Some of my  long-time readers may remember the road-trip to San Francisco Katie and I took last September. We saw so much wonder and beauty at that time, it was all I could really think to blog about. I did, however, leave out one important detail. Andrew, who’s place I found listed on Craigslist San Fran under Shared Accoms., cooked such yummy things for us. I tell you, we were so lucky to have found this immensely creative, interesting, hilarious, and worldly young man! 

Anyway, one morning after waking, Andrew was in his kitchen sautéing up such incredible smelling yumminess and was generous enough to take pity on our drooling mouths and offered us up a little snack before we head out on our daily adventures in the city by the bay (thank you, Journey).

He must have picked this dish up on one of his global jaunts (I think it may have been Venezuela) and man, am I ever glad he did. 

I will share it with you, so you can whip it up, and partake in this meal masterpiece.

Patacones:

If you’re in South America, you’d be calling these Patacones – which are essentially plantain patties fried twice. 

Andrew’s Recipe with Andrea’s Photos…

A message from Andrea: I find the best tomatoes are Campari tomatoes. In my opinion, they’re the most flavourful, versatile, and succulent. Plus, they’re on the vine, so they smell heavenly when you open the pack.

 
Ingredients:
plantains
tomatoes
yellow or white onion
chopped garlic
chicken bouillon or chicken stock

- Cut the plantain into 1-2 in. slices
- Fry the slices in vegetable oil at medium heat

- Remove once golden (about 3 minutes)
- Let dry on a paper towel

- Squish them flat (1/4 – 1/2″ around) with a plate or spatula
- Put back in the oil for another few minutes
- Remove and dry on a paper towel again

For the topping:
- Chop onions, garlic, and tomatoes

For the most flavour, sauté the onions and garlic in the pan for a while, then add the tomatoes.

Another message from Andrea: I like to use my cast-iron pan sometimes when I cook a sauce or simmer tomatoes because the acidity in the tomatoes draws iron from the pan and into your food (good if you haven’t been eating your spinach!). I don’t know about this method EVERY time, so use to your discretion.

- After a few minutes, add chicken bouillon or chicken stock.
- It makes it kinda pasty, and gives it the essential flavour.

- After all ingredients are cooked, how you present your meal is entirely up to you. When we had them, I put the sautéed tomatoes on the side for dipping or for scooping onto each patacone.

One more message from Andrea: At this point I couldn’t be bothered with presentation since I was cooking for me, myself, and I. So I spooned the tomatoes right onto the patacones. This time around my flattening technique was clearly not successful, but that’s what you get when you’re impatient and hungry … and eating alone.

Mmmm

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V

Phew … last post on the San Francisco saga my friends. Because I sometimes suffer from very mild cases of self-diagnosed OCD, I will admit that over the last 6 posts there have been so many things I’ve wanted to discuss, but the thought of breaking up the trail of links connecting the chronological order of my San Fran story makes me very distressed.

I just wanted you to know that.

Shortly after driving through San Simeon we hit the small town of Cambria, California. It was Andrew, our super excellent temporary landlord, who suggested we stop in Cambria for the best Olallieberry pie from Linn’s Bakery on Main St. I have never had Olallieberry pie, nor do I know what an Olallieberry is, but when it comes to eating I don’t really care. We found Linn’s. I got the Ola. muffin, Katie got a banana choc. chip muffin, we had our last big pig-out on the road, then I pointed my bumper northward and started the engine.

We took the 46 to the 101 North and became officially homeward bound.

Now, Katie and I have the most diligent intentions when it comes to eating well…

I just wanted you to know that too…

So we stopped at a little grocery store and stocked up on the following: one cooked chicken, pita wraps, fruit, vegetation, and dip. And, that’s pretty much what we snacked on for the rest of the trip.

We saw some really beautiful agricultural views on this segment of our journey home. Dry shoots of tall, rough grass the colour of golden wheat fields. I felt like we were in a whole new zone and we were driving parallel to the coast just miles to our left. The hills were now reddish. Like soil from P.E.I … russet, you know the colour? It was really pretty actually, especially when it is in the foreground of a sky that’s a perfect, light blue, with whispery, white clouds.

While on the 101 I spotted a sign for the “Hooker Creek” exit. Oh OK, I would be lying if I didn’t think this was potential frolicking zone and obvious full of photo ideas for Katie and I. So I got off. Got off … at the exit? You know? … Off the highway?

Anyway…

We exited and head left down Hooker Creek into the most beautiful hidden little countryside down a dusty, rural road. Who would have thought something so pristine and untarnished would carry an appellation of such sordidness!

