In the morning, after breakfast, I went to the Yerba Buena Gardens and sat reading on a bench, but it was cold and windy, so I got up and walked across the lawn to admire a circle of stones. A very modern glass and steel building—particularly containing the store Chronicle Books—caught my eye, so I went in and browsed (and remembered that at work I see Chronicle Books often because it’s on the spine of many books). I forgot my watch, but I saw a clock on the wall—almost at eleven, I went over to Yerba Buena, only to see on the door that it doesn’t open till noon. Apparently the info I was going on was from one of the travel books I checked out from the library, and they all dated to before 2000. So I headed over to the Martin Luther King Jr Memorial, watched the waterfall, climbed up steps till I was on the same level as the top of the waterfall, where the Sister Cities Garden is (Osaka, Japan).
Finally, I returned to the Yerba Buena Center at about noon, and I learned at the box office that they’re currently installing the next exhibit, so I couldn’t get into the gallery (same goes for some other people who were there), and there won’t be any plays till the end of the month. There’s something to be said for checking the website. So I was at a loss what to do, and I didn’t want to walk far, so I went back to the glass building—the Metreon—and impulsively (after chai and a scone at Starbucks, which is next to Chronicle Books) decided to blow $22 on a ticket to the Titanic Exhibit.
It didn’t even occur to me that it might be the same exhibit that I went to in St. Louis, in the late 1990s—that was so long ago. It wasn’t till after I bought a ticket-a guy handed me a boarding pass, and I realized it must be the same exhibit. But then I looked at the ticket. Margaret Brown. Age 44. From Denver, CO. The unsinkable Molly Brown! Unthinkable! They hand out thousands of boarding passes, and I happened to get Molly Brown’s. Last time it was someone unknown, I think third class, who died. At the end of the exhibit, the difference was info on people from San Francisco who were on board the Titanic, plus info on the city at the time.
I got out of the exhibit at about 3:30, and after some hemming and hawing bought an Imax ticket for Superman Returns, which was playing in a movie theater inside the same building. It was scheduled for 5:30, so I went back to the Sister Cities Garden and read till about 5 pm (even though I didn’t have my watch with me) and went to see the movie. It wasn’t a dome for a screen like in Chicago—it was a big rectangle, but it was Imax technology. With 3D glasses. It looked like Superman flew out of the screen.
Philosophically, the movie made me want to hurl chunks: this world DOES NOT need a savior. 1) Collective action, a revolution, will save the world, and 2) the only person who can genuinely save you is yourself. But in terms of action, suspense, special effects, costumes, and cute fluffy dogs, it was entertaining. Exciting even. Of course, 99% of Hollywood movies philosophically make me want to hurl chunks.
At the garden, I read quite a bit more of Arundhati Roy. It’s too bad those who are in media news or who are politicians aren’t like Pinocchio—their noses don’t grown every time they tell a lie. On the other hand, if they had such long noses, the politicians would use them as tools for raping anyone who criticizes the ungovernable government.
Tuesday, July 4, 2006
The Fourth of July in San Francisco
Today I went to the Asian Art Museum again, because I was antsy to get up to the third floor and see the Tibetan and Southeast Asian exhibits, which I did. This time I took my camera and found out that you can take pictures without a flash. Eventually I even figured out how to not use the flash, and judging from what I could see in the little window of the camera, the pictures turn out really well without it—one of the advantages of a digital rather than disposable camera. And my I saw some wonderful Buddhist and Hindu artwork, as my sketchbook and camera prove.
(Note: I will later post the notes I took at the Asian Art Museum. Yes, I'm a nerd.)
This time at the cafeteria-style museum cafe I ordered “vegetable curry” for lunch rather than ordering it by its (perhaps Hindi) name, and I got the right dish—it was really scrumptious. I also got a lemon custard desert with fresh blueberries on top (though the curry was filling by itself), and chamomile tea. Last time, I had ordered the curry by its real name and ended up with a salad that contained green tea sobo noodles. It was a tasty meal—it had a variety of vegetables and tofu and a dark sauce, but it was a cold salad, not a hot curry dish. I had first given the dish a weird look, and the woman behind the counter brusquely insisted it was the curry dish.
I just have to mention that I saw, in the Tibet/Himalayas gallery, a Buddhist monk in red robes. At least I’m pretty sure this was a monk rather than a nun. I wasn’t staring, just doing the corner of the eye thing. I saw him again in the museum shop, of all places, while I was looking at books. He looked through a book too. Previously, Washington, D. C., when I went to see the Dalai Lama last year, was the only time I'd seen Buddhist monks in person.
