We decided to use this fine weather to see the small town of Sausalito, which, if I remember my Spanish correctly, means "tiny sausage." Being a man who appreciates civic penis jokes and, to a lesser extent, scenic Mediterranean architecture, this was a must-see.
San Francisco in the rain was a bit like travelling to the other end of a meteorological wormhole connected to Vancouver, but in the sun, we began to gain a better appreciation of the city's true character: people were terrible at driving; there were douchey tweens skateboarding everywhere; we spent St Patrick's day eating fish tacos and drinking margaritas at a Mexican restaurant-- such is the California Republic I fondly remember.
I quite admire San Francouver. It's a visually stunning city, and it's got a great sort of vibrancy. The sort of place you find parties where everybody is encouraged to paint murals all over the walls--
(There were actually surprisingly few dicks added to the murals)
And where there are bars that are actual bars, where you can have a conversation with someone and choose from a cornucopian assortment of beer, and don't have to watch the usual depressing melange bumping and grinding to blown-out LMFAO remixes (though I'm sure you find places like that, if you are a Kony-level terrible person).
That being said, I'm not sure I'm exactly going to leave my heart here: the public transit system, for example, was an omnipresent pain; I think I spent more money on the BART and buses than food, and I've spent enough time on the bus with fragrant vagrants (sweet band name b-t-dubs) to last me a lifetime.
And O! supple bebby Jesus, it will certainly be nice to sleep in a real bed again, after a week of (not really) sleeping on the leaky share-mattress air mattress, which quickly became the barely-there mattress in need of constant repair mattress.
The journey home began auspiciously enough. As Silverwood went to silence his alarm for the fifth time, he noticed he was already supposed to be at the airport for his flight to Mexico-- which, he belatedly informed us, meant we needed to be at the airport with him, ensuing in a mad dash to hastily pack our suitcases and get a cab. Then, in what we can only hope is not pathetic fallacy, Mexico had a fatty 7.4 earthquake the day before Mike arrived. Judging by his tweets, though, everything seems stable, and he hasn't been abducted and sold into the sex trade yet, either.
I rolled my eyes a little at first when Saringer began lecturing me on the "theatre of airport security," but he did inadvertently make a convincing argument when, upon getting back to Vancouver, he discovered he had accidentally left an Exact-o knife in his carry-on bag, which apparently nobody at security noticed before either of our flights (but I mean, what kind of psycho has an Exact-o knife in their luggage to begin with, right?)
While my terrorist companion (kidding Homeland Security!) and I were in the Bay Area, we endeavored to be true tourists (and not terrorists), whatever that means. Whether that was becoming obsessed with picturesque staircases...
...pretending to be wine connoisseurs--
--and then having to slam the bottle to make it to the ferry in time...
...using my Asian dad photo-taking stance...
...drinking fire...
 |
| With Jordan! |
...taking sweet MySpace profile pictures--
--and "cool" hipster photos with lots of negative space...
...or gazing off contemplatively into that negative space...
...finding hidden swastikas...
...and inspiration in the unlikeliest of places...
...or powering through adversity--
--to see the view from the top...
...we fully embraced even the simplest, most cliché pleasures of being lost in a big, busy city with loads of stuff to do. We saw the Golden Gate; we saw Coit Tower; we saw the hippie movement reduced to a single guitarist playing to no one on Hippie Hill; we saw Alcatraz and Chinatown and Fisherman's Wharf; we went to a gay bar. Just for a second. Just to see how it felt.
We immersed ourselves; we lived, we laughed, we loved!; we made a concerted effort to enjoy the shit out of San Francisco.
In the end, though, this trip was about much more than simply seeing a city. It was about doing something incredibly basic, yet which, as time goes by and the tectonic plates of life drift apart, becomes harder to do-- to simply spend some quality time with two good (and incredibly photogenic) friends.
Well, and Jordan. So three.
