This week I went for drinks with Ian and Peder during happy hour at Kennedy’s Irish Pub and Curry House, a strange amalgamation of bar and restaurant with some seriously sketchy decor. But they have $2 Guinness pints, when they remember to chill the keg, plus two-for-one drafts til 7 or so, makes the trek all the way up Columbus worth it. Following several beers and some deep fried foods, we hailed a subsidized cab, paid for by one of two of my companions, Peder.
We asked him to take us to Bernal Heights, and off he went. Peder asked our driver, who had a super thick Caribbean Islander-type accent, if he had any paper receipts. The man said that he did, then laughed a hearty laugh. He asked if Peder’s company was paying, and when he learned that he did he began talking at a break neck pace about his experiences behind the wheel.
“That reminds me of this man I used to drive, who would call me up regularly. His company paid for everything. He would let me fill in whatever I wanted for the amount. This was back during the dot-com time, when they had all the money and no sense. That is why they are no longer in business. He would call me and I would pick up him and his girlfriend. I would drive her to her office. He would get out of the car, all nice in his suit, and kiss her before she left. Then he’d get back in the cab, change his clothes, and ask me to drive him to the Castro where he would meet up with different guys. He did this all the time. I never could quite believe it.”
What came next was an assortment of tales so terrific, so hilarious, that I’m sorry I couldn’t better understand the man through his accent. He regaled us with stories of drug dealers, who asked him to drive them to Stockton, the town not the street, and how they arrived with 2 briefcases, and after they left the house “after talking to some guys,” they’d return to the vehicle with a single, different briefcase. He said he never asked any questions.
“You can’t be arrested for something like that, can you?,” I asked the driver, who was moving toward our destination quickly, but not as fast as he was talking.
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. There was once a cab driver who had a man ask him to take him to the bank. He did, and the guy went in then came right out saying they wouldn’t cash his check. He then asked him to take him to a Bank of America. He did, and the customer came out with the same story. So, he drove him to a Washingston Mutual. While he was waiting for the man to come out of there, the police pulled up on him, gun drawn, telling him to, ‘Put his hands on the wheel!’ The driver had no idea what was going on. It turns out the man was robbing each bank, then taking the cab to the next one.”
We all sat dumbfounded. Some guy hailed a cab then proceeded to rob banks and use it as his getaway car? This was not your average taxi driver chit chat.
He told us also about a very rich patron who spent the entire day in his cab, going from Golden Gate Park to the Haight to North Beach and then out to the ocean. He spent hours in the car taking a driven tour of the city. At the beach our driver stopped, meter running, so his guest and his friends could dine at The Cliffhouse.
“You hungry?,” asked Mr. Money Bags. “You want to eat?”
“If you are paying I want to eat,” replied our cabbie, and with that he was whisked away for a fabulous meal on his patron. But not before locking the door, making sure the meter was still ticking away.
He finished out our ride by answering my, “Does anyone ever do drugs in your car?” question with, “Oh yes. Rock and weed, whatever. People who smoke rock are the best tippers.”
He dropped us at the top of Bernal Heights, just feet from the doorstep. Peder got his receipt, no doubt cabbie got a great tip, and with that he drove away from us, off down the hill.
“What is your name?!,” I called after him. “Will I ever see you again?” But it was too late. Best cabbie ever had gone, off on another adventure.
I went with Ian MacBean to San Diego. The occasion was his big brother Ed’s first ever marathon. Ian’s sister in law arranged to have as many people as possible cheer her husband on, so it was the perfect opportunity for a mini-vacation to a sunny city. I’d never been before, and since the flight is short and airfare is cheap (provided you don’t procrastinate), I was thrilled to get away for a weekend.
Packed a duffel bag of a weekend’s worth of things and lugged it with me to work on Friday, then we took BART to SFO after work Friday afternoon. The train dropped us off right at the airport, which was very nice, since apparently you used to only be able to go to Colma, then you’d have to take a bus the rest of the way. Boarding passes already printed, we headed straight to security, since we weren’t checking any luggage. Things were moving smoothly.
After my bag went through the x-ray the security guard said, “Wow,” and motioned for a colleague to come over. She did, and I wondered what about my pack had alerted them. She pulled out my family sized bottled of shampoo and conditioner when I suddenly remembered. No liquids larger than three ounces! I had totally forgotten because I always, always have to check a bag. This rule has never applied to me, so it completely slipped my mind.