We played in the fields like no one was watching, we chewed the long, dry grass, lay in it, got lost in it. The sun was high, and hot, and we could have stayed there forever…. except we didn’t. We ran through the fields, I snapped some photos. Then, we head back to civilization, found the Hooker Creek street sign, snapped some more photos, and we were on our way – Happy to have found this little buried treasure known as Hooker Creek.

We stayed on the 101 North through San Jose then grabbed the I80 shortly after the sun set. By Dixon, California it was 10:30PM and we were tuckered out. We found a hotel off the highway and called it hotel for the night. We didn’t have to spoon, and we crashed, pretty hard. It’s so nice transitioning into a horizontal position after your hips have been in a 90 degree angle in a car seat for hours on end. So we landed, each on our own queen-sized bed and became deeply dormant before you could say: “Can I call you Joe?”

Morning rolled around and northward we continued, this time skipping onto the 113, to the I5 and subsequently realising that this was the last US interstate we’d stay on until reaching Canada thereby signifying the consummative moment of our journey. We were distraught but we carried on like the rolling stones we had become in the face of sorrow.

We came upon the Shasta National Forest around 1PM and Wow. How the hell can I find words to describe how regal and mighty this area was? Oh wait, I guess I just did.

You know, as an aside to all this reflection, I must admit that my vocabulary has really been put to the test while typing all this … there are things I saw that I don’t think I could ever fairly put into the kind of words that truly reflect what I was feeling as I came across them. There were times when standing at the shores of the Pacific Ocean and looking out when I could swear I saw the curve of the earth. When two birds would fly by and I’d envy them for that moment in time, but then be thankful that I have the mental capacity to process and actually FEEL the things my eyes were consuming. The earth is truly a design of such spectacular intricacy and we got a taste of its mighty grace on our little trip south.

This journey transformed me … it transformed us. I’ll never forget it.

Shasta National Forest had some incredible vistas. Mt. Shasta itself was something to behold, it looked marvelous from a distance and became fantastical the closer we got. It even had that perfect little volcano top hat of cloud formation. A perfect photo. It’s beautiful to see because there is not a lot of forestry that stymies your view of it as you get closer to passing by it. We topped the gas tank in the forest, checked the map and submit ourselves to the very real notion of home. We were pretty quiet from this point on.

We stopped for dinner at a dainty, Mexican family restaurant who’s name escapes me, but it was near Medford, Oregon. We took our time eating, then digesting, almost as though we were trying hard to slow down the process of heading home. Finally on the road again, we drove with the heaviness of the setting sun on our left. We watched the sky transform from blue to yellow to orange and watched articles borne of the earth become silhouetted against a benighting sky. The sun ultimately dipped below the horizon and that was the last time we’d see it on this journey. We stopped the car only once after deep night had set in and that was to refuel one last time, and stock up on popsicles, Doritos, and water. Driving snacks, you know…

I had to stop for a quick power nap about an hour before clearing the border because the highway lines were starting to converge. My darling Katie had finally succumb to vehicular slumber and I couldn’t bring myself to bestow upon her the duty of driving.

I pulled off the highway, found a darkened road, and powernapped for a little over an hour. We hit the border by 4:45AM, I dropped Katie off and I was in my own bed by 6:15AM. I didn’t have time to come down from the high of a road trip that just ended in the kind of way that felt almost precipitous before my eyes closed and I was comatose. I’m sure my mind was still swirling, but the rest of my body would have nothing to do with consciousness and the battle was quick. I was out.

As I type this, our trusty Map of Western United States is taped on the wall to my right. It’s full of highlighted lines, the writing of our ‘Travel Agent’, unconventional folds, wrinkles, and rips – A treasure that tells its own story.

It took me a while to get back into “real life” mode – Both of us actually. I see Katie honours our trip in her MSN and Facebook statuses whenever the memory of it conjures in her mind. I’d say only those who have made the trip down the coast would truly appreciate how monumental it can be. Mind you, you have to be open to it. You’d have to be the type to let it in I guess. For some it may just be another road ahead … but for me … well it’s hard to explain … I think I’m just going to let myself be at a loss for words.

© Andrea. C

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The End.

Hi. Sorry.

As usual I’ve become quite preoccupied with life and have thus got behind in my posting and have left Parts 1, 2, 3, and 4 a little lonely and unconcluded. So here we recommence…

Pt Uno | Pt Due | Pt Tre | Pt Quattro

On the fresh, late-Monday morning of September 15th, Katie and I bid farewell to our super excellent temporary landlord, packed ourselves snuggly into my car, and set south – Not before visiting the Golden Gate Bridge first, however.

