summer travels, 2010 ed.
Wow, it's actually been more than three months since I've posted anything here. Rather than try and catch up on all the comings and goings, I'll just say a few words about some travelling I did recently.
I worked Monday of last week, and then left for a week off. Before leaving town, my first stop was at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square for a reading by David Mitchell. Mitchell may be my favorite author; I've loved everything I've read of his, 'Cloud Atlas' and 'Number9Dream' especially, and he was promoting his new book, 'The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet', with a relatively rare American tour. The theatre was packed to capacity; Mitchell, a Brit now living in Ireland, was witty, self-effacing, and utterly riveting, and you could have heard a pin drop as he read the new book's opening chapter with its depiction of a seventeenth-century childbirth in coastal Japan. He signed (and drew some clouds on) my copy of 'Cloud Atlas', and I thanked him and headed home for a brief stopover before driving down to the Cape.
I was able to join Sarah's family in Harwich for part of their annual Cape week; they rent a house from friends of ours, and I come for as much of the week as I can. I got in that night for some leftover steak and some good storytelling; Tuesday was a day of rest and relaxation as I lounged around the house, started Dave Eggers' 'Zeitoun', and went for an afternoon swim in the warm, seaweed-wracked waters of south Chatham. We went out for a delicious meal (nothing like a good Cape cod) and finished the evening with rounds of Phase Ten, a card game that I always and inexplicably agree to play despite being an absolute trainwreck at it.
Wednesday we got up, went out for some late-morning ice cream, and Sarah and I bid her family adieu and drove back to Boston to begin the second part of our trip. We were about to leave for four days in northern California for our friends Jamie and Chris's wedding, and so we spent the afternoon packing and readying ourselves for the journey. The flight out on JetBlue was uneventful, just one 'Family Guy' rerun after another on the little TV at my seat, but the time passed quickly enough. We stood outside of San Francisco International, the cool, autumnal air on our faces as we waited for our hotel shuttle. Back at our room in Millbrae, we drifted off to sleep, our body clocks surrendering to the time change.
Thursday morning, we headed back to SFO to pick up our rental car (a bug-splattered Ford Escape), and we drove north on route 1, passing through the west side of the city and through the ethereal fog enveloping the Golden Gate Bridge. We had a rehearsal dinner in the town of Trinidad to get to that evening, but opting for the scenic view, we continued north on 1, winding along the Pacific coast and through the small, inset villages of northern California. After four hours in the car, we stopped for lunch in Anchor Bay and realized we were falling behind on our schedule; an ill-advised attempt to get to 101 through the mountains was abandoned when we found ourselves staring at a dirt road heading up into the illicit wilds of Mendocino County, and we returned to 1 and continued north. After several more hours and umpteen vertigo-inducing woodland curves, we finally got out to 101 and raced the last hundred miles to Trinidad, managing to make it to the dinner a mere fifteen minutes late. Luckily, everyone was still milling around outside, and we met the happy couple and their families, adjourning upstairs for an excellent meal of brisket and California merlot. Back at the hotel, Sarah joined the others for a late-night fire under the stars while I drifted off in our enormous bed, nine hours behind the wheel having drained my energies.
Friday found us grabbing breakfast outside the bridal suite; Sarah and the other bridesmaids headed to Arcata for hair and makeup, and I hopped in the car and headed north to Redwood National Park. North of Orick I found myself following a side road to the Lady Bird Johnson Grove, a well-maintained one-mile loop through old-growth redwood forest. It took me an hour and a half to traverse the path, awed as I always am by these towering, antediluvian beings, taking numerous pictures as the early afternoon sun pierced the roof of the forest, illuminating swirls of dust particles and frenetic bugs. I might have stayed until sundown had I not had a wedding to get to; reluctantly I headed back to the car and drove south to Arcata to pick up a late lunch at the organic co-op, and then back to the hotel to scarf down my food and throw on a suit.
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I ended up getting roped into a little romance work; after the rest of the wedding party headed to the beach for the ceremony, I and two other conspirators snuck into the honeymoon suite, spread fake flower petals, iced champagne in an old metal pot, and laid out bathrobes and slippers. Nice gesture though this was, it also made us late for the wedding, unfortunate as one of us was supposed to walk the bride's mother down the aisle. We high-tailed it to the beach, zooming along a sidewinding back road and comparing our predicament to the 'race to the church' endings of so many romantic comedies. Luckily, this was California, so things were running late anyway and the ceremony went off without a hitch, beautiful and bright in the early evening sunshine, the Pacific lapping at giant boulders in the sand and the happy couple tying the knot. The reception afterward was enjoyable, with grilled meats and good company, although Sarah and I left several times to take beach walks as the sunset gave way to a luminous, starry night.
