San Francisco: The True Story

If you're a regular reader of my blog (hi Fern and Devlyn!), you most likely find yourself visiting the site of my girlfriend Jennifer on occassion. And that's great, because she's got this way about her-you know, she's rather charming and hilarious!. Last time she posted, Fern told readers all about the fun n' adventure the two of us had while in San Francisco a couple weeks ago. The blog she wrote was an instant hit, a masterpiece of vibrant, descriptive literature; as well as a handy reference for anyone who wishes to experience the grungy underbelly of the city. Sadly, her account of events during that momentous week is just one highly creative fictional contruct. A grand story for sure, but a story written to deceive, to place a veil over your eyes so that the real truth will not be discovered. Ladies and gentlemen, my purpose today is to finally reveal to you the truth behind the lies. In no way do I intend to spend thirty minutes writing some silly introduction to my San Francisco story for the sole purpose of humoring myself. NO, I'd never admit to such petty narcissism! Now, open your minds and your hearts to the light of truth, ladies and gentlemen. Here is the real story as it really happened during those fateful days in late April (and early May):

Before our departure, Fern and I set out in search of quality mochachinos. The Mocha is our way of celebrating the start of any day off, mini vacation, or true vacation. The Mocha is sometimes utilized in the middle of the day, when that middle of the day comes after a rest period which essentially makes the middle of the day feel like the beginning of the day. I think of the drink as liquid excitement. Whereas little dogs pittle when they get all excited, Fern and I grab a mocha and talk about how excited we are about it and the day ahead of us. Needless to say, there were a lot of mochas consumed during our trip. San Francisco=excitement too, wouldn't you say?

We couldn't find a satisfactory mocha experience Thursday morning due to a downtown power outage (I'll never forget stepping into a dark Flying M coffehouse and hearing nothing-no espresso machine making magic). We were both also hungry, so after nearly dying, we rushed to the airport in order to get food n' mochas and chill ourselves out. Everything became great again, despite the mochas coming from an airport Moxie Java.

Fern and I sat next to each other on the plane of course, but the experience was unexpectedly romantic/exciting. I asked Fern to pardon me if I stared out of her window-it was something I often did on flights, I said. Fern informed me that she liked to do the same. An hour into the flight, I was still primarily staring out the window, thinking about where we were at that moment, imagining what it was like living down there, and looking for anything remotely interesting to see from 30,000 feet. I guess my mentality is that of a dog-in-a-car when I'm flying.

I really craned my neck to get a glimpse of the city as our plane made its descent. I saw very little but murky waters of the bay. After landing we quickly found our bags (which were distinctively marked with 7 year old pink fuzz on their handles) and stepped onto the airports el-train, which took us to the Bay Area Rapid Transit station. Fern struggled with a malfunctioning ticket machine while I struggled to make sense of the BART route map. We made it onto a train that seemed to be heading in the general direction we wanted to go. After a lot of banshee screaching and several stops, the train let us off at Market and Powell Street. Playing photographer to the stars, I snapped pictures of Fern as she walked up the steps into the bustling city and bright, beautiful day. We discovered plenty of tourists with shopping bags in hand, taking photos of the trolley as a small army of costumed "engineers" manually turned the trolley 180 degrees upon a special circular track thingymajig. Among the tourists and shoppers, there was almost as many "street people" performing a variety of coin-worthy acts, like tap dancing on a piece of plywood.

Fern and I made our way towards Union Square through a maze of shoppers. The square in the midst of huge majestic buildings was quite an awesome thing. By the looks of things, it was apparantly a hot spot for catching some rays and enjoying one's lunch. After checking into the hostile (two blocks away), Fern and I did what the locals do. We grabbed a bite at a sandwhich/everything shop and enjoyed the beautiful weather lounging on the grass in Union Square.

Regarding our room at the Adelaide Hostile, it was simply perfect. I was elated to realize that we'd be spending the next five days in such a comfortable, private setting. I think we both were. The ceiling was high. We had a huge window with a perfect voyeurs view of rooms across the way. Vines were growing into the big window and through the tiny window above where we slept. I felt close to nature, even though we were in the middle of the city.

After freshening up, Fern and I set out into the city, cameras in hand but sans luggage. This is when we grabbed lunch and lounged in the square. We then walked around the immediate area checking out a variety of high-end and not-quite-so-high-end shops. Fern saw the Dior bag in the window of the Dior store. I pushed her through the door so that she could have a closer look. We stopped by some shoe stores, the Levi's store, a Guess store, a Camper! store, a Shoe Pavalion store, and a whole bunch o' other stores. We also ventured south of Market Street and took photos of interesting architecture and the two of us together in a park near Yerba Buena park.

It was a very very enjoyable time. Especially considering we had bought ourselves another hour when we crossed into the Pacific time zone. Despite what our phones said, we had plenty of time to explore before we needed to get ready for the Ryan Adams concert at the Palace of Fine Arts.

After getting sexified, we boarded the bus that would take us to the Palace. The bus was packed full of residents of China Town, as that was the first part of the city we passed through. At some point, Fern asked someone if the time the bus flashed on its screen was the actual time. When the person answered in the affirmative, she and I looked at each other wide-eyed and slack-jawed. We had less than 15 minutes until the concet was scheduled to start! Apparantly, our phones automatically set themselves to the correct time. All the while we thought that the phones were an hour ahead. Needless to say, I felt a bit stressed during the 15 minutes it took us to find out that we weren't going to miss anything, or have to walk into the concert house and rudely take our seats in the front row while Ryan was singing. So, no big deal. There was an opening act, which kind of sucked. Interestingly enough, there was a second act going on at the same time as the main show. The second act was more comedy than anything, with Ryan talking to himself, the crowd, his manager, and whoever would listen. It was one of the best acts I've ever seen, atleast until it got old and I just wanted to hear him sing. The singing was constantly being interrupted by the comedy, but the songs were so well done (albiet stripped down) that I felt I got my money's worth.

When the concert was finally over, Fern and I dragged ourselves back to the hostile, but mustered enough energy to walk down to Lefty O'Doule's, drink a couple beers and sing along with middle aged people and the piano man.
more to come...