Twice we were given specific advice from Andrew and our ‘Travel Agent’ back home regarding finding the park below the GGB for optimal photographic views however in the moment of beholding the bridge while traversing it, checking out the landscape, and talking amongst ourselves, we missed the opportunity, I believe, to find this little spot. We did find the communal tourist patch just after the bridge, and gamboled with the other globetrotters.

I must add that it was at this area where I misjudged a curb marker and bestowed upon my car its first disfigurement actually caused by me. I was mortified. Then, I was nearly run over.

© Andrea. C

© Andrea. C

We paused from a decent perspective and ogled the vermilion marvel then snapped some photos and re-crossed the bridge heading South toward our target: State Route 1 … aka HWY 1 … aka famous for running along some of the most beautiful coastlines in the world. We weren’t really sure how far south we’d go, which was pretty exciting in itself. Judging by the day we aimed to be back in Vancouver for, we figured we could travel another 2ish days, which became exactly what we did.

I must say, I was blown away enough by the coastlines along HWY 101 before San Francisco and in my tenderfootedness figured that the road further south would be much of the same scenery. I was very wrong. The moment we hit the coast in San Mateo I witnessed a most beautifully coloured ocean that up until that moment I’d only seen on TV or in magazines. It was aquamarine and fused with a kaleidoscope of hues depending on the depth of the ocean floor, the rocks, texture of the shore, and how high up we were above sea-level. It shut us up to the point where all we could muster were disjointed murmurings of only adjectives that must have been completely incoherent to each other, but at the same time we knew what the other was saying.

Down we went through San Mateo, and among the dignified elegance of the redwood trees in Big Basin Redwoods State Park … Santa Cruz … Pacific Grove … and finally made Monterey our resting place that night.

Monterey is a beautiful coastal community that kind of took me by surprise. As of 2007, their population was a little over 30,000 and that size makes sense for this place. It would be too overwhelming with more people, but would feel empty with any less. Our ‘Travel Agent’ back home worked diligently to find us suitable accommodations for the soir and definitely delivered through Hosteling International. The only other time I stayed in a hostel was in New York City, just on the outskirts of Harlem. Although very eclectic in structure and design, the walls of my private room were painted Pepto Bismol pink and the mattress was composed of formed metal hangers and Q-Tip cotton, I’m pretty sure.

For $43/night, Katie and I shacked up in an all-female room with 6 bunkbeds in one of the more beautiful hostels I imagine are out there. Certainly better decorated, warmer, cozier, and cleaner than the one in NYC. The kitchen was huge and well-equipped with free pancakes every morning before 10AM. The common area is full of books, magazines, a piano, and acoustic guitars. The couches are many and big and comfortable. The location is within a 10 minute walk to the wharf and a bunch of interesting restaurants and little shops. It also looks very electrifying at night with spotlights and string lights highlighting the dark-toned primary colours of some of the buildings.

The ONLY time we regretted shacking up in a communal room was when one of our bunk mates started emitting the kind of noise that can only be compared to the sound of 15 jackhammers breaking up concrete. I don’t even think I’ve heard a man snore that loud. Lucky her being in such a deep slumber, but the rest of us lay awake staring at each other with the asphyxiating reality that none of us were going to fall asleep again descending over us like prickly wool blanket. This is where our hostel came out on top in the thoughtful department … they actually had ear plugs at the front desk that worked on the honour system. So Katie hopped up, took matters into her own hands, and snatched us each a pair for .50. This at least brought the decibels down by maybe 7 jackhammers so to get rid of the other 8 I had to find my happy place and bury my head into my pillow.

Still, we woke up rested and excited for pancakes. Oh Monterey … where the feet of Otis Redding, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and The Who once stood at the Monterey Pop Festival. The home of Monterey Jack Cheese, and to writers John Steinbeck, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Henry Miller at one point in time.

We were on the road again by 11:00 that morning, anxious to be rejuvenated by the breathtaking coastlines that were slowly becoming our recreational drug of choice.

We hit Big Sur later that afternoon and paused to take in the enormous Bixby Bridge and amused ourselves with a stranded road cone. It was deep within the mountain range after the bridge that we witnessed the horrifying, the bizarre, the peculiar, and adorable all rolled into one.

Poor Katie, tired and carsick in the Coast Ranges, was trying her darnedest just to pass out and forget about her damage. I was trying so hard to take the turns slowly and gracefully, but it was arduous … the road dipped, veered sharp lefts, and then rights, and Katie was hurtin’. I administered her a Gravol … or two … and we continued on our way toward San Simeon. There were several sections within the mountains where the apex corners had hair pin angles and the going was slow. To our surprise we came upon a convertible Sebring doing no more than 10 km/h with hazards flashing. I figured she was just extra vigilant but when I followed the direction the driver and her passenger’s heads were facing I saw something that caused my heart to turn over in my chest. There on the road, in the oncoming traffic lane, running as fast as his little legs could carry him, was a one-eyed, chihuahua-mix with a parched, colourless tongue flicking in and out of his mouth who was obviously fighting a dehydrated helplessness and couldn’t stop running.

