California Adventure 2006
July 1: Flew to SF and took the BART to Orinda. Kind of like riding the monorail at Disney World, but a nice introduction to the city. Mari’s grandparents picked us up at the BART station despite Penny’s recent third hip-replacement surgery. Later they took us food shopping at the Berkeley Bowl, a converted bowling alley that now houses a ginormous produce/food market, like Bloomingfoods and a farmers market on steroids. Anything you could want, they have 15 kinds, including a wide selection of exotic beer.
That night we cooked dinner for Yaiya and Bapoo: steaks, portabellas stuffed with polenta & feta, blueberry guacamole, and mango salad. They later suggested that we look at photos of a very young violinist, so of course I said yes. Also, cake and ice cream.
July 2: Drove across both the Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge to get to Muir Woods. Orinda is only 20 minutes or so from SF, but it’s about 30 degrees warmer and much less foggy. The bridges felt like I was driving through clouds.
Orinda in the morning
Muir Woods was astounding, and I hugged many an amenable tree. (The standoffish ones I left to themselves.)
We Three Trees
Wood nymph
Up a tree
Wee Mari
Tree hugger
Later we swam at the Orinda Public Pool with some crazy uncles, and that night grilled out with them ... and unearthed from Bapoo’s wine cellar a real gem: Dom Perignon 1980!
July 3: Tooled around San Francisco, including Fisherman’s Wharf kitsch and the Musée Mécanique.
Transamerica Building
Alcatraz
Fortune teller at Musée Mécanique
Photos don’t do this place justice.
Player Piano
Never trust a Mexican arm wrestler.
After cappuccino, City Lights Books. Still owned by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, it’s something of a Beat mecca, publishing-wise anyway. This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Howl and Other Poems and the ensuing obscenity lawsuit. I may try to set up some kind of commemorative reading at some point.
Next was Chinatown, more or less around the corner from CLB.
Apothecary
Mari gave this guy money to play something “old” that wasn’t “O Susanna.”
Fortune cookie factory
We hiked alllll the way up to Grace Cathedral on Nob Hill. What a climb!
But it was worth it. Walking the labyrinth inside the cathedral was a calming, meditative experience.
Indoor maze
Outdoor maze
On the way out of town we happened by a protest in front of Wells Fargo and some other bank. Palestinians yelling at Jews and vice versa. Hey, pipe down, people! I’m on vacation here!
Later I hooked up with Nadia(!) for a drink at her favorite bar, El Rio, in the Mission District. Then we headed to Alameda for killer margaritas and good Mexican food at La Piñata with Mari’s friends Jason et al.
July 4: Getting gone in a Vanagon!
We borrowed Yaiya and Bapoo’s VW camper van and drove down Route 1 along the California coast -- 5 hours of stunning vistas! It was, admittedly, an exhausting drive, and once you’re into the thick of Route 1 there aren’t many places to stop unless it’s to take vista pictures. We did visit the white sand beaches and eerie quiet of Carmel, to dip our toes in the Pacific -- which was frickin’ cold!
Carmel was just a tad too upscale for me, I think. Any town with more than one Thomas Kincaid gallery is in dire need of an arsonist.
Later we drove along the breathtaking Big Sur area
Movie Star and the Pink Guy
and finally landed in San Luis Obispo for dinner at Woodstock Pizza: possibly the only place open (it was, after all, after 5p on a national holiday) and we were cranky/exhausted/ravenous, but the vibrating table was great! Fortified, we scoped out a parking spot to camp in at El Charro, and made it to Morro Bay just in time to catch the fireworks (complete with cheesy, canned patriotic music) over the Pacific Ocean. Morro Bay was pretty cool: basically a fishing village with some touristy stuff, but I think we were one of just a handful of tourists there for the fireworks. Everyone seemed very local, especially the kids heckling some dude driving out of town in a Mercedes convertible.
July 5: Began, more or less, with the Slamming of the Thumb. ’nuff said.
Poem from that morning:
Mountains lying down, exhausted
from the Rockies to the beach,
and then a breath inhales a blanket
island from the bay -- the quiet
apnea before the crash and roll
of waves from the ocean, wiping
white sand gray, across to the hard scrub
savannahs of the West Coast
and sheer-faced hills too stern
even for cattle, north along
the echo walls of Big Sur,
all the way to the big bay --
that is where man meets Earth:
at the fault, at the charmed
mission bell assimilation.
But deeper than that, Route 1
wends its way along the lookout
to the Pacific, and beyond
the fog there is a hint of more
than horizon -- landfall, island,
something solid in the mists.
But no. Even if the Sierra Nevada
cast a shadow that long
they couldn’t answer, though
they coax a tease from ocean
every few moments:
Yes -- pause -- no.
Had breakfast at Splash Café in SLO, then utilized the library’s Internet and did some research on locales to hit. We just wanted to park somewhere near the water and bum around Pismo Beach for a while. Imagine my surprise when we pay to get into a state park and are directed to drive onto the beach! Cool!