Saturday found us trucking back to San Francisco, wisely taking 101 the whole way (except for a brief detour through the Avenue of the Giants, a winding path working its way through the redwoods, the rental's bumpers often coming within a foot or two of the enormous trees perched at the roadside.) We stopped for lunch in Willits -- remarkably, a full thirty-five degrees warmer inland than the cool temperatures of the coast -- and by five o'clock we were back in the city, soon reaching the Hotel Carlton downtown. Our car valeted, we left our luggage in our room, a cozy nook abutting the elevator on the sixth floor, and headed northwest to City Lights to peruse the books and soak up the ephemera of the beat poets. Sarah then took me out to an incredible French bistro in Inner Richmond called Chapeau! (the exclamation point, it seems, changes the meaning of 'chapeau' from 'hat' to 'wow!') Appropriately named, though, as we positively feasted, with filet mignon, warm brie over potato cakes, a magma-like chocolate cake and a Sonoma valley pinot noir to complete the bacchanal. The staff seemed as thrilled to be there as we were, the chefs and waiters kissing Sarah's cheeks and warmly shaking my hand, even following us out of the restaurant afterwards to ensure one last time that we enjoyed everything. Back at the hotel, sleep came easily.
And finally, Sunday, our last day in the west; we rose, grabbed a European-style breakfast down the street, summoned our rental car, and left to explore the city. We headed to Amoeba Records in the Haight, a warehouse-sized indie record store, sister to the original in Berkeley. I passed a happy hour wandering up and down the aisles, piling new and used records into my cart, and afterwards I met up with Sarah, who had been meandering through the east end of Golden Gate Park. We then headed north to the Palace of Fine Arts, an enormous stone structure overlooking the marina and the bay, and then whiled away an hour at the Exploratorium, a science museum full of working exhibits on magnetism, light, gravity and geometry. We then, perhaps against our better judgement, headed down to the wharf to satisfy our In n Out burger craving, and I circled the block while Sarah braved the masses to pick up some snacks. We then headed up to the Coit Tower to take some pictures of the city, and though we ended up eating our food in the car while waiting for a space to open up in the monument's small, circular lot, it was worth it to look down at the rolling expanses of Russian Hill and the island of Alcatraz beyond.
Finally, we headed over to McAllister and Divisadero; we were meeting our friends Christine and Joel later for dinner, but first we walked around Alamo Square, admiring the 'Painted Ladies' (the famed row houses, aka the 'Full House' row houses) and more spectacular views of the city's hills to the south and southwest. We sat on a bench, watching middle-aged couples run to keep pace with their frenetic, hyperactive dogs, and tried to absorb as much of the gentle weather and brilliant sunshine as we could. Eventually we wandered back over to where we parked and met our friends at the Green Chile Kitchen for spicy, grilled burritos and an incredible chile-infused apple pie for dessert. Full and sated, we said our goodbyes, headed south to SFO, dropped off our car, and eventually caught our red-eye back to Boston, a fitful, sleepless flight back to the East. We spent Monday recuperating at home, napping and doing laundry and trying to teach our tired bodies to function on Boston time once again.
I worked Monday of last week, and then left for a week off. Before leaving town, my first stop was at the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square for a reading by David Mitchell. Mitchell may be my favorite author; I've loved everything I've read of his, 'Cloud Atlas' and 'Number9Dream' especially, and he was promoting his new book, 'The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet', with a relatively rare American tour. The theatre was packed to capacity; Mitchell, a Brit now living in Ireland, was witty, self-effacing, and utterly riveting, and you could have heard a pin drop as he read the new book's opening chapter with its depiction of a seventeenth-century childbirth in coastal Japan. He signed (and drew some clouds on) my copy of 'Cloud Atlas', and I thanked him and headed home for a brief stopover before driving down to the Cape.
I was able to join Sarah's family in Harwich for part of their annual Cape week; they rent a house from friends of ours, and I come for as much of the week as I can. I got in that night for some leftover steak and some good storytelling; Tuesday was a day of rest and relaxation as I lounged around the house, started Dave Eggers' 'Zeitoun', and went for an afternoon swim in the warm, seaweed-wracked waters of south Chatham. We went out for a delicious meal (nothing like a good Cape cod) and finished the evening with rounds of Phase Ten, a card game that I always and inexplicably agree to play despite being an absolute trainwreck at it.
Wednesday we got up, went out for some late-morning ice cream, and Sarah and I bid her family adieu and drove back to Boston to begin the second part of our trip. We were about to leave for four days in northern California for our friends Jamie and Chris's wedding, and so we spent the afternoon packing and readying ourselves for the journey. The flight out on JetBlue was uneventful, just one 'Family Guy' rerun after another on the little TV at my seat, but the time passed quickly enough. We stood outside of San Francisco International, the cool, autumnal air on our faces as we waited for our hotel shuttle. Back at our room in Millbrae, we drifted off to sleep, our body clocks surrendering to the time change.
Thursday morning, we headed back to SFO to pick up our rental car (a bug-splattered Ford Escape), and we drove north on route 1, passing through the west side of the city and through the ethereal fog enveloping the Golden Gate Bridge. We had a rehearsal dinner in the town of Trinidad to get to that evening, but opting for the scenic view, we continued north on 1, winding along the Pacific coast and through the small, inset villages of northern California. After four hours in the car, we stopped for lunch in Anchor Bay and realized we were falling behind on our schedule; an ill-advised attempt to get to 101 through the mountains was abandoned when we found ourselves staring at a dirt road heading up into the illicit wilds of Mendocino County, and we returned to 1 and continued north. After several more hours and umpteen vertigo-inducing woodland curves, we finally got out to 101 and raced the last hundred miles to Trinidad, managing to make it to the dinner a mere fifteen minutes late. Luckily, everyone was still milling around outside, and we met the happy couple and their families, adjourning upstairs for an excellent meal of brisket and California merlot. Back at the hotel, Sarah joined the others for a late-night fire under the stars while I drifted off in our enormous bed, nine hours behind the wheel having drained my energies.