I gasped, and Katie startled out of her pseudo-slumber, “Oh my God!” she exclaimed in unison with my “Holy Fuck!” “Awwwww!” We cried right before I announced that I was going to catch that dog. The Sebring must have buckled under the pressure of holding up a convoy of cars that trudged up the mountain unaware of why everything was being held up. This put me in the lead and I brought my speed down to under 10km/h. There was no way I was ever going to leave that poor dog. I drove alongside him with my window down, talking to him and calling him, and whenever it seemed like he was interested in surrendering, I’d stop, open my door – but he’d run. Over the next 15 minutes we drove, clenched in the grips of terror as he was nearly crushed under the tires of oncoming, unsuspecting drivers four times. I’d honk, flail my arms, and they’d go from confused to slamming on their brakes, to throwing their hands to their mouths in horror, until our little friend came out from the front of their bumpers and they carried on down the mountain, while he continued his expedition of consternation.

Eventually my body could not physically deal with his near-death experiences any longer and I spotted an area on the shoulder of the oncoming traffic lane and decided to veer him off the road with my car while hoping that no car would round the corner and side swipe my little Katie! It worked and he followed along my car. For a brief moment panic set in and he tried to escape through a fence only to be unable to squeeze through. I kept talking to him in the same tone as I had been while driving beside him, and sat myself down on the gravel. He was hesitantly curious but so tired. He took a few steps toward me, then more back, until finally the steps toward me took the lead. I threw him bits of granola bar and lured him slowly toward me. The moment his moistureless tongue touched my palm he yielded to his fatigue and submit himself to me. I scooped him up and brought him into my car. His heart beating so fast, and his body shook like jello in an earthquake. He was soft, hot, and had one-eye.

To our surprise, a truck drove up to park beside us. “Did you get him?” They asked? “Yes, finally.” “Well look what we have…” and up toward the open window came his twin. “We have his sister.” The driver chuckled. “They were both running up the mountain and she was easier to catch, he just kept running.” A sibling reunion followed as they licked and nuzzled each other. “They’re from San Simeon, about forty minutes further south.” The passenger said. “Their tags show a local area code, so we can go into town and call the number if you want.” “Sure.” We both answered as I handed that poor, little dog over to the driver. I couldn’t leave them without snapping a photo. It was just too memorable of a situation to not freeze forever. I should have got their number to call and follow up, but I didn’t. They’re road workers for the California Department of Transportation so I’m going to see what I can find…

© Andrea. C

We continued our journey south through the ranges and eventually hit San Simeon. We passed them on the side of the road while on their cell, honked, waved, and carried on.

It took us a while to recover. Myself, my heart was still somersaulting in my chest then my body calmed slowly from the adrenaline rush and we came up to a vista that we desperately needed, snapped some photos, and I felt human again.

Not too long after this, we touched the Pacific ocean in California for the first time…

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Tomorrow …. homeward bound.

Pt. I
Pt. II
Pt. III

The day is now Sunday, September 14th. The main purpose of today is to visit Alcatraz. Our tour is scheduled to ship out at promptly 2:50PM from Pier 33 and we get to the piers around noon. More walking around we do. We have lunch … or dessert … whatever it is when you eat crepes with Nutella and bananas? Anyway …

One little kooky thing that must be mentioned is while following the line-up to board the boat, you are directed by the line-up attendants to stand in front of a big, blurry backdrop of the island. The line is literally held up for this seemingly imperative shot. Katie and I stood in front of the camera, droopy-eyed and wondered aloud how much we were going to have to pay for this 5×7 image when our tour was over. Once your photo is taken you are instructed to proceed to the transport of humans up ahead. “Next group please … stop right there .. smile! Okay, please move ahead.” There is no way around the photo shoot unless you’re feeling particularly mobile and want to test your skills at the velvet rope hurdle competition. This would result in several glares from guests who would surely be jealous, and a possible extraction from the line-up for being so delinquent.

I think that stuff is so silly! Especially when you see that they’re charging $25 for two 5×7 glossy photographs.

Okay wait .. I’m being a total party pooper right now.

So we board the Alcatraz cruise and are instantly bombarded with these strange flies that seem to have sticky legs. You look around the top deck and every person around us has at least one fly stuck to either their nose, back of neck, jacket, or scalp. It was THE strangest thing. We had to be extra vigilant to converse through clenched teeth, and to laugh with lips sealed. There was no way either one of us was going to ingest one of those sticky-legged flies so we kept our mouth movements to a minimum.

