Yesterday accounted for a technically more "ambitious" day than the day prior. It involved a gender division-to-conquer (and/or coast-placidly across a corrugated crystal ocean) approach. Andrew and Tom headed towards the nearest impossibly steep thing. Lisa and I headed to Tomales Bay for a kayak excursion. We were originally planning to take two kayaks, but apparently the fact that I have never had the pleasure of capsizing in the gelid brine more or less disqualifies me as "safe person to allow out on her own." At peril of having to demonstrate my questionable abilities to hop out and back into a kayak in the middle of the water, I quite happily agreed to share a double. Although it was one of those kind that are open and sit atop the surface, I spared myself far more saturation from the occasional paddle spray (ok, in my case, the bucketing of half the ocean in every paddle). Blessedly, my coat is a-ok in water and they rent out wetsuits with the kayaks.
It was an exquisite day: calm and crisp. The waters were bereft of fauna, although abundant with flora in every hue of rust and rubicund. Trees gnarled through chiseled stone; some had rooted in the cliffs above and grown reaching towards the water beneath. Murmurations of flapping wings across the way, ruffling the stillness of a thoroughly grazed hillscape. And the susurrous liquid of kayaks and paddles breaking the glassy ocean surface. As somebody who is constantly aware of time, it is a feat to lose it quite thoroughly. I'm pleased to say time melted and ebbed during our trip. Had we been out for a day, an hour, or ten minutes? I couldn't say. There was only us, the water, and the sun flickering atop the sea.
Andrew, for his part, broke Tom's bike and may have dented his physical reserves for good measure. We don't know the full details, since no strava uploads are possible during this trip (I anticipate that the entirety of New Year's Eve in Bellingham will be Andrew catching up with all of his GPS workouts), but it involved going up and down a lot. Tom came back earlier than Andrew. He seemed perhaps a bit sore. Andrew does that to people.
We were originally going to meet at Nick's Cove, a small chic restaurant in clam country, but decided against it when Lisa and I were informed that (1) Andrew was still out riding when we were almost there, (2) Nick's Cove would be having an hour long wait for lunch anyways. In search of nutrition, we wound our way through to Petaluma, erstwhile capital of global chicken exports. After some faltering, we happened upon the "cute little downtown area" which was admittedly cute and not nearly so little. There we plonked ourselves at the nearest "cute little" restaurant that advertised itself. We actually had intended to go to the restaurant behind the wine bar we ended up in, but the proprietor promised us salads and sandwiches. Sated on salad, we stayed and gawked at tourists and townies through the window.
When all adventures were had, the quartet reconvened in San Rafael to find. After a sun soaked day and late lunches, we returned to a movie rental and a Salad Niçoiseish (with the fish on the side).
Not sated on our driving from yesterday, we'll be hitting the road again today, off to Monterey for some historical and aquatic immersion. When I was nearly seventeen, I road tripped down to Santa Cruz with a couple of my good friends. It was an interesting trip involving the inevitable teenage soap operas and road-trip-movie experiments. I nearly died hiking onto the top of a really cool rock at midnight, a friend got engaged to an old boyfriend to the chagrin of her then-current boyfriend, we played Time Crisis 3 a lot at the Boardwalk, we hit several beaches, and we camped uncomfortably in some state park or other (cementing my general bias towards camping). We also visited Monterey for a day, cruising down Cannery Row and Fisherman's Wharf. The place made enough of an impression, I'll be glad to overlay my senses from a second life span atop for comparison.
And I have a book, so I'm ready for this car trip thing. Hopefully there will be no awkward fights about other people's romantic engagements this time! Also, hopefully we'll have more to eat than a huge loaf of bread and maybe something other than the South Park Movie soundtrack for the entire trip...
Sock Francisco Chronicles, Book Two, episode five: There be Dragons and Monsters in the Waters East of Eden
Monterey! The land of Steinbeck, gnarled beaches besot by the reeling whitecap of waves against the shore, and the aquarium! On a scale of "not ambitious" to "ambitious", I would suppose that our departure time stacked up slightly between zoo and kayaking - an estimated road hitting of nine o'clock seeping into the subsequent half hour during a full breakfast. The road is as long and winding as any of song, but the view exquisite; a good thing, since there came a final tipping point (of only slightly literal nature) in which my road trip literary libations were no longer salutary and had to be paused.