Friday found us grabbing breakfast outside the bridal suite; Sarah and the other bridesmaids headed to Arcata for hair and makeup, and I hopped in the car and headed north to Redwood National Park. North of Orick I found myself following a side road to the Lady Bird Johnson Grove, a well-maintained one-mile loop through old-growth redwood forest. It took me an hour and a half to traverse the path, awed as I always am by these towering, antediluvian beings, taking numerous pictures as the early afternoon sun pierced the roof of the forest, illuminating swirls of dust particles and frenetic bugs. I might have stayed until sundown had I not had a wedding to get to; reluctantly I headed back to the car and drove south to Arcata to pick up a late lunch at the organic co-op, and then back to the hotel to scarf down my food and throw on a suit.
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I ended up getting roped into a little romance work; after the rest of the wedding party headed to the beach for the ceremony, I and two other conspirators snuck into the honeymoon suite, spread fake flower petals, iced champagne in an old metal pot, and laid out bathrobes and slippers. Nice gesture though this was, it also made us late for the wedding, unfortunate as one of us was supposed to walk the bride's mother down the aisle. We high-tailed it to the beach, zooming along a sidewinding back road and comparing our predicament to the 'race to the church' endings of so many romantic comedies. Luckily, this was California, so things were running late anyway and the ceremony went off without a hitch, beautiful and bright in the early evening sunshine, the Pacific lapping at giant boulders in the sand and the happy couple tying the knot. The reception afterward was enjoyable, with grilled meats and good company, although Sarah and I left several times to take beach walks as the sunset gave way to a luminous, starry night.
Saturday found us trucking back to San Francisco, wisely taking 101 the whole way (except for a brief detour through the Avenue of the Giants, a winding path working its way through the redwoods, the rental's bumpers often coming within a foot or two of the enormous trees perched at the roadside.) We stopped for lunch in Willits -- remarkably, a full thirty-five degrees warmer inland than the cool temperatures of the coast -- and by five o'clock we were back in the city, soon reaching the Hotel Carlton downtown. Our car valeted, we left our luggage in our room, a cozy nook abutting the elevator on the sixth floor, and headed northwest to City Lights to peruse the books and soak up the ephemera of the beat poets. Sarah then took me out to an incredible French bistro in Inner Richmond called Chapeau! (the exclamation point, it seems, changes the meaning of 'chapeau' from 'hat' to 'wow!') Appropriately named, though, as we positively feasted, with filet mignon, warm brie over potato cakes, a magma-like chocolate cake and a Sonoma valley pinot noir to complete the bacchanal. The staff seemed as thrilled to be there as we were, the chefs and waiters kissing Sarah's cheeks and warmly shaking my hand, even following us out of the restaurant afterwards to ensure one last time that we enjoyed everything. Back at the hotel, sleep came easily.
And finally, Sunday, our last day in the west; we rose, grabbed a European-style breakfast down the street, summoned our rental car, and left to explore the city. We headed to Amoeba Records in the Haight, a warehouse-sized indie record store, sister to the original in Berkeley. I passed a happy hour wandering up and down the aisles, piling new and used records into my cart, and afterwards I met up with Sarah, who had been meandering through the east end of Golden Gate Park. We then headed north to the Palace of Fine Arts, an enormous stone structure overlooking the marina and the bay, and then whiled away an hour at the Exploratorium, a science museum full of working exhibits on magnetism, light, gravity and geometry. We then, perhaps against our better judgement, headed down to the wharf to satisfy our In n Out burger craving, and I circled the block while Sarah braved the masses to pick up some snacks. We then headed up to the Coit Tower to take some pictures of the city, and though we ended up eating our food in the car while waiting for a space to open up in the monument's small, circular lot, it was worth it to look down at the rolling expanses of Russian Hill and the island of Alcatraz beyond.
Finally, we headed over to McAllister and Divisadero; we were meeting our friends Christine and Joel later for dinner, but first we walked around Alamo Square, admiring the 'Painted Ladies' (the famed row houses, aka the 'Full House' row houses) and more spectacular views of the city's hills to the south and southwest. We sat on a bench, watching middle-aged couples run to keep pace with their frenetic, hyperactive dogs, and tried to absorb as much of the gentle weather and brilliant sunshine as we could. Eventually we wandered back over to where we parked and met our friends at the Green Chile Kitchen for spicy, grilled burritos and an incredible chile-infused apple pie for dessert. Full and sated, we said our goodbyes, headed south to SFO, dropped off our car, and eventually caught our red-eye back to Boston, a fitful, sleepless flight back to the East. We spent Monday recuperating at home, napping and doing laundry and trying to teach our tired bodies to function on Boston time once again.