mandooks

Bright and early this morning, I head to the Powell cable car turntable for a ride to Fisherman’s Wharf. Cable cars are an institution in SF. They were invented as a way to brave the steep hills of the city, after a old mustachioed dude got kinda tired of seeing carriages turned over and horses killed in tragic accident after tragic accident. People at the time would just shrug their shoulders, say it couldn’t be helped, and buy a new horse. Stupid rich fucks.

Of course, public transportation evolved with the times into BART, bus, tram/bus combos and metro/tram combos (it’s all very complicated and weird, but it works), yet the few lines of cable cars remaining are one of the true (and truly joyful) experiences of San Francisco, with their retro look and scenic routes.

Being a landmark of the city, a ride costs an arm and there are hour-long lines at every terminus. But I came prepared, with my music and my book and just a little sunshine. Even though I got there early, I end up queuing for over an hour. Finally, it’s my turn, I get a prime spot: a standing position at the front of the car on the right side, the most perfect, scariest place to be.

Off we go, one meter, five meters, ten me– police tape is rolled down in front of us, barring the road. Okay. Back to the stop. Oooookay. After a ten minute wait wondering what’s happening, watching police cruisers block ever street ahead of us, a police dude comes charging in, asking us to step out of the car and back toward the end of the street.

Someone called the police on a suspicious package, at the other end of our street. Two blocks have been closed down, and we are waiting for the bomb squad to show up. The bomb squad. The same police dude is trying to contain the crowd and get us to step back. Only problem: he’s being a dick about it. Kids are crying. This day is starting out great. From where I’m sitting, I can see a clandestine sticker on a lamppost: “There are no terrorists. We are being manipulated with fear.”

Five minutes later comes the verdict: false alarm. We run to reclaim our spots on the cable car. Off we go. Everyone in the car is really excited and takes the incident in stride. “I’ll bet you’ve never had a cable car ride quite like that”, jokes a lady with the driver, who rolls his eyes. It’s his first day on the job. He drops a little bit of a beat with the bell to get us going, all the way to the top of Nob Hill.

Listen, forget the Bamboo train and Bokor Mountain without brakes. This is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe they allow children on this thing. Cars are missing us by a hair, the turns are sharp, the slopes are steep, it’s scary, exhilarating, wonderful. The weather is beautiful, gracing us with sunny glimpses of the city. I love you San Francisco I love you I love you.

At one point, the car is blocked by a dude who’s in the middle of the street, trying to fit of his family’s luggage into the trunk of his car. When he finally succeeds after five minutes of really, really trying, the whole cable car, driver included, erupts in cheers. The dude flips us off as he speeds away.

We cross hills and streets my feet remember well from my second day here, until we get to Lombard St and its breathtaking views of the bay. A billion pictures are taken as we squeal away at the driver’s exhortation: “Be careful! Steep hill, bad brakes!” Is this public transportation or a show? It doesn’t matter.

We get to Fisherman’s Wharf and step off. I am but a shiver, frozen to death on the alter of excitement.What’s next?   

I hate that this is already the fifth day of my trip. Only eight more days to go!

I realize this trip is, first and foremost, a lesson in experiencing the present, what is right in front of me, what is happening in the second it is happening instead of planning for later and filing stuff away to examine in the early hours of the morning. Letting go of past experiences, not dreading future ways I can find to humiliate myself. It is not easy. Music helps, though.

I don’t want the amazing things I see to be items I just check off a list. These need to be real experiences. I need to be able to carry them with me, I need them to make me stronger, I need to be able to hold on to them when everything eventually goes to shit. I am under no illusion that what I’m living now is anything other than the fairy tale prelude to a shitshow.

I’m getting desperate to put my hands on what I came here for: breathtaking views of the Golden Gate Bridge, bottomless mimosas, a sense of belonging and validation in the LGBTQIA community, a hot pretzel, shared values and culture with fellow travelers. A taste of good old ‘Murica. A breather from a boring, mostly sad life. Education. Mind-opening experiences. A life-changing revelation. Good books. Hipster bling. Whatever.

This morning, at breakfast, I toasted my bagel. No no, it’s not a metaphor for anything, I just toasted my breakfast bagel in the kitchen before I ate it. Like a bawss. Clearly, I’m kicking ass at this.