The aquarium was crowded, with a line reaching out beyond the curve of the sidewalk, but it lapped up its onrush of visitors with ease. One could easily become lost in the suspended worlds of a waves beneath. Any single display was worth a day's quiet bemusement. Lisa mentioned that if any science fiction illustrator wanted inspiration, the aquarium was indubitably the ideal destination. It provides an instant uncanny valley between telluric and ethereal. Most especially the jelly fish, which were the feature of their own Austin Powersesque Jelly Experience.
The * Jelly Experience* seemed more like the bad trip you are just slightly to young to have had with a minor jelly motif. Christmas lights, groovy music, wild paint jobs, and jelly themed chandeliers, "livened" up the tanks of fulgid frayed chiffon. Upstairs, these minor medusas were given a slightly more sober display that best befit them: darkness faintly burnished by beaming blooms; glints of light like jewelry sinking; threads trailing and tangling, a sewing kit upended into the waters. Each jelly becoming ensnared in the infinite cobwebs of the surrounding fish. I felt a vertigo staring into the swarm of undulating buttons and pulsing water.
It was interesting to me how many cameras led the way throughout the aquarium. Clearly, I took my own photos, but it seemed at times that perhaps we were all rushing so quickly to commemorate what we had seen, that we failed to bother actually experiencing in the first place. People popped in and out with iPhones snapping faster than any turtle. Others argued and kibitzed about their settings. So hard to break that spell and simply stand, agog at the alien world that teems throughout the earth.
Of course, it was crowded enough that simply standing still was hardly an easy task, but I did my best to let myself avoid the rushes, and simply stand at the edge of a tank, letting my eyes find their own focus. Occasionally my eye drifted from the primary experience, to the echo of vicarious experience: watching children and adults make their own discoveries at the same watching-place. Sometimes, I giggled. Sometimes, I sighed. Sometimes, I pointed for nobody in particular.
The aquarium also did have hands-on tanks to break that digital reverie. Droves of kids and handfuls of adults flocked about the sides, their hands greedily extended into the frigid saline... waiting for a bat ray to brush by with its silky pectorals unfolding under eager finger tips, a hint of smile on its face. Anemones sucked and shied from pokes. Fish skittered underneath. And yes, there was a hand washing station.
Despite several close calls, we managed not to irrevocably lose each other and departed together to wander the beaches of Monterey, strewn with furry rocks that revealed themselves to be seals laying idle upon closer glance. And finally, we headed from the boundlessness of the ocean, to the finity of the car for the two and a half hour Odyssey back to San Francisco. I tried my hand at reading again, and enjoyed a good hour before the light lost me.
I'm reading Telegraph Alley by Michael Chabon. This was actually a gift from Zach to Andrew, but Andrew had already read it on the kindle. I gluttonously consumed Red Sorghum, the book I had brought, within the first few days of the trip. So, it is my book now. Or at least, my loan. I rather enjoy it, pretentious blurbs name-dropping Joyce every second breath aside. Chabon uses words I like in ways I like and he has a piercing insight into his characters that is dwarfed only by his affection for them, despite their quite mockable idiosyncracies. I'm only a quarter of the way through, so opinions are subject to change, but it's been a nice discovery so far.
Today is our final day, and will stay closer to home, with visitors coming our way for a change. Brunch with the Wrights. Tea Gardening with one of Andrew's oldest friends. UPS store and video return are first on the agenda. And of course, Andrew has found some stairs he can run up and down in his ongoing quest to make his heart explode.
Sock Francisco Chronicles, Book Two, episode six: The Industrial Pagoda and Titters in the Tea Garden.