Vanagon, you’re everywhere!
The water at Pismo was actually warm enough to swim in (I guess) but not for long. We did it really just so we could say we swam in the Pacific. Also hunted for and found a bunch of sand dollars.
Beach Bunny
Beach Bum
View from the second story of Chez Vanagon
On the way back to our campsite, I decided I needed a warm-up before doing Wine Country the next day, so we stopped in at Saucelito Canyon Vineyard and Edna Valley Vineyard one the way back. That night and the next we camped at Morro Bay State Park, down the road a bit from El Charro.
Initially I had scored a feature reading slot at the Berkeley Poetry Slam, but the timing didn’t work out, so I just googled up the most convenient reading opportunity I could find: the San Luis Obispo open mic, hosted by Jack Mothershed.
It was an older crowd, mostly colleagues and friends but a few actual audience members. Jack subjected us to a “lecture” on a Dylan song, which was kind of odd, especially considering he delivered it while listening (on headphones no less) to the song in question). But hey, it was no worse than the shenanigans at most any open mic/slam. I must note, though that 20 Questions with L-Rod Hubbard was pretty out there. This guy got up to read ... but he didn’t read. He had two L-rods, used for divining, and he took yes, no, and essay questions from the crowd, who mostly asked lame stuff about the Iraq War and the Bush administration. Obviously, they were my kind of liberal crowd, but I wanted to put this guy through his paces!
Anyway, dinner that night at Big Sky, a restaurant that kind of felt like Tutto Bene but with a better, larger menu. Later, at Chez Vanagon, we had a private wine tasting of a bottle we bought in Carmel, to wit:
Budini Malbec 2004 (Mendoza, Argentina):
Cork: Not bad as rubber goes; hints of plastic and Vanagon debris.
Decanting: A pleasant gurgling, especially into plastic cups.
Color: Decidedly red; not too many bubbles; clear atop yet opaque through the “glass,” and red, as a red wine should be, like a many-caretted ruby. Hmm, do rubies have carets? Sublime.
Legs: Stumpy, midget-like legs; no gams here; more like pimples or a pox than legs.
Nose: Fruity; black walnut; algae; crushed grapes -- Ahh, Argentina -- crushed wine snob; inebriation.
Finish: As a wine maiden’s foot fungus should taste: hints of sea salt of the earth; sixth-grade science class homunculus; day-old partially digested garlic; portabella; arugula salad; Mexican fingers; bored debutante; Irish cheese; prickly pear; ugli fruit; pawpaw; durian; horny melon; Woodstock Pizza; tractor.
July 6: Breakfast at Louisa’s Place, a diner in SLO, then a brief tour of Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa. Then, on to Wine Country: Midnight Cellars, Mastantuono Winery, Harmony Cellars, and Clautiere Vineyard, probably the best of the bunch. The brochure describes it as “Think Edward Scissorhands meets the Mad Hatter at the Moulin Rouge.” Yep, that’s about right. Rather fab-ulous, you might say! I was enthralled by the whole experience; my lady violinist friend was by turns bored, and offended because she kept getting carded. I just loved the idea of driving around the beautiful Serengeti hills of California tasting what amounted to homebrewed wine along the way. We did bring back a few bottles of very good stuff, too.
That evening we hit the SLO farmers market & street fair, six blocks of fresh produce, local restaurant food (they set up tents on the street in front of the restaurants), and cheesy live music. On the way back to the Vanagon, we happened upon a bike happening, kind of like a critical mass but really just for fun. About 300 or so cyclists gathered at the mission, dressed as superheroes and what have you, and just as the city took down the barricades after the street fair, the cyclists rode in circles for a couple of hours
Nightcap: Cool drinks at Le Fandango Bistro whilst watching the cyclists parade by. A few stopped in, too.
July 7: Poem from that morning:
Shelved
Catalogued in the great American lit tradition
between apathy and stone-cold reverence
is the room at the top of the stairs
at City Lights Books, near Chinatown
in San Francisco. More garret than nook,
more sanctum than display case,
this is the heart of darkness, where majors
go to find a Buddha and return
with heavy cream dripping from their whiskers.
Jack and Neal and Allen and Diane
and a dozen other old friends glare
across the hardwood at the little guys,
the MFAs, the insiders, the career writers,
absent anyone published in POETRY,
absent anyone stuck in the rut of craft,
absent Mirabai and Dean Young and D.A. Levy.
(Present, though, is Billy Collins,
which only underscores his ubiquity --
I believe he stocked his own books here.)
A sign above the door reads
Treat all strangers with kindness,
for some may be angels in disguise.
Then a man ignores me when I ask
him to change chairs so I can browse the Y’s.
I stoop and creak in leather old
and faded as my poetic voice,
but his beret had nothing for me.
When Indiana stomps toward you
in hard boots and with a soft voice
says, Excuse me, I’d like to get back in
behind where you are sitting,
and then repeats that,
and then, Excuse me, are you ignoring me?
pay attention.