Later on I head to Powell and take the N Judah line to 9th Ave. The sun is shining, the music in my ears is swinging, I am on top of the fucking world, baby. Two blocks, and that’s it: Golden Gate Park. I am really excited to visit the Academy of Science. How excited? Nerd excited.

I am not disappointed. I love when museums manage to design kid-friendly, imaginative exhibitions that are educational to everyone. The earthquake simulator, the real live rain forest with its birds and butterflies, the pterosaur flight simulator, all great, yes. But the most amazing thing is the aquarium.

Understand: I am afraid of fish. Not just fish, anything submerged. Mammal or insect or reptile. Gills or no gills. If it lives primarily under water, I am scared of it. So an aquarium to me is what a haunted house is to most people. Cheap thrills. Let me tell you: I got scarrrrrrrrrrrrrred. There might or might not be a video of me out there, cry-laughing with fear as truly gigantic fish swam around me in the tropical underwater tunnel. Not that this video exists, or anything.

As the afternoon advances, I walk around the park for a bit, find a spot up a tree to think deep thoughts. Or stare at the SF map and wonder how the hell I’m going to get back downtown. I climb a hill and stand on a rock next to a waterfall, pretend for a second I am Pocahontas. I’d sing Colors of the wind but there are people around. I meet a whole bunch of really fat squirrels who are not afraid of humans enough for their own good. These little guys would already be eaten if this was Cambodia. 

Stepping out of the park as the light fades, I decide to try and catch the sunset at Ocean Beach, but I misjudge the distance and have to give up twelve blocks in. I take Stirling to get back to my Muni stop. The big avenues over there showcase the classic San Francisco: wide, almost deserted streets up and down hills, little pastel houses… Chinese shops, banks and restaurants dot the landscape with bright spots of color.

It’s not a bad place to learn to appreciate the city in the dark, far from dodgy Tenderloin and busy Market St. With a leisurely pace and Courtney Love’s voice in my ears, I hit the concrete.

SONG CREDITS: Northern Light – Hole

By some sort of magical non-verbal agreement, the roommates and I decide to sleep in this morning. Lazing around in bed till nine, I prepare myself mentally for a great personal achievement: eating breakfast at the hostel. Like a grown-up. I even get coffee AND tea. Tomorrow, I might get pancakes. I might even go crazy and like, talk to people.

I have my new grey dress on, grey tights, light grey socks and shiny purple boots. Mirror mirror, tell me who looks the raddest. I settle on the couch by the window in the lobby, waiting for my bag. It is delivered, as is now tradition, one hour and forty minutes late. Just enough time for me to realize I am literally surrounded by French people on all sides. Will I ever be free?

Neil Young’s Harvest envelops me like a warm blanket as I write post after post for the blog. Tenderloin lives its busy, complicated life on the other side of the window. It is cold and grey outside, like a fat, dead pigeon.

Find a place to call my own and try to fix up, start a brand new day.

I leave the hostel at 3pm, head to SoMa along my trusty companion, O’Farrell St. The square, imposing blocks south of Market Street evoke a landscape of 1984-esque proportions. The MLK memorial is unassuming, but a vibrant homage nonetheless. I get to my destination, SFMOMA…. five minutes before closing time. Damn.

Okay, whatever, this is a cheat day. It’s cold and damp and sad and I am hungry. I spotted an Indian restaurant on the way in: I stop there on the way out for a Kadhai paneer thali. Yum.

On the way back to the hostel, I buy a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. It’s Christmers, after all.

SONG CREDITS: Out on the Weekend – Neil Young – Harvest

So now that I’m in love with the city, I take a walk suggested by my guide across Nob and Russian Hill. I am nearly delirious with joy, walking slash hopping across the streets, taking a million pictures. This is San Francisco like I imagined it:  the nearly vertical streets and pastel houses and neary a person in sight. These are the upper-class neighborhoods you see in the movies, with the families and the middle-class white people.

Jack Kerouac’s house, a small dark wooden house in the middle of a nondescript street. Big Sur is tucked safely in my bag, the one that is still stranded somewhere in Heathrow. This will be the one Kerouac book I finish, I swear it. Though it might take me ten years.