Once upon Alcatraz soil we stuck around for a brief overview which included the history of the Native American Occupation of Alatraz in 1969, six years after Alcatraz Penitentiary closed its doors for good. To this day you can still find graffiti and structural damage from fires set during this period, which is pretty neat-o.

After the presentation we set off on our own to comb the island. I must state through observation that I was both surprised and impressed with how true-to-form the buildings still are. There is little to no structural maintenance being performed on any of the buildings, but by the same token they are all closed off for safety. I would have liked to explore the ruins of the Warden’s Home or the Industries Buildings but they are so battered that I probably would have ended up falling through the ground and getting stuck somewhere beside the remains of one of the missing escapees.

The only buildings on the island that are open for tourists are Building 64 (otherwise known as the apartments, or the barracks – where the guards would reside) and the Cellhouse. Building 64 has been completely overhauled to appeal to tourists. There are two theatre rooms, a book store, and a souvenir shop. From here you are able to escape (get it?!) into the quarters area however all room entrances are completely boarded up. This hallway was very eerie though, especially with the boards on the entrance to the rooms. Some pics will follow below.

It was kind of a shame to see this building be turned into something so touristy though, I kind of wish there was more history reflecting off the walls throughout the entire building, with maybe a tourist shop erected on the grounds where the ship docks. Walking through the barracks tunnels was pretty neat, but it lost its appeal once you came out into the souvenir shop.

The Cellhouse is the most maintained building on the premises next to Building 64. The Cellhouse also tells the greatest story of what life would have been like as a prisoner on Alcatraz. The cells are rowed in three levels. The only level open to tourists is the ground floor. From here you can grab an audio tour and wander through the cell blocks and learn about the things you’re passing by. Many of the cells involved in some sort of historical event have been kept as is. The laundry area has been staged to reflect the look of the times, and some of the cells are rigged up to show how Alcatraz evolved through the years. With the allowance of a 2-channel radio in each cell, then to allowing paints and other creative mediums, to subscriptions to newspapers, etc.

All in all it’s definitely worth it to take the tour, then when it’s finished you have a greater appreciation of the chronicles of Alcatraz. Wander around as much as you can though, the structures are definitely something to behold. They tell the greatest history of struggle and tribulation. If only the walls could talk…

After Alcatraz we took the MUNI (street car) down toward Chinatown and Little Italy. Of all the Little ‘Italies’ I’ve been in, this one is by far the most bright, lively, warm (as in psychologically), and with cafes that really have that Italian feel. Chinatown was also interesting, although more what I’ve come to expect from Chinatowns (NYC is excluded, that was OTH!). Many interesting grocers, smells, sights, and sounds vented around us. One of our stops was inside City Lights Bookstore which is just on the outskirts of Chinatown on Columbus Ave. This bookstore had a lot of character, many nooks and crannies, and is beautifully laid out. It gives off a very humble feel but is actually quite iconic within San Francisco.

After passing through Little Italy the sun had set and a chill roiled around us. We walked quite a ways down to Market Square, to the Powell BART station and made our way back to Andrew’s. Our day closing in on us, but our minds rich with knowledge and history from Alca. It MUST be checked out if you’re in San Francisco. This was our last night in Andrew’s place, and subsequently our last night in the Bay area. We spent the night getting high, drinking wine, and talking about high school sometimes in French, sometimes in some other language that only we seemed to understand … we took a walk to the corner store in the middle of the night for chips … we listened to music loud. It was a grandiose conclusion to three wonderful days spent in what was at that time, the climax of our trip.

Tomorrow we hit the road again … to travel another 250 miles south, before we turn the car, and face it North … to head home.

Les photos de jour:

© Andrea. C

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Chinatown:

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La poca Italia:

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Pt. I is here.
Pt. II is here.

There is one thing I’ve missed mentioning and that’s how significant our driving music was on this journey. You know, there’s something to be said for having a wide open sky in front of you, your destination is known but not certainly your final one … Looking up, birds are framed momentarily in the opening of the sunroof … The highway twists and curves and the sprawling vistas are more beautiful than anything you could have ever imagined. Music would have become our soundtrack during those moments. When you are caught up in your own moving biography and you imagine how your story would be told. How could you possibly describe in words what your senses are experiencing. The touch of the warm, heavy wind swirling around your body; the smell of the ocean air; the sight of the panorama in front of you; the taste of the ‘not hot’ coffee; and the sound of music. It really doesn’t matter what you’re playing, but if the riffs are right, the beat is heavy enough, the volume is maxed, the melody rises and falls with the hills, and it makes your toes tap – then your body really has no choice but to feel transported, caught in a surreal warp of teetering on the brink of physical awareness vs insubstantial utopia. Oh and, it’s that much more amazing if you have your feet resting on the side-view mirror and one arm hangs out – this is if you’re the passenger btw and obvs.!

