ruined. Elvis was drafted, then tamed. It didn't take long before Ricky Nelson was the top "rock star." Oy.

But the fuse had been lit. And a bunch of British kids of all things, not much more than street punks, started playing rock and roll the way it originally came out of the Sun and Chess studios. These kids didn't care about movie deals or opening for Sinatra, or "making it." They played rock and roll because it moved them. It said something to them that no one else in the 1950s would or could. They exploded along with the Beatles, and as Dylan wrote, they "brought it all back home." In turn they inspired other kids in the States to pick up the guitar and change things. These kids weren't necessarily trying to become famous rock stars. Or "just" becoming rock stars. They wanted to change the world. They wanted to tear down that cultural straight jacket. They didn't just write some pretty tunes. They went after America's ugly dark side: racism, sexism, discrimination, inequality, conformity. Hence...the Sixties. Still the only time in history where popular music often had a political or social message, and the stars didn't feel content just to write a number one song. They wanted it to matter. Dylan, Lennon, Brian Wilson, Crosby, Stills and Nash, George Harrison, Joan Baez, Hendrix, the Who, the Stones, the Dead, the Airplane...these people wanted to change things.

At least at first. Then, of course, the inevitable happened. The money started flowing in hand over fist, the rules no longer applied, the drugs had their effect, they all became Rock Gods playing to sold out houses full of sycophants who couldn't hear the message ("play My Generation!") and after a decade of wrenching social change, people just wanted to hear something nice. Enter Fleetwood Mac. Now days, pop stars are born on some TV show like American Idol, or the Disney Channel. It only matters how you look, and whether you've released a sex tape or been on the View. The only way any of these people want to matter is by hanging with Beyonce and P. Diddy, or getting on Dancing With the Stars.

 The old War Horses who managed to survive the times intact either moved on, or found they could live out the rest of their lives very comfortably on the summer tour circuit, raking in cash as they rolled from town to town. You know. The Eagles. All the yuppies eagerly turn out to relive the old times, and listen to bloated old Mick Jagger sing "Satisfaction" for the 20,000th time. I've seen just about all these shows, of course. One or two of the original band members get together, so they can use the old name, hire a bunch of back up musicians so they don't really have to do much during concerts, and they hit the road. Play a couple of hours, making sure to work in all the old hits, then pick up your check and move on to the next town. Some times these shows are really good, but these performers generally have a kind of "mail it in" attitude. Like they're thinking "where's my check and what time does the town car get here?" during the second part of the show. In most cases, its been 30 years since they did anything artistically relevant, so like Miss America going to every mall opening in the country, these people spend most of their lives chucking up tunes that actually meant something decades ago. When they were actually trying to create something.

Then there's Neil Young and Crazy Horse.

 Neil came down from Canada to meet up with his friend Stephen Stills, and joined his band Buffalo Springfield. In 1966. Then, when they were poised to take the world by storm, Neil quit and the band broke up. Neil pursued a solo career until Stills invited him to join this new band he and David Crosby were putting together with a guy from the Hollies, Graham Nash. They recorded an absolute monster album, played Woodstock, and toured America. Then Neil quit the band and resumed his solo career. Every time Neil Young has been poised to hit the big time, he's followed his inner muse and gone where the music called. Not where fame and fortune lay. So, Neil has had phases where he's been the folkie singer, country artist, 50s rockabilly throwback, electronica, and hard core star. He's succeeded, in a manner of sorts, in just about every such vein. Not because he sought success, but because he followed his own path.

Since 1970 or so, he's collaborated with Crazy Horse, a straight line, straight up rock band. The relationship somewhat confounds me. He's not a band member, as such, but thinks of himself as one of the band, not treating them like hired help. They genuinely collaborate. And, together they've produced some seminal rock records. Its long been about the chunkiest music in rock. Neil told an interviewer recently that when he distributed the Live Rust album to radio stations, some of them returned it saying there was something wrong with the recording. What was "wrong" was the incredibly intense distortion that fueled that record's energy and impact. Neil and Crazy Horse, heavily influenced by punk rock's fleeting effort to drive commercialism back out of rock, put out maybe THE defining statement of rock and roll history: "its better to burn out, than it is to rust," or "to fade away." How many rockers have gone down that path? But is fading away any more noble? Eric Clapton circa 2012 may be able to write some nice little tunes, but in his day, this guy played for the Yardbirds. With Cream! He held his own with Duane Allman. Now you can pay $75 to hear him play "After Midnight" for the 10 zillionth time. Very nicely done.

I've seen Neil Young perform many times. I've seen his folkie show, his rockabilly show, and his country show. At Jazz Festival, I saw him rock for the first time, really. I even saw the Buffalo Springfield reunion show in Oakland last year, with him joining Richie Furay and Stephen Stills. All these shows have had special moments, and I've never seen such a thing as a ho-hum Neil Young show.