Macondray Lane is a place taken directly out of my dreams, or an Alice in Wonderland mini-series. Between the flora and “don’t feed the coyote” signs, Christmas ornaments adorn forgotten pumpkins. On top of the wooden stairs, I shake da booty a little bit.

Used to play pretend, give each other different names we would build a rocket ship and then we’d fly far away. Used to dream about this place but now they’re laughing at our face saying ‘wake up you need to make money’, yo.

I climb yet another hill to the Vallejo St steps and the Ina Coolbrith Park and its amazing vistas. The Bay Bridge dominates the hills of the city, white over blue. Oh man, so much happy crying in one day. I get lost in there for a while, watching the city below me, the giant cacti and the blue birds. The sky is a canvas for my thoughts or some other poetic bullshit.

Blue skies smiling at me, nothing but blue skies do I see. Blue birds singing a song, nothing but blue skies from now on.

Okay, I never truly believed I would make it here. San Francisco was a pipe dream. I am in shock that it happened. What other pipe dream of mine can I make happen? The city is right there at the tips of my fingers, and it smells like weed. Are people here high all the time? I love these streets in a straight line, like an expressway to the ocean close-by. I just want to run the whole way there.

So, I more or less do.

I walk around Chinatown, trying to find the path of the Beats. Little produce shops, Chinese banks and fifty people to the square meter: this is very, very familiar. No Christmas bullshit here, the stores are already preparing for Chinese New Year. Columbus Avenue cuts across the neighborhood and leaves a strange taste in my mouth. I don’t like reading or hearing that name. America is still celebrating its genocidal, bloody heritage, apparently.

Jack Kerouac Alley is a mix of monumental paintings and inspiring, bite-sized quotes. City Lights Books is right there, a legendary institution for book nerds of every horizon. I enter the sanctuary and go on the hunt for treasures that I will buy, look at adoringly, and probably never read. Nevertheless, between the poetry section, the activism section, the women studies and the LGBTQI section, I find happiness. A dude walks by me, asking out loud “what does the I even stand for?” Fuck you dude. May your children educate themselves and shame you for your ignorance and bigotry. Fuck. You.

Here is the thing about the Beats: I do not give one fuck about them. I made it through twenty pages of On the Road and I have read and loved some Ginsberg. I get that they had a salutary influence on culture (or rather, counter-culture) in the McCarthian America of the 50’s and practically birthed the hippie movement. But nowadays the Beats come with an army of pretentious, mansplaining, large glasses-wearing, Dylan-loving white douches. I have very, very little patience for the sexist new-liberal man of today.

Anyway. Um. Books. I love books! So I buy books. Poetry by women. Fiction by women. Books about consent by women. Women! I love women.

I try to get lunch and get coffee instead. Lattes are a food group, right?

Somehow I end up in North Beach and Little Italy, walking from little quirky shop to little quirky shop. I buy stuff. Cool stuff. Too cool from my lame friends. Yeah, it’s better I keep it all for myself. Definitely.

I end up walking to Coit Tower, a tall building on a hill where you can see all of the city. The building is an homage to San Francisco’s firemen, and has a bunch of marxist art in it. From the outside, it’s all white Art Deco and pretty scenery. I don’t go all the way to the top because it’s full of tourists: ain’t nobody got time for that. I take the famous Fillbert steps down, miss Bob Kaufman Alley by a hair. At Washington square, I take Powel St all the way from North Beach to Union Square. Oh, how I love these streets in a square grid. From one end to another, I visit three different cities. Just follow the grey concrete road.

At Market St, I bump into Super Duper Burger, boasting its best burger status for two years in a row. I get a veggie burger with everything (hummus, cucumber, cheese, avocado, onion, lettuce and tomato). Yes, it is amazing. But no, not the best. The best veggie burger I ever ate was in a Swedish-French restaurant in Kampot a year ago. It was pirate-themed.

My belly full and my eyelids drooping, I walk back to the hostel. My entire body is in pain, my back is spasming like crazy. I am a thousand years old.

What a day.

SONG CREDITS: Stressed out – twenty one pilots – Blurryface + Blue Skies – Maxine Sullivan

Other important tracks of that afternoon: Everybody does – Julien Baker + pretty much all of Queen