Caught up in a reverie or
avoiding my eyes, old hipsters
learn only from other old hipsters,
and so I feel like a brick
to some -- a boot through
the display case at a paper museum
of zines and broadsides from another age
turned to hardbound tomes
of establishment: yes, Jack, you died
drunk and claimed a slot
in the boudoir of American poetry,
tucked away where only the high-minded
and most cognizant may enter.
No wars were fought over who could read
his stuff or should read others instead
-- and so no battle matters:
the search continues. Old man steps
aside to another chair in the sun
and youngster climbs behind him, looking
for books that are not there,
and City Lights stocks what City Lights
thinks you should read.
A quick breakfast of fruit from the SLO market, then off to Hearst Castle. The size and scope of the place is astonishing, but I was surprised how small the personal rooms were. Granted, we took a tour that only allowed us into the libraries, the kitchen, and a few personal quarters and studies, no ballrooms. But I think that, as opulent place has a reputation for being, Hearst was deep down your average workaholic. His passions and work ethic overwhelmed his basic creature comforts. They say he rarely slept, and it shows in the pictures of him. Still, the castle is an incredible realization of a dream, although much of it remains unfinished due to his ever-changing tastes and imagination. And they say that even if he were alive today it still would remain incomplete.
Lunch in Paso Robles, then as we were making our way to Cupertino ... Vanagon! Why hast thou forsaken us?! The van overheated in Gonzales, California. After a Mexican standoff between AAA, the grandparents, and the uncles, we were towed to Salinas, where we spent the night at the Laurel Inn waiting for a repair. Shit. Shit! Lost a day, missed meeting up with friends in Cupertino, and there’s fuck-all to do in Salinas, frankly. However: hot, non-campsite showers; Straw Hat Pizza, delivered; South Park, redneck home videos, and meerkats; king-size bed ... okay, being stranded ain’t so bad.
July 8: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, highly entertaining and a great way to kill 2.5 hours. Also walked the wee Salinas farmers market (cherries!), and received free admission into the John Steinbeck Museum. We told the dude behind the counter our sob story and asked if there was anything not to be missed in Salinas. Other than buying a ticket to the museum, he said, not much; and when told that my violinist lady friend is not a huge Steinbeck fan (is anyone, really?), he replied, “I don’t even read.” But he slyly slipped us free tickets and we wandered around trying not to be bored, though even an exhibit of disturbing Goya etchings could not hold my interest for long.
We bought Innerweb time at the Serendipity Internet Café, and soon the Vanagon was on the road again! (The verdict: new thermostat, flush and fill the cooling system ... and apparently the alternator belt was hanging on by a thread. I knew all that squealing at start-up was a bad sign!) Finally had Thai dinner with the Gaytoses in Cupertino, then back to Orinda, jiggety-jig.
July 9: Hung out in Berkeley, including the Piercing of Mari + Caren.
“You may experience a slight pinching sensation....”
Joined at the ear
Then we hit Japantown in San Francisco, where Nadia joined us for the day. Ate great fish and tentacles (finally; I’d been waiting all week for good seafood) at Isobune: conveyor-belt sushi!
Say hello to my little friends!
Caren and Randy
Truly tentacular!
Nadia!
Also did some pottery hunting, had lychee ice cream, and shopped for the perfect sake set, which I ultimately acquired at Ma-shi-ko Folkcraft, a great li’l antique + exquisite pottery shop. I later read an online review of the store that rated it best Japanese folk art shop in SF: “If you can put up with the owner’s continuous complaints about pilfering and lack of local support (‘All my customers are from New York and Boston’), this is a fabulous place to find unusual, well-priced objects for the home.” Agreed. At 4:30 in the afternoon, I was his first paying customer -- and he spent a good 10 minutes telling me all about it!
Outside Kintetsu Mall in Japantown
Italy won the World Cup, so Nadia suggested we head back to near City Lights to witness the craziness. We hit Alder Bar, a dim "Irish" pub full of loud soccer hooligans and hawt hooligettes.
Then Nadia and we parted company, and we headed back to Orinda for blintzes with Caren, Randy, Jason, Mari, Penny, and Mark. (eep! Why yes, allow me to polish off that Spaten in the fridge....)
July 10: Jason spent the night and chauffeured us to the airport in the morning. The flight back to Indy was uneventful except for teaching Mari Texas Hold ’Em and tormenting the other passengers with our Mexican leftovers plus some Burn Baby Burn hot sauce we picked up at the Berkeley Bowl. Stepping off the plane in Indy -- whew! Not ready for the Hoosier climate at all. The weather all week had been at most (in Orinda) in the low eighties, but generally in the mid-seventies all the way down to the fifties at night. Only on the 101 back to Orinda from SLO was the heat really evident (obviously ... where the Vanagon overheated). Regardless, driving back to B-tizzle in the relentless Midwest July humidity, I realized I was home where my heart is (I forgot to pack it, along with underwear).
Jetlegged: leaving the Indy airport