As mentioned in Pt. II our first Saturday started off in Half Moon Bay. After that, Andrew dropped us off at the Powell St. BART station which basically put us smack dab in the middle of all the action in San Fran. From here we caught the Powell/Mason cable car line which took us about 2 blocks from Fisherman’s Wharf heading west .. facing Alcatraz. The cable cars are such intricate little contraptions. It’s just as worth it to watch them be operated as it is to ride one.

Andrea + Katie’s first San Francisco experience as seen through the eyes of your little blogger:

(Click on any of the images for full size)

His name is BoyBoy, son of BrownBrown and PopPop

We had every intention of hitting Alcatraz that day but when we got to Pier 33 – where the ship launches from  – tours were sold out, so we purchased tickets for Sunday and head out to adventure around the piers and Embarcadero Street. Pier 39 is where all the action is. It reminds me a lot of a Disney Village, or a Canada’s Wonderland-type thing. It’s hustling and bustling with tourists, souvenir shops, restaurants, ice cream, crepes, poster shops, etc. I think my favourite part of Pier 39 was the sea lion colony that congregates on platforms floating on the water. It was the most bizarre phenomenon I’ve ever seen but it was also very fascinating. Just from observing them for about half an hour I realised that each platform must hold a pride whereby one “king” remains to ward off any trespassers. For the most part they were all calmly basking under the hot sun but once a sea lion would try to spring up and visit … or body surf … the king would make his displeasure known and a verbal showdown would commence. The kings themselves were about the size of a grizzly bear, it was actually astounding. It should also be mentioned that once an entire platform barked and the wind flowed the right way, your poor nostrils would capture the most horrid stench that can only be compared to one million abandoned crab crates left in the sun. For the rest of the day we each suffered from PSS (post-stench syndrome) and it would come and go in little surprises, catching us completely off guard. “There it is again! Smell that? We must be near sea lions.”

Shots from around Fisherman’s Wharf and Pier 39:

After hanging around the water for a few hours, Katie and I set off to see Lombard Street. The street of hairpin turns, and fancy homes. This was the steep, uphill haul that petrified Katie aka ‘I had no sleep last night’ for approximately 53 seconds until I told her there was no other option unless I threw her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. We were glad we walked it though because it gave us a chance to pick out all the homes we are going to live in at some point between now and the infinite days within our dreams. In all seriousness though, some of the architecture we meandered past was truly something.

Behold!

And … Lombard Street

le view de Lombard…

And so Saturday grows to a close. I’ve learned to listen to my shoulders more, and they’re telling me to remove my hands from the keyboard before they seize up and give me a Quasimodo.

Tomorrow .. Alcatraz and further south we go!

Here’s Pt. I if you need to brush up.

Unrelated: Let me begin by saying I believe that Vancouver has entered fall now. I’d love to say it’s only because the trees are turning beautiful shades of harvest and how the air has a crisp, cool touch, but it’s the rain too. Right now I’m not really minding it though – and for the most part I usually don’t. It sounds nice outside my window. I’ve got my fireplace on, and the baseboard heater had to go on a bit too because my floor was freeze-o. But this now means I’m getting into cozy hunkering mode. It means I’m going to bring out my big, wool blanket and lay it on my sofa. It means I’m going to be drinking more tea that smells like cinnamon, and probably spending more time in warm, fuzzy clothing. It means I’m going to be playing Rickie Lee Jones more, probably some Van Morrison too, oh and anything with Terence Trent D’Arby.

Related: So … when Pt. I left off we were in Willits, California which was say 2-3 hours away from San Francisco. I should have mentioned earlier that it wasn’t until just before Willits that our accommodations were actually confirmed for our San Francisco stay that night. It’s so fun to function under discombobulation. See, since our route was so neat and tidy and timed we had plenty of room for spontaneity and things going wrong, or not going at all. Basically, I had done a Craigslist search for temp accommodations in the San Francisco area. That’s when we came across Andrew’s offer of one room, with a “very comfortable IKEA futon” for $40/night, or $20/each. How the hell can you top that? Three nights for $60 each? Hammer time.