I was pretty embarrassed. I was lucky that the girl the guard called over was pretty lenient. “I’d hate to have to lose my Biosilk,” she told me, so she let me keep all my toiletries but three. Not bad, considering. [”Little do they know that Biosilk and orange juice combined make napalm.”]
The flight was quick and easy, and we touched down in San Diego less than an hour and a half from when we took off. Got to meet Celia and Ed and Jamie and Lola and a cat whose name has escaped me. All were awesome, and I was very grateful to be welcomed into their lovely home.
The next day Ian and I went sight-seeing in San Diego. It’s delightful! I had no idea it was such a gorgeous place. We went to Balboa Park, which was incredible. So much to see–botanical gardens, koi in ponds, amazing architecture and prime people watching. I was told before I left that I couldn’t come back to the Bay Area without having had a fish taco, so Ian and I made a special trip to Zocalo. And it was worth it–the taco was incredible, especially paired with a margarita.
We ate a little late in the day, so I was stuffed when later we attended the carbo-loading party for Ed at their neighbor’s place. The carbanara was delicious, but I couldn’t eat more than a few bites. Afterwards we met up with some internet friends at a local tavern for drinks outdoors. It was so nice to sit outside and enjoy a cocktail in short sleeves at night, something that rarely, if ever, happens in San Francisco. We didn’t stay out too late, however, because cheering Ed on in the marathon was scheduled for bright and early.
Spent all day long in the sun on Sunday watching a very inspiring footrace. Ed finished 26.2 miles in 4 hours flat. Amazing that anyone could run for that long. After the marathon there was a pool party. I swear, I hadn’t been swimming in years. I spent entirely too much time sucking up rays (while I had the chance), and wound up looking like this:
The burn has subsided a bit, but strangers are still alerting me to the fact that, “You got some sun!” Yes, Sherlock, I did.
The trip was far too brief. San Diego is a charming place, the people we met even more so, and I hope to go back sometime very soon.
I’m gonna be going back home for a week’s visit in either July or August, and after reading this note from a Bay Area friend, I kinda can’t wait for the reverse culture shock:
You’re still new here, but after a while you forget what life outside of CA is like. You go back home and visit fam & friends and wonder WHY everyone there is wearing chinos & polo shirts and why isn’t it appropriate to talk about dildos and butt plugs in a coffee shop? Hey, how come talking about the girl who has two mommies is a conversation-ender? And hey, how come I can’t buy booze on Sunday? It creeps up on you.
Like I said, can’t wait. I imagine going back will be almost as weird as coming out here in the first place.
I went to Carmel this weekend. I wrote about it on Twitter. Truth be told, Twitter now serves as a microblogging platform for me, whether I want to admit to it or not. If you like S&21, and aren’t following me on Twitter, it’s safe to say you are missing out. You can even subscribe to my Twitter feed.
This morning on BART there were plenty of open seats when I boarded at the North Berkeley station. By the time we hit Ashby the open seats were pretty well filled. I sat reading my 25 cent SF Chronicle (special rate for BART riders) when I heard, “I was there first!” A middle aged woman with long, fuzzy brown hair stared at a young woman wearing a track suit, who shouted back, “We’re about to fight.” Then, as quick as you’d flip a switch, the young woman who predicted a tussle said, “Okay, fine, you win,” conceding the seat as easily as she’d initially escalated the dispute.
Much like a 5th grader the older white woman who’d won the right to the open seat without having to take a fist to the face repeated, “I was there first.”
The other night a wayward looking man sat in the seat in front of me holding a neon fan that lights up. He stared at the spinning lights and spoke aloud to himself or to whomever might be listening, “That crazy lady gave this to me. Ain’t it something. That crazy lady with the crazy hips gave me this.”
Thanks for allowing me the newly opened seat on BART this morning. I’d never been on the train with it being that crowded before. I am not quite tall enough to hold on to the bar overhead, but without support I lurch forward and backward with each stop. The vertical rails are nice, but the one nearest me was unavailable thanks to a chatty Cathy who was oblivious to those around her.
You could have taken that seat. I am not disabled or elderly. But, instead you held out your hand toward the empty spot, insinuating I should have it for myself. So, I sat down. It was a nice ride.
I have to be at work at 9. I like this start time. 8 is okay, but anything earlier is hard, not so much on me, but on those around me. 9 is best. I’m at my peak (which is a decidedly mild slope) at 10 a.m., so I ease right into prime work time when I arrive at 9.