But I've never seen him with Crazy Horse.  They hadn't recorded or toured together, to my knowledge, for more than 10 years. But they recently put out a new album with American "standards," ("Americana") and were touring to support it. Incredibly, they have a second album due out later this month.

Simply put, nothing prepared me for this show. This wasn't a bloated old rock star cashing in with a nostalgia tour. This was like a door had opened up from 1970 and these guys stepped through, complete with what looked to be their original Fender amps that they probably once stacked up at the Fillmore East. They looked different of course, but this was like Godzilla set loose upon the land, destroying every living creature and every structure in their path. New songs and old, they attacked every note with the ferocity of men playing the last notes they would ever play, taking every fan there by the throat and desperately shaking them to the core until everyone understood what was happening. In the words of one of the new songs, this was "giants walking the Earth." About half the crowd were geezers like me, but the other half were much younger, who, interestingly, didn't go see the Jack White show at the other end of the park, which was scheduled opposite Crazy Horse.

Love and Only Love was the opener, and they stretched it to 17 minutes. Down By the River, an over 40 year old song, stretched to a monumental 16 minutes. Along the way, the band crushed Cinnamon Girl, Fuckin' Up, did a 13 minute version of Powderfinger, and Neil soloed on Needle and the Damage Done, his paean against the heroin abuse that claimed the life of his close friend and original Crazy Horse guitarist Danny Whidden so long ago. They played some new songs as well. In addition to the aforementioned Walk With a Giant, we heard Born in Ontario and Psychedelic Pill. The complete set list is available here. Hey Hey, My My was the closer. Neil virtually spit out the lyrics, as if every word was the difference between life and death. He wrote it in 1979, responding to the punk rock movement, but as incredibly overplayed as "classic rock radio" has made them, a field full of people from all over the country screaming "rock and roll can never die" and "rock and roll is here to stay" along with Neil Young just was a really poignant moment. Simply put, rock and roll is on the wane. Other music styles have risen to prominence, and pushed rock to the edges. Neil sang that song like he was still on a mission, to show that the music he's pursued with Crazy Horse most of his adult life still means something. That while many of his contemporaries long ago rested on their laurels, he and Crazy Horse are still creating, still mining that vein where the Giants walk. They didn't play an encore, which was appropriate. Nothing, not even Rocking In The Free World, could have topped that moment.

Kids, THIS was and is what a rock and roll band can accomplish.

OK, now I'm just rambling.

Other bands played at ACL today, of course. They were all really cute. They had musical instruments and everything.

Oh, and it rained like buckets off and on through the afternoon. I may be starting to develop swamp butt.

Too much info? I thought so. I'll give you that one.

Not sure whether I'll write anything tomorrow. But on the docket is the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Iggy Pop and the Stooges. I'm expecting a good show.

Vacation 2012: Blazing up the PCH

Well, here it is three weeks later and of course I've long since concluded my vacation and have returned home to...my life. Yeech! Seems like I need to go on a permanent vacation. Riding busses and planes, thinking little sarcastic things about places and people, writing them down in my blog, and taking pictures of them. How much would something like that pay? Nothing? Oh, ok. Good. Back to the lawyer thing.

But not without wrapping up Vacation 2012. This post-the road to San Francisco. The concluding post-San Francisco.

But before going to San Francisco, I spent the day driving up from Monterey. It started out really cloudy, but cleared up around "Freedom, California." Ugh. Is that a thing? What kind of name is that? Smug much? North of Monterey, Route 1 becomes a full fledged freeway, rather than the winding two lane road south of Monterey and north of San Francisco. And just out of Monterey, it goes through an industrial and agricultural with a horrid smell pretty much like dead fish. In other words, its still prettier than Channelview. But after you get past that area the forest picks up, the fog burns off and it becomes lovely.

My first stop was Santa Cruz. I expected Santa Cruz would be this fun, eclectic seaside town. Which totally would have been true if your idea of fun is scoring a dime bag before lunch and rummaging through trash cans. The good part of Santa Cruz is like Larry Sellers' neighborhood in the Big Lebowski. Every house has a pit bull and an El Camino up on blocks. Its "known" in some respects for the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, a huge beachside structure with a bunch of arcade games. Calling this trashy really doesn't capture the spirit of the thing. I saw some chick and a couple of street dudes negotiating a pot buy just outside the Boardwalk. Various crack motels line the main oceanside drag. Not exactly like the Monopoly Boardwalk. [Sidebar: I want to create an updated version of Monopoly. Call it something like "Mortgage Banking." The object is to bankrupt the Western Economy by making and selling risky mortgage loans. You could pull cards like "IRS Audit" or "Federal Reserve adopts new rules, You Lose $500 million." Game tokens could be like the symbols of all the big banks. I guess there may be some copyright issues.] There's some sort of big "Pier" jutting out into the sea that seemed to draw a bunch of visitors, but I assumed it was just more crackheads and Tyler Junior College alumni and blew it off.