So we confirmed everything via text message and we were even invited to an art show that evening if we came in on time. What a wonderful score we found in Andrew. The best temp accommodations two girls could have asked for. We actually shacked up in Downtown Oakland, pretty close to the Bay Bridge. It was good though because we got a taste of Oakland and San Francisco when we may not have ventured into Oakland if we’d been sleeping in San Fran. In Oakland at 8:30PM on a Saturday night the streets are destitute save for a lone walker and someone’s hair weave. We passed that thing so many times on our way home from the BART station, it was like our breadcrumb. “OK look, there’s the weave, so we turn left here.”

8:30PM Saturday

Some thoughts on Oakland:

Our first introduction to Oakland was delivered like this via Andrew: “Oh, if anyone you pass on the street says hi to you, say hi back. You have to acknowledge them. It’s not like everywhere else where you don’t make eye contact at night. Here, if you ignore people, they don’t like that.”

Personally I welcomed the friendliness. Everyone deserves it, right? I’ve never encountered a place where it is an unwritten law that you greet people (except for maybe in Eastern Canada). It’s almost like the idea of social kindness is enforced like any other governing rule. You don’t get that in Vancouver and in a lot of major cities. Crime rates, stereotypes, and just the general angst of a big city have taken that away. Oakland doesn’t feel like that. Regardless if you’re in a business suit, or wearing the same clothes for the last 3 weeks – everyone says hi to everyone. I remember one particular time on the BART, this woman was aiming her cell phone camera in our direction and taking photos. I looked at Katie and asked her if she noticed. The woman put her cell phone down and said “I’m not taking a photo of you on purpose. I’m looking at the interesting pattern in your backrest, it looks like a vagina.” So we each look to the worn, and dilapidated backrest between us, with the fraying stitching and cracked plastic seam and sure enough, ya, I guess it did look somewhere along those lines. “See?” She said flipping her camera around, “It’s just your shoulders, the rest is the backrest. Don’t worry.” After that she noticed we had our map out and she asked us where we were from. We told her Vancouver, and she asked us if we needed help finding where we were going. “We’re just heading home, I think we’ll be fine.” “Okay,” she said “just let me know if you need directions.” We got off at our stop, and so did she, meeting one of her friends on the platform. She shouted a “Good luck!” to us and we waved “Thanks” back. Up on the street we were making our way home and she passed us on her bike with her friend. “Are you sure you’re good?” she said with raised eyebrows and a smile. “Ya, we are, thanks again.” And she was off around the corner.

I think I can count on one hand how many times in my lifetime I’ve had that happen to me, let alone on the downtown streets of Oakland, California. There was not a single moment when either of us felt concerned or vulnerable. Media and stereotypes really pave the way for an unintentional fear, which is silly. I mean, it’s good to be on your guard and prepared, I’m an advocate for that, it’s just when you open your eyes and look past what the masses tell you, there are always gems in every society. Sometimes the society becomes the gem, and this was the case with Oakland. We may have been in a “bad” city, but even the bad part says hi to you. Besides, it feels good to be around genuine people who accept their struggles and somehow figure out a way to keep themselves going. You don’t find pretentiousness in Oakland, if anything you kind of get the feeling that it’s spending a lot of time trying to reinvent itself. We’re rooting for it, that’s for sure.

Oh and the BART system is really impressive. I recommend it as a primary means of travel for coverage around the entire Bay Area. Forget your car, really, you don’t need it. It’s a very clean and well maintained system of transportation. Not to mention the fact that the seats are extremely cushy!

We love BART:

Andrew has a deep love for Oakland and after spending days waking up and going to sleep in it, we understood why. Besides, where else can you find a Big Poppa? Seriously.

The neighbourhood:

Our super excellent temporary landlord took us to an interesting Mexican restaurant in Mission on the night of our arrival. Together Andrew and I dealt with the fires that were erupting in our mouths with each bite. We wiped our tears, vowed we were finished, and kept eating. What an experience.

Andrew’s place is also worth mentioning. Outside you see Victorian architecture. Inside it has high ceilings, tons of sunlight, and it’s biiiig with a proportionate and bright kitchen. Andrew’s artsy and wacky – a perfect complement to Katie and I, and he loves music. His living room is retro perfection and simplistically calming, even with the troubled fern by the window. With speakers in every room we’d play music till all hours of the night drinking wine and talking in broken Parisian French like a bunch of ole winos. Andrew scored big points after being able to converse with us and purchasing his wine in bulk from an actual winery. He’s pretty fly for a 25-year old white guy!

Saturday morning Andrew invited us to come along with him to La Nebbia Winery in Half Moon Bay, the winery he visits when his stock needs replenishing. It’s south of San Francisco past San Mateo and Redwood City. The drive there is really beautiful, through the hills and trees. The land the winery sits on is loverly.

Regard:

We must commend Andrew for his compensation (to us anyway) for the broken right turning signal. He’s such a card.