10-9-8-7... New Year's Eve beckons us to take the leap across time, but briefly first we stop to remember the penultimate day of 2013 and our final full excursion in Sock Francisco. It was a day to be courted instead of to go journeying. First Daddy Dubya and Andrew's grandpa planned to come meet us for "brunch" (nominally at 10:30). Next we were to meet up with Andrew's old school chum, Holman around 2:00 p.m. We planned our house keeping tasks around this. According to my google calendar invite, for instance, our first stop of the day would be the UPS store at 8:30, after which Andrew and I would walk to the 16th Avenue tiled steps, after which Andrew would squeeze in some particularly masochistic run and shower before the (W)right invasion. Needless to say, "we" did not make it to the UPS store promptly at 8:30, so much as less-promptly at 9:00. And we made the stairs some thirty minutes following that. I sent Andrew off immediately upon sighting tile on the horizon with precatory proclamations about the duration of his run. Having no workout to squeeze into a small span of time, I subsequently wandered up and down the stairs for a while in a leisurely desultory manner.
Quite the project. Purportedly inspired by similar stair projects in Brazil, this was brought about by some confluence of neighborhood interests, and sustained by volunteers.
Because (W)right time lags are genetic, Mr. (W)right's somewhat belated return home was perfectly complemented by the later tardiness of our fellow (W)rightlemen who made their fashionable appearance a cushy twenty minutes behind the calendar hour. Our repast was grand and only slightly french, despite the crepiness of the nominal location (not, one should note, *Crepe Expectations* nor *Statutory Crepe* despite all previous brainstorms). After feeding our gullets, Andrew proposed feeding our souls, so we hopped a car to the De Suvero exhibit that's been gadding around town.
As a mammoth Di Suvero (perhaps I am redundant) has graced Western Washington University's campus since I was a wee girl, it was oddly surreal to see my childhood friend's kin sprawled across the Presidio. Each more inviting than the last, but each regrettably companionable with their "do not climb" signs thrust inelegantly at the feet of zealous visitors.
While they are strange mish-mashes of bolts, lines, and angles on their own, they were curated beautifully in composition across the lawn, gaining a clarity and contrast from their numerosity.
After a hasty stampede towards the warming house bathrooms, we managed to reunite with Daddy-Dubya and "Old Tom" (Andrew's grandfather), for the return home. I should mention that they came bearing even more booty than the prior load from Christmas. I received two more very difficult to find Russel Hoban books. Andrew hit sartorial paydirt. The next time he hits the trails, he will be natty as get out!
Exchanging agnate kin for childhood chums, Andrew and I split off to meet his friend Holman at the park. We began our chattering perambulations in the Japanese Tea Garden, a place I'd previously considered visiting but which had put me off with the $7 admission fee. Feeling my own throbbing largesse, I treated the hubby to a visit to ol' Japan (or something mildly approximating it) this time around. It was quite lovely.
And full of all sorts of fun people in diverse "fashions" (quotes are required when pairing fashion and some of the vestiary choices on display). We milled about for an hour or so, marking time with the tick tock of a cluck cluck and raised eyebrow between splatterings of conversation. Holman is a PhD candidate in linguistics, with a focus on phonemes and an affinity for Cantonese. His current academic roost is set in Pittsburgh, and his experience of the minor metropolis is quite different than Zach's surly stint at Allegheny. Apparently Pittsburgh is actually quite cool in parts, dare I utter the accursed "hip" even? It is home to one of the largest Jewish enclaves and one of the most jolly of regional dialectical oddities.
Sated on serenity, we sought soaring heights and moving waters. Such things were found on Strawberry Hill, atop the island in Stow Lake. There were some very sketchy terrains that tested the tendons of my tender arches, but no tangible exacerbation is noted this morning. And the view was well worth the worry. A final panorama of the sitting that succored our holiday excursions.
Holman hopped a bus home around 4:30, and Andrew and I returned to the house for a final crack at Lisa's light fixtures (that would be Andrew's work) and a mad pacing read up and down the halls (that would be Adella, who will make do with the walking in absence of a treadmill). Andrew finalized his visit with a burrito from a place down the street. Apparently we don't "do" burritos "right" up north. San Francisco does do them right, although not as right as San Diego, which is the eye of the right burrito hurricane. Don't ask. I had eggs.
For New Year's Eve, it's time to return from whence we sprung (onto some planes). Tickets are printed. Bags are half packed. And that gray timelessness of eternal waiting is slowly sinking into a restless pallor, as my brain begins to concoct lists of epic to-dos upon returning home. First order of business, however, is actually returning home. And so to that, we shall set our minds. Perhaps by finishing up that packing nonsense.
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