So after driving around a little bit, I quickly decided to stop risking getting carjacked, and instead to check out the University of California-Santa Cruz campus. I'd long heard the campus was really interesting. That hardly describes it. As much as the town of Santa Cruz sucks, the campus was incredible. Its in hills overlooking the town and the ocean. While most college campuses involve a bunch of buildings all plopped down next to one another in a defined spot (except Florida, which could be its own city), the designers seem to have tucked away the few buildings into a huge natural environment. Campus contains vast swaths of undeveloped land. The designers created several building clusters, spread throughout the area, and each building seems inserted into the natural land. Thickly forested corridors separate all the buildings, and students can walk between buildings on scenic gravel trails running through these wooded paths. Its hard to describe the buildings. They struck me as kind of minimalist, without the usual college Gothic or Greek architecture. Lots of box and glass-like structures like those presently decimating Travis Heights. This place is like going to school in the Shire. UC-Santa Cruz also houses the Grateful Dead Archive. Good to know that the kind of music I like qualifies for archival status. Next to the Gregorian Chants and Ragtime ditties, I guess. Who knew those guys were sober enough to think about saving anything to put in an archive? But sure enough, there's lots of photos, documents, and artifacts going all the way back to 1965. The library displays a very tiny bit in a large room on the first floor. Seems like they could expand that into more of a tourist draw or campus attraction. But based on the look of these students, I think they're more concerned with keeping outsiders out than making a buck off them (UT style). Wow. LSU or Ole Miss this is not. These kids look like Abercrombie and Fitch models. Only, exactly the opposite. Rice students look at these kids and think "damn those are some ugly kids." Only, they'd say it all cryptically to where no one could understand, like "the student body exhibits diverse yet scholarly physical characteristics." No frat houses here either. Guess those guys have to go down to the Boardwalk to get their closeted freak on. Buttchugging? Nope, no Pikes around here. Go Banana Slugs!

After leaving Santa Cruz, I barrelled the Red Shark up the freeway toward my next objective, Half Moon Bay. For reasons that seem inexplicable now, I had the expectation that Half Moon Bay was a secret little oasis of delight just south of San Francisco. A Ritz Carlton resort sits right on the bay shore, for example. Though I got close enough to see it, I never found a parking spot so I couldn't walk around and explore. It looked nice but having been to Pebble Beach the day before, it seemed kind of like Camp North Star by comparison. (If you got that reference by the way, you're my new best friend. Enjoy.). Otherwise, Half Moon Bay doesn't have a lot going on. Or else I missed it. There's a little main drag with the usual quaint shops and pretentious local restaurants, and a kind of interesting local grocery store. But I sure didn't come all this way on vacation to see a place that pales in comparison to Fredericksburg, so I quit the town and made the final push toward Gomorrah.

Along the way, the PCH resumed its former two-lane, winding character, rolling through intermittent fog and beachside state parks. Of note, I passed the Point Montara Lighthouse, visible through some thick fog. There's a youth hostel on premises, which I assume means there've been several mass murder incidents through the years. Eager to make San Francisco before nightfall, I sped on.

Next-San Francisco.

Presidential Debate Prediction

Just wanted to do a quick hitter before finishing up the Vacation Saga.

Let me save you a couple of hours and tell you how the Debate is going to play out.

Questions to Romney will be of the nature of "a panel of experts from Stanford University sent us this six-part question concerning your fiscal and monetary policy...."

Questions to Obama will resemble: "how did you get to be so totally awesome?"

Neither candidate will actually answer any question, but instead will just give a pre-scripted answer about the general issue the question raises.

For example:

Q.: "You have stated you would repeal the health care legislation. What would you enact in its place?"

A: "I think all Americans should have affordable health care and that is why I have proposed a 15 part plan that would provide Americans with greater health care for lower cost, with lower taxes and higher benefits."

Q: "But, Governor, what is the plan?"

A: "Yes, it has 15 parts. My opponent wants to bankrupt small businesses."

Very illuminating.

Afterwards, each campaign's talking heads will bleat prepared remarks about how their candidate was "more Presidential" and "clearly demonstrated command of the issues." Each will lament about how the other seemed dazed and unable to grasp basic facts about either (a) government, (b) economics, or (c) the American People.

Then, the major news organizations will lead with focusing on the Major Romney Gaffe, speculate on whether the Romney campaign can possibly recover from the MRG, and the last sentence will mention how, oh yeah, Obama said something about nationalizing the oil and gas industry. "Obama is the only candidate to advance such specific, forward-looking policy proposals."

While the Drudge Report will run a story about how Obama cheated on his SAT.

Yikes.

This is why I'm going to watch Hamlet tonight. By which I mean, The Big Lebowski (TMC-Direct ch. 554). "I mean, say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos."