If I walk out the door at 7:50 I can catch the SF bound train at 8:07. It takes me a little under 15 minutes to walk .7 miles (shut up, it’s uphill), then I’ve got 2 minutes to get to the gate, down the stairs and in line to board. After a relaxing ride through Oakland and under the bay I arrive at the Embarcadero BART station about 25 minutes later, then walk the 10 blocks to work. This even allows for a brief stop at one of the many coffee shops selling hot java and croissants that cry, “Buy me, eat me, enjoy a mouthful of bliss even though I cost twice what I should, despite being freshly made. Oh, and you walked here so those 500 calories don’t count.”
No doubt I’ll push this well-timed schedule to its frayed end, later rationalizing that if I sleep in and catch a later train I can still be on time, I just won’t be able to be tempted by those seductive sweet rolls. A few more slaps of snooze button and I’ll be arriving breathless at work at 9:05, hoping no one notices the coat. I do hope I hold off for a while on this inevitable behavior. I’m enjoying the leisurely walks. And the pastries.
I forgot to say I fell tonight walking down Battery St. after tripping on a piece of raised concrete on the sidewalk. It was one of those long, impossible tumbles that you think will never end, but it does, in a spectacular splat. In this instance my beverage went flying, even turning a few flips for added splash. About 10-12 people stood around me, trying to get to their kids or a cab or their train, and for some reason I expected someone to ask if I was okay. Of course, I was. It was obvious. But no one even stopped. An Asian woman with close cropped hair and thick glasses wandered over to me, squinting, as I picked myself and my bag and my beverage up off the ground. I smiled as she opened her mouth, expecting her to speak, when really she was trying to read the street sign directly over my head.
I stayed on the ground, in the street really, way too long. Walking to the station all I could think about were the lines and the times and the ticket booths that seem so cramped for the employees. It was then I realized why I think about platforms and trains and schedules and transfers. Because the rest of it is so overwhelming, and these first few days have been such a blur. I can’t grasp any of it just yet because I am so deep in it. Logistics, oddly for someone like me, brings calm.
It’s foreign, this kind of self-comfort, but then again it all is.
Don’t rent from Budget. Their trucks are great, but their customer service is the pits. They told me to drop off the truck today at a location that was closed for two weeks. I could go on, but after my Comcast rant I am exhausted. Just trust me on this. Unless you want to get stuck without a clue where to go in a sketchy ass neighborhood.
We stayed at the Best Western Hitching Post in Cheyenne, Wyoming. There were horns all over the wood paneled walls, and big, dark carpets over more wood. The hotel clerk wore a kerchief around her neck with buffalo on it. It was very Twin Peaks, and I loved that place. The room was huge! And super clean. Great place to stay, especially if you have pets. There is a giant field behind the location for roaming, peeing and pooping.
We had nothing but AM/FM radio in the truck. For 2400 miles. It was horrible. I sang a Disney song at full volume at one point in Utah, if I remember correctly, and nearly got broken up with.
The dogs were so good. They did so well, I have to brag on them. By the third day they were miserable, I could tell, but they soldiered through. They hung in there like champs. The first day we got here Tootie tried to jump down off the porch like she had to jump down out of that tall truck. Poor thing, it was pitiful. I’ve got video of them scrambling up into the cab of that truck like billy goats I’ll try to put up later.
The Boyfriend drove that big ass 24′ truck with his Honda attached like a pro. Donner Pass didn’t even make him break a sweat. I drove only 90 of the 2400 miles. Such a wimp. He’s my hero. He owned that truck, I tell you.
I am covered in cuts and bruises from the move. Covered doesn’t adequately describe it, really.
I’ve already walked more in 72 hours than I usually do in a month. This makes me happy.
I’ve got to get my bike fixed.
We have very friendly neighbors. The lady to our left plays violin. The guy to our right has super tall hedges surrounding his domain lending an air of creepy mystery. He has a truck with a pair of plastic balls on it, and a dog who cries long and hard when he leaves.
Safeway is a ripoff.
69 cent pomegranates in the Mission.
Our house doesn’t have air conditioning. Or heat!
There were parrots outside the kitchen window this morning.
I could spend hundreds of dollars every day on things I don’t need but really, really want.
It got foggy in the East Bay at dusk the other night, and it was so surreal. The only fog I’ve seen is at night or in the morning. It looked like there was a fire somewhere nearby that had smoked up the sky.
I miss my family.
Tahoe National Forest smells like pure bliss. It looks awful nice, too.