I suppose that’s good for today, I’ve been writing this since last night and the right tip of my clavicle seems to be poking through my shoulder from sitting in a chair that’s meant for an elementary school lunchroom. I must rest up.

Tomorrow I will commence the San Francisco part of our journey.

I’m back. Back as of 51 hours ago. Back as of 51 hours ago after a 17 hour haul home. Back after the most incredible road trip I have experienced to this day. I haven’t experienced many road trips. Well wait, I road-tripped to the Maritimes with my mom and brother 17 years ago. That was wonderful, but I was just a passenger … a teenager. This time around I was the planning, the ideas, the highways, the sights, and sounds, and smells of heading South. I was IN the plan. I spent hours going over my route with a friend who had done the same route a couple weeks earlier. We had every stop… every landmark… every town scheduled down to our ETA. Which is JUST the way Andrea likes it. That portion: nice and structured, works well with sporadic OCD. It was perfect. That way the rest can be as disorganized and spontaneous as we feel like having it. So, we followed the itin., and the ETAs were usually within 1-2 hours of the estimated ETAs. I was gleeful.

It helps that I had the best travel partner too. Katie ‘I love Maxwell‘ B, we’ll call her – well Katie just went with the flow of things. Even flowing with those neuroses of mine: My scheduled fill-ups at exactly 1/4 of a tank, the departure times, the book stores, the hunts for a bar that knew how to make a Monte Cristo, the beatnik coffee shops, the hippie towns. Even the steep streets in San Francisco. I could see the panic behind her eyes but she climbed anyway to get to Lombard Street.

She frequently suffered from this strange bout of insomnia even after “dropping” two Gravols. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’d look back at her sprawled along the back seat of my car with this look of ‘deep sleep’ on her face, but then moments later she’d pop up and say “I’m fucked, I can’t sleep. There’s something wrong with me,” then climb back up to the front with me. Then there was the time she never crawled into bed when we were staying in that room in downtown Oakland (more on that later) two of the three nights we were there. I never knew what happened to her … Ahem …

Okay…

We hit the Oregon Coast in Lincoln City after traveling the I-5 from the border. By this point we were going on a shitty sleep in the trunk of my hatch at a laundromat with a dark parking lot. But, the weather was now perfect. The sky was a crisp blue, free of any traces of clouds. The sun was high and warm, and the breeze from the ocean hit the back of our necks and threw our hair around. We stopped at the first vista point and took in the Pacific Ocean. With all the energy we could muster we stood at the fence and watched the waves crash into the shore and just kept saying “Holy shit, look at that.” Eventually our energy levels depleted and we retreated back to my car to have our first nap in the sun, right by the ocean. The spot where, in my opinion, our journey had officially begun.

I’m going to break my posts up over the next few days to not overwhelm my precious readers with a verbose overload of a week’s worth of stories and photos.

This part will take you up to the coast on Hwy 101, past the Oregon dunes, through Redwood National Park, and finally a little town we stopped in on the way. Next post = San Francisco .. and so on, and so south. Click on any of the pics to see the large ver.

See? You’d swear she’s sleeping, right? Ya, that’s what I thought too! Good faker.

Redwood National Park. Where I come from … we don’t have trees this tall.

Couldn’t get it all.

Am I a poet, and I don’t know it?

Some shots of Willits, California. A little beatnik, hippie town that was suggested we check out. After filling up on some new tunes from the CD/Movie Rental/Bakery store, and eating wheat + gluten-free muffins from the below coffee shop, and all organic, free range burritos from a little closet-sized joint, we hit the road again, next stop – San Francisco.

Until the next time …

It’s currently 10:41PM on Thursday night. At promptly 1AM early Thursday morning, Katie and I head for the hills. We did it. We’re on our way to San Francisco.

If it weren’t for the fact that as of 4:49 this morning Katie and I slept in the trunk of my car in the parking lot of Jim’s Laundromat in Seattle, then hit the road again at 6:47 this morning, then alternated sleeping, then parked the car at the first vista lookout when we finally hit the coast, and slept again. Me, with my feet hanging out the window. .. if it weren’t for all that, I’d be writing a lot more.

But, we’ve recently each taken a Gravol to hopefully counteract the abundance of rotten coffee we’ve been drinking to take us to where we are right now and it is time to close my laptop before my eyes close first.

It’s been about 32 hours since I was last in a bed and right now, this creaky Travelodge bed is the most heavenly thing I’ve lay my body on in a long time.

With that, I say good night. Safe travels to us, sweet dreams to you. I’ll write more once we arrive at our destination. Less than 300 miles to go.

Pics, stories, adventures to come.