Vacation 2012: Down In Monterey

Young gods smiled upon the crowd
Their music being born of love
Children danced night and day
Religion was being born
Down in Monterey

 --Eric Burdon and the Animals, "Monterey"

That song was about the 1967 "Monterey International Pop Festival," which the movie Monterey Pop later immortalized. Insufferable much? You can accuse today's "pop stars" of a lot, but not even Justin Bieber thinks his "music" represents some newborn religion. The Baby Boomers didn't become self-obsessed and develop grandiose egos once they started making money. They were always that way. All that Dr. Spock crap about telling your little child he's the most important and wonderful and special little child in the whole wide world, and the "participation ribbon" syndrome, gets you a generation where Presidents nail their interns, business people (like bankers and energy traders) treat laws like they were used kleenex (then who rail against "petty crime"), politicians (and their sycophants) think that "truth" is anything that happens to escape their mouth at any given time, and athletes violate controlled substances laws like they were in the Zeta Cartel of human growth hormone. And people who take trips and incessantly post to their blog about them like they were Columbus finding new worlds.

And it all got off to a great start down in Monterey.

OK, rant concluded.

But that's probably Monterey's most famous connection. Well, that and John Steinbeck's Cannery Row. Which is one of those novels you were supposed to read your junior year english class, but just read the Cliff's notes instead because Joey Halvorson was throwing this wicked cool party on Friday after the game, and you were totally hung over the whole weekend. Its about canning fish or the American Dream or man's struggle against inhumanity or something like that.

Next stop on the Vacation Tour: Monterey. The hippies and sardine canneries have long gone, and in their place, tourists! And the Army, in a simple twist of fate. Since leaving Yosemite, I’ve been in Monterey, on the central California coast. I left Yosemite Monday morning and drove about five hours to get here, going through several vastly different types of country. Not long after leaving the park, the land turns into hilly scrub and the elevation lowers significantly the further from Yosemite one goes. Eventually, the land turns into flat desert, which these people call an agricultural valley. It’s a “valley” only because they divert billions of gallons of water to irrigate the dirt, growing all kinds of produce, nuts, and fruits. Every now and then I would pass a huge irrigation canal, and several large man made reservoirs. The few towns don’t resemble California at all. People have put up Romney signs and various other patriotic displays, all along the roads. There’s little evident wealth, but like many Texas towns, one can easily find a Mexican restaurant or place to purchase hay or fruit. And its incredibly hot, although dry so its not quite so unbearable. When I left Yosemite, at roughly 5,000 feet, it was around 70 degrees. Within about an hour, it was a little higher than 90 in Merced (at under 2,000 feet). I ate lunch there at a place called the BBQ Pig, where everyone seemed happy and…normal…no Californians here. It’s the kind of town where the high school kids go to Chili’s for prom. After a few hours, the rolling hills resume, which get higher and higher, with more trees and vegetation as the elevation picks up. Clouds and fog begin rolling in from the coast and it dropped from 92 to 62 degrees in just a few minutes.

 About 30 minutes later I arrived in Monterey and began freezing. Monterey is located on the Monterey Peninsula (shocking, I know), which juts out into the Pacific south of San Francisco. Monterey Bay previously boasted a prime fish stock, which spawned a widescale fish canning industry. After the industry just about destroyed the local stock (through overfishing), the state and Feds made Monterey Bay a protected marine reserve and the sea environment came back. Monterey features a world renowned aquarium and several other research institutions.  Monterey was also the first capital of California, when it was a Spanish possession, and the city managed to preserve many of that era’s buildings near the wharf. The Army’s Defense Language Institute is located at the Presidio of Monterey. Otherwise, Monterey relies on tourism for jobs. I stayed in a hotel by the “Fisherman’s Wharf,” the oldest concrete wharf in the Bay, which now consists of tourist restaurants and souvenir shops overlooking a commercial marina. There’s a really attractive trail (the Pacific Coast Trail) that runs right along the water for several miles, where I ran a couple of times.

 

Tuesday, I ran half an hour on the trail. Seals were lounging in the water all along the trail, barking incessantly. After finishing, I ate breakfast at the hotel, where the world’s happiest omelet chef works.  I’ve never encountered anyone so thrilled to serve breakfast (or so jazzed about the buffet’s local strawberry and chocolate scones offerings…really, someone needed to slap her out of it).  Some pear shaped guy ordered an omelet, making a big deal to instruct said chef to make it with “all vegetables” and “no oil or cheese,” then he walked over and loaded up his plate with pork sausage. True story. I walked from my hotel to the Aquarium, through the old “Cannery Row.” The latter is one of those streets that every tourist town promotes, with hotels, bars, restaurants, t-shirt shops, and other stuff you’d never think of frequenting except when you’re on vacation. Like, the Ghiradelli Store. Or Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, which had a line outside at 11:30 waiting to get in, when nearly every other restaurant was empty. These people must wait in line at home to go to Olive Garden. Or Applebee’s. Or Golden Corral. Or any of the other real gourmet dining establishment chains. Cannery Row does, however, preserve some of the old canning buildings, giving the street enough local charm to justify its extensive promotion.

The Aquarium operates within one of those buildings. Its one of the world’s largest. Star Trek IV, the awful one with the whales and time travel, used it to represent the institute where they nabbed some whales to bring back in time to communicate with the invading aliens (you see why the movie was so awful?). I hate superlatives, but this place is phenomenal. It features a huge variety of marine life, and easy to read, informative explanations help enhance the displays. Part is outdoors, but most is located inside the building. It takes about three hours to work through the place, including one marine biologist’s live presentation. The exhibitions run the gamut from sharks to the tiniest jellyfish imaginable. I didn’t see any whales though. Or dolphins. But I’ve already swam with a dolphin so no big deal. So much for Hollywood accuracy. Its appalling. If you can’t trust movie producers, who can you trust?

Later that afternoon and the next day, I saw several groups of soldiers running on the trail in formation. The trail provides a great running location. Probably not one of the best I’ve ever found, but really good. What makes a good running trail? Well, many factors. Surface (gravel vs. concrete), width, scenery, elevation, hills, babeage (err, “people watching”), climate. My top 5 trails: Central Park (both at the Reservoir and throughout), Lady Bird Lake (Austin), Burke Gilman (Seattle), Golden Gate Park (San Francisco), and Lakefront Trail (Chicago). Houston’s Memorial Park trail doesn’t make the list. Too humid for most of the year, and after the drought a few years ago, so many trees have died and been removed that its no longer very shady. After the Aquarium I had thoughts of driving up to Santa Cruz, but instead stumbled upon a really interesting farmer’s market on the main street downtown, so I walked around there instead. Not only did it feature the usual fruit and produce, there were several flower, jewelry, and various other vendors, as well as low-scale food trucks of all kinds. Several musicians were playing, and the place was packed. Hey, white folks love their farmer’s markets, right? I bought a jar of spiced pecans. Chalk it up to vacation craziness; La Dolce Vita.

 That night I ate dinner at Schooner’s Restaurant, located within the Monterey Plaza Hotel right on the water. I ate outside at a table next to one of those fire columns (something about those things strikes me as extremely hazardous, but whatever), with a view of the bay and the lights of Santa Cruz in the distance. I could also see the Monterey lighthouse beam as well. They served an exceptional dinner: cioppino using locally sourced fish and shellfish. It would have been a great date place, then again, I’m not a cheap date so if I’m going to take myself somewhere, it better be classy.

The next day I took the Mustang for a spin. But first I went on a longer run, all the way past the Aquarium into the neighboring town of Pacific Grove. The Grove seemed much nicer and less touristy than Monterey proper. Less trashy. Ocean Drive, then Scenic Drive, run along the water, and tacky tourist spots didn’t mar the bay views. No Fisherman’s Wharf.

After breakfast, I headed to 17 Mile Drive. The Del Monte company developed the Pebble Beach area, with golf courses, homes, and the Pebble Beach and Spanish Bay clubs. This includes 17 Mile Drive, a publicly accessible scenic route that winds past numerous sites through the development. Monterey Cypress grew all throughout the area, including the “Lone Cypress,” the Pebble Beach Company’s trademark. I had lunch at the Lodge at Pebble Beach, feeling like Danny Noonin out of place at the country club. Just suppose I never saw myself hanging around the same place that displays the U.S. Open Championship trophy. The public can’t get on the golf course, but you can see parts of it from the road and it appears every bit as beautiful as on television. On the other hand, the homes don’t exactly measure up to what you might expect. No doubt they cost millions, but most weren’t the sort of Buckingham Palace affairs I expected. In fact, most were surprisingly modest, almost like something you could see in parts of the Woodlands or Kingwood. Where’s the fun of that? No doubt their owners ran out of money after buying the lot. From there I went down the Pacific Coast Highway to Carmel. Yeah, the place where Clint Eastwood was Mayor. It’s a nice little community right on the water. Mostly it’s a bunch of upper class families whose kids play soccer and worry about getting in to Stanford, or Princeton, or places of similar ilk, and "crime" consists of badmouthing your neighbor's recent cocktail party. They have a huge, well maintained beach, and the downtown area has a “boutique district.” I noticed a lot of the stores were closing or vacant, and many homes were for sale. I guess recession eventually reaches everyone. The place had a great natural “tree” aroma; I can’t think of any better way to explain it. Similar to the pinon aroma that permeates Santa Fe, only it’s the cypress trees. I arrived at Big Sur around 5:30 so I didn’t get to spend much time. I wasn’t clear what Big Sur was; turns out it’s a series of smallish state parks all in a large natural preserve that runs throughout the Santa Lucia Mountains. There’s many forested heights all around and Highway 1 links them on the west side. Big Sur is a very attractive area but time had run out, so I couldn't do anything by the time I arrived, which was just fine because I don't think I could have hiked much anyway.

So I turned the red shark Mustang back north, and headed up the PCH back to Monterey into the night.

Next-on to San Francisco!

Vacation 2012: Hiking in the Yosemite

 









I have to make this brief because I'm traveling tomorrow so I'm packing tonight. That means doing laundry, because I hate packing dirty clothes. They give the remaining clothes that next day spilled beer smell. I need to bring a personal staff on the road.

Oh, and its back to the normal, "everything is horrible" style you've come to know and love.

So, let's get on to the never-ending Yosemite hiking saga.

Yesterday I hiked to the North Dome, which provides incredible Valley views as well as views of Half Dome and Clouds Rest. It took around six hours, 45 minutes of which I spend at the top marveling at the absolutely sublime scenery. North Dome, as the name implies, lies on the valley's north side, just across the Merced River from Half Dome. The hike mostly runs through the same kind of forest I've been seeing for nearly a week now, until the woods clear near the Dome. You have to hike another half hour or so once the Dome comes within sight, with the trail leading down another higher granite point to reach the Dome itself. The last part of the trail leading to the Dome is quite steep. I saw an elderly woman returning back up that grade, and she didn't look like she was doing so well. But she was with two other somewhat younger friends; the youngest of whom made it a point to tell me about her getting together with her "girlfriends" from Mammoth Lakes, while she was from Santa Barbara and the altitude was killing her at which point in the story I lost consciousness (at what age do you go from being a "girlfriend" to "Old Lady [insert name here]? Probably the same age at which men stop having a"girlfriend" and start having a "special friend"). And while we're at it, how exactly have I been giving off the "please tell me your life story in slow, vivid detail" vibe? Cause that seems to be happening more and more and it needs to come to a screeching, airbag-deploying halt. Getting back to the original point, its really not possible to convey the enormity of the sights one finds at North Dome. Not even the tons of photos I took really can do it justice.

This hike wasn't quite as bad as the day before, going to Taft Point, which ran nearly straight up for almost three hours. Today's hike had a fairly even number of hills and downhills, until you reach the Dome itself. The top was 7,525 feet in elevation, and the hike started at 6,000 feet. I met a guy at the trailhead parking lot who was finishing as I arrived. He said it only took him three hours round trip. Jerk. It took me twice that long. I started around the same time as this weird group of twenty-something kids, probably closer to 20 than 29. They all resembled former high school Science Fair winners who also had minor roles in the Drama Club trying to meet more people. Minor roles. Like "second butler."  Nearly every one was wearing glasses (hey, losers, its 2012, get some lasik). This one stork-looking dude wore extremely tight, short biker pants and vibram footsies (or whatever they are), which made for a very unfortunate sight. His Blossom-looking girlfriend likewise wore the same. Basically it was like being with the Big Bang Theory cast. With similar-looking nerd girlfriends. I don't think it was some kind of live action role playing deal; they did seem like characters, but there wasn't a script as they kept talking about the things around them. One of them, who seemed like their leader, did seem like he had some modicum of swag. [Sidebar: I intend to incorporate the term "swag" into my speech patterns for the next few weeks, so the kids will think I'm cool. But not "bro"; "bro" is dead to me]. Or at least, he would have had something if he weren't wearing a painter's hat. They would hike for awhile, each one no doubt secretly wishing they were the Fellowship of the Ring, then stop, then restart, the whole time. This meant I was passing them, and they were passing me, and I was passing them, the whole time. This odd procession sort of resembled all those freaks in the "I Am the Walrus" scene in the Magical Mystery Tour. Whatever, hope they enjoyed the trip back to Cal Tech (what up, Terry?). Anyway, the Dome itself resembled Enchanted Rock. Just a huge granite outcropping, albeit white rather than pink. The top was very windy, making it imperative to stay a healthy distance from the edge. And to tighten my irreplaceable sweat stained "Texas Football" hiking hat.  Along the way back I detoured slightly to see the "Indian Rock," Yosemite's only natural arch. It didn't resemble the arches in Arches National Park, or in Roadrunner cartoons, though it did kind of look like the arch/time portal in that Star Trek episode where Kirk got together with peacenik Joan Collins. You know, where McCoy went temporarily insane and beamed down to the Planet of the Week, where everyone had gone back in time through this arch looking device, so Kirk and Spock went after him and met up with pre-Dynasty Joan Collins who ran a soup kitchen and campaigned against wars. Basically Jean Simmons' character in Guys and Dolls, but with more time travel and less Brando. Kirk spends well over 20 minutes seducing Joan, who made a valiant effort resisting the Captain (this is about 15 minutes longer than it usually takes him; really only the Fonz worked faster, on network TV at least), but its time well spent because we get to see Spock building a TV set from his tricorder, and watching TV even though they had gone to a time before there were any TV broadcasts. Sadly, Joan was nowhere near my arch.

[Yes, I realize the irony of calling a bunch of other people losers, while in the same paragraph providing a finely detailed summary of a Star Trek episode. I meant to do that.]

Today (well, now its yesterday) I intended to take a lower-intensity hike, consisting of the full, yet relatively flat, 13 mile Valley loop trail. This trail shows you everything along the Valley floor. It didn't disappoint from that perspective. The hike, which appears to follow some old roads leading in to the Valley, runs alongside all the famous Yosemite Valley features, offering extremely close up views: El Capitan, Cathedral Rocks, Cathedral Spires, Bridalveil Falls, Sentinel Dome, Taft Point. It also tracks the Merced River, which essentially runs right down the middle of the Valley. The River's cold, clear green water, flowing very gently over smooth river rock, made for some really nice views as well. Unfortunately, the river and various little tributary creeks leading from several falls to the river also attracted a lot of late summer flies bent on having me for lunch. They weren't too persistent or difficult though; everyone who grew up on the Gulf Coast has suffered a lot worse during mosquito season. Which basically is year round. Thanks new Houston mayor whose name I forget that decided to stop spraying mosquitoes so she could fund some other totally useless project that pleases her special interest buddies' agenda. Thanks for turning Houston into West Nile, Texas. Here, however, the flies kind of hover around and irritate you but don't seem to bite. The trees near the river banks were also quite attractive, including thick numbers of both mature and younger maples, whose leaves have yet to turn. What didn't work, however, was my right foot. Six days of constant hiking pretty much did in my little toe (you know, the piggy that went home, or to market, I guess it depends on which one you start with), and the thing has swelled up like a Vienna Sausage gone bad (err, "worse"). You wouldn't think your little toe could cause that much pain. Witness the Nihilists' girlfriend in the Big Lebowski who (spoiler alert) gives her little toe for the cause. But little toe pain can get pretty bad. The little toe, after all, forms the crucial bulwark of the outer "toe perimeter," or something, so jamming it inside relatively inflexible hiking boots all week tends to take its toll. So I was pretty much hobbling during most of the time like someone had shot my foot. Or it fell asleep while I was sitting at my desk. This made it a little difficult to appreciate all the amazing scenery. Go figure. I shut it down after about nine miles. Despite the thick crowds in the Village and at other bus stop sites, I didn't see more than 10 people on the entire trail the whole afternoon.

Tonight, for the first time since I arrived, I had a chance to enjoy the clear night sky. The moon has been rising steadily later each night, and tonight the moon didn't appear until quite late. Even with the lights around the Lodge, the sky was thick with stars. Even the Milky Way came out. That was a rare treat for someone who lives in the middle of a city.

OK, I think that about does it for Yosemite. Truly its God's Studio. The sights here simply marvel and amaze. You may go places that boast one thing more beautiful than something here, but I can't recall any place where almost every turn reveals unsurpassed natural beauty like Yosemite. Well, except Pasadena, of course. Nothing could be keener than to be in Pasadena.

Next-on to Monterey, California and the California Coast.

Vacation 2012: Happy Talking Fun Yosemite Trip

 

[ed. note. Looking back at the last couple of posts, I've described my trip somewhat negatively. Once again. People have...noticed. Well, that's just stinkin' thinkin', no fun to read, and doesn't exhibit the true vacation spirit. So today's post will reflect a Kenneth Parcells style: happy, fun, fluffy kitties, Easter eggs, and surprise chocolate all wrapped up in one. Happy Talk...talk about things you like to do....]

Well yesterday and today were just two more super fabulous fun days in one of the most beautiful places anywhere. Another opportunity to enjoy time with fine people from all over the world who've come here, to this special place, to commune with nature and together strengthen humanity. I've been just dying to tell you all about the totally awesome fine time I've had recently. It would only have been better if I could have taken all of you with me and we could have been together the whole time having laughs and singing songs as we walk along the trails.

Yesterday, after taking lots of pictures at "Tunnel View," I hiked to "Inspiration Point" and "Stanford Point." All these spots provide postcard-quality views of the Yosemite Valley, including such landmarks as El Capitan, Half Dome, Mount Hoffman, Bridalveil Falls, and the Valley floor. That's one of the two photos above. Even better, cars and tour buses can easily access the Tunnel View, located right next to a tunnel on Highway 41. So I was blessed with the chance to share this incredible experience with dozens of happy, excited tourists from all over the world. They spoke different languages, smoked a wide variety of cigarettes, and walked around all over the place taking pictures of everything as their little children shrieked and exclaimed with childhood exuberance. Many of them honored me by asking me to use their own cameras to take their pictures, which I totally didn't mind at all because even though I was trying to start my hike, the day is always long enough to make new friends and send people along their way with a special little "hey you, I hope you have a wonderful day!"

Anyway, my hike started at around 4,500 feet and took me to around 6,600 feet at the top near Stanford Point. Its basically a three hour scramble up the valley wall, going up a steep grade nearly the whole time. At first the trail runs through mixed country, with bushes and pine and fir trees, including rocks and other scrub along the ground. Later, it includes more ferns and leafy ground vegetation, with some redwoods. The richer vegetation owes to several creeks running from the top. The whole effect turns the forest Kermit the Frog green. The ascent is challenging and I was breathing pretty hard the whole way. But in a soul nourishing, commune with nature kind of way that enriches the soul and teaches respect for God and the earth, and every creature living in the forest. I had the extra special good fortune to get lost during the first five minutes, as I missed the trail marking. It took me around 20 minutes to figure out I had missed the trail, during which time I got scratched up pretty good trying to get past the bushes. But this just gave me a chance to experience scenery most people don't ever see up close, and to stay super close to the trees, the plants, and the insects that greeted a rare visitor. The guide book I had consulted rated this trail as "moderate" difficulty, which failed to capture its true character. There's even more good fortune, the happy surprise of encountering an unexpected physical challenge. Makes me stronger; helps me live longer. Stanford Point basically consists of bare escarpment jutting out over the Valley. You can see most of the Yosemite Valley, as long as you make sure not to get too close to the edge. Otherwise you see way TOO much. Oh, sorry, that was negative. Well, I won't let that happen again. Anyway, I ate lunch there, and certainly took lots of photos so that all my readers and friends can have just as much fun as I did. When I turned back it began to rain softly. The rain falling on the leafy canopy and ground plants created a really nice whooshing sound, making the risk of ruining my new camera totally worthwhile. And even more fortuitous, I didn't experience the same right foot pain that I did the day before. So it didn't hurt, that much, going back down the steep downhill grade. Overall, the hike was formidable but the views made it quite satisfying. Yet another positive, happy Yosemite vacation day.

I designated the next day, today (where I am at least), as Mellow Day. Not being 21 anymore, which is so awesome because I've had so many great experiences with totally cool people for all these years, my body needed a little time to recover and regain strength. So I slept in a little bit and had a leisurely breakfast, fortifying my positive attitude and renewing my "A-OK" vacation spirit. I noticed that people have continued coming to Yosemite, braving the hantavirus situation just like me, which makes it an even more special experience to enjoy during this particular time.

Today I visited three locations: the turn of the (last) century Wawona Hotel, the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias, and Taft Point.

The hotel is a designated National Landmark. It resembles an old Southern hotel, with wood construction and huge two story porch along the entire building. It also has some outbuildings, including the Moore Cottage which resembles a large private home. The hotel seems to reflect an early attempt to build a "resort" within the Park borders, along with tennis courts, a nine hole golf course, an excellent dining room and full hotel staff. The grounds were very attractive, and after returning from the sequoia grove I sat in a wicker rocking chair for a few minutes jotting notes and looking through my guide book. I could have stayed even longer, which would have been consistent with Mellow Day, but the dry warm breeze and the quiet surroundings (only a few people were on the porch and they were playing cards) would have put me to sleep and I'd have missed the opportunity to see even more stupefying portions of the Park. Its like the time I went to Savannah during October, and fell asleep in the afternoon heat while sitting on one of the old town square benches. I fall asleep, sometimes. Just not at night. But that's just another relaxing way to experience fantastic surroundings.

Preceding the hotel, I toured the giant sequoia grove. Giant sequoias are the largest trees in the world, and can live to the oldest ages of any life. They grow only in the Sierras in eastern California. Yosemite features several groves, owing to a successful late 19th century struggle to preserve them from logging. The sequoias can only grow in extremely limited conditions, present only in the Sierras. They are incredibly resistant to fire, and even depend on it to help open up their seeds and drive off predators and rival trees. And they're huge; check my photos. They absolutely dwarf other trees and people. Tons of people speaking all different languages were visiting the grove. I rode a shuttle bus from the hotel, with one extended Spanish family with lots of kids acting boisterously. Those kids were so overcome with excitement to see big trees. And it was great that their parents didn't try to rein in their youthful joy and stunt their emotional development by urging them to keep still and stay quiet, not even when the bus driver was making announcements about the grove and return arrangements. I had absolutely no desire to reach for my death ray gun and start shooting. I stayed about an hour and a half, wandering about the grove and enjoying the sequoias' dominating presence. During the walk, a large branch came crashing down right next to the trail, scaring a nearby woman to the point of causing her to scream about as loudly as the actual crash that provoked it. But how fortunate that she, and everyone else nearby, could experience this wonderful natural reality firsthand.

From there I went to the hotel, then to Taft Point. This is across the valley from El Capitan, also extending out into the valley. The Point is located on the Glacier Point road, about half an hour from Wawona and at a much greater elevation. The temperature dropped about 10 degrees. It was still hot but much more bearable. Not that it was unpleasant or uncomfortable before, of course, because any temperature is great in Yosemite. The trail leading to Taft Point runs for about a mile, easily reached within half an hour. It also has a number of interesting rock fissures, resulting from natural weathering.  Taft Point also has incredible views, again as shown in my photos.

So today was a rewarding, happy, fun, and positive experience that in no way was anything less than totally amazing.

Tomorrow: North Dome. Not "Notre Dame."