I bought books on Siamese history, books on Tibetan history, a postcard book of thangkas, and a Tricycle magazine. Fun. As I was walking down the sidewalk next to the museum, I carried my shopping bag full of books with both arms, sort of hugging the bag, and I was smiling as I thought about the museum exhibit. Or maybe I wasn’t smiling till I saw a shuttle with these big purple words on the side: Purple Lotus Buddhist School. I wondered if that explained the presence of the Buddhist monk, at the same time that a group of kids in red t-shirts had appeared in the Tibetan gallery.
Shortly after I passed the shuttle, a red-haired woman came up the sidewalk from the opposite direction, and she said, “Easy come, easy go.” If she was trying to rain on my parade, it didn’t work. I was in a calm, equanimous mood after all that Buddhist artwork and relatively calm museum atmosphere (it’s free on Tuesdays, so there was a big crowd, but compared to the crowds on the sidewalks it was calm). I don’t know why mean people see someone who’s in a good mood and try to make them unhappy. Jealousy perhaps. Even if I had been smiling only because I had my shopping bag full of books, which was not the case, I’d rather have some good books than hoard money.
A minute after she walked away, I took a picture of the prayer flags and mani stones set up on a balcony of the Asian Art Museum, even though the prayer flags are very frayed and look like they should be replaced. Faded and tattered.
I got back to the room, used the foot massage, took a bath, and lay down to take a nap, setting the alarm so that I’d go to Pier 39 to see the fireworks. It struck me as kind of silly to celebrate Independence Day, considering the current political situation (like, considering what a stinking imperialist government we have and how we desperately need a real revolution now), and yet it also seemed kind of silly to hang out in my hotel room while I’m in San Francisco and it’s a holiday, so I went to Pier 39 that evening.
I got in line for the trolley at the bottom of Powell St, and I actually gave a tourist directions. I had to stand on the trolley, which was kind of scary on all those hills. When we got off, I moved through the crowd toward Pier 39, and the crowd on Fisherman’s Wharf was enormous and lively. There were dancers and other people with flashy glow-in-the-dark glasses (green or blue) and some people had a glow-in-the-dark all on a stick, and eventually I passed a woman who was selling them. I just kept moving through the crowd toward Pier 39, and when I got there, I kept moving till the crowd was so thick there was no path, so I turned around and backtracked till I reached a place where only one layer of people stood along the railing. The crowd was more interesting than the fireworks. At one point in the evening, while the fireworks were going off overhead, I heard “Ar, ar, ar, ar, ar!” even though I expected the sea lions to be afraid of fireworks, three of them were on a couple of barges. There I was in a crowd in the dark, fireworks overhead, boats and sea lions straight ahead.
As the crowd was walking along Pier 39 to leave, I passed a group of rowdy people dressed as a bunch of Santa Clauses and giving out candy. After I had walked far enough to be almost off that pier, I saw some minor fireworks shoot off the pier at approximately where the Santa Clauses were.
I walked and walked through the crowd and finally got to the cable car station on Hyde Street, where a smaller crowd than usual stood waiting in line to board the trolley, and one trolley was full of people but not moving. Yellow police tape was strung in front of the trolley. I got in line, and someone ahead of me mentioned a thirty-minute wait. I was willing to wait, as long as I got a ride. The wait was longer than thirty minutes, due to the pedestrians on the streets, and there were only three trolley rides. I got to ride the last trolley on July 4! And it was free. People who stood clinging to the side during this ride ecstatically yelled and cheered when the trolley started moving and also whenever it went around a corner or a steep hill. It was a very crowded trolley, but I was seated this time.
I saw some cute little dogs tonight, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate to take dogs out in such mayhem, with the crowd and fireworks. From what I’ve seen, most of the dogs in San Francisco are small and cute, and of course if you’re living in a city it makes sense to have a smaller dog, particularly if you live in an apartment.
(Note: I will later post the notes I took at the Asian Art Museum. Yes, I'm a nerd.)
This time at the cafeteria-style museum cafe I ordered “vegetable curry” for lunch rather than ordering it by its (perhaps Hindi) name, and I got the right dish—it was really scrumptious. I also got a lemon custard desert with fresh blueberries on top (though the curry was filling by itself), and chamomile tea. Last time, I had ordered the curry by its real name and ended up with a salad that contained green tea sobo noodles. It was a tasty meal—it had a variety of vegetables and tofu and a dark sauce, but it was a cold salad, not a hot curry dish. I had first given the dish a weird look, and the woman behind the counter brusquely insisted it was the curry dish.
I just have to mention that I saw, in the Tibet/Himalayas gallery, a Buddhist monk in red robes. At least I’m pretty sure this was a monk rather than a nun. I wasn’t staring, just doing the corner of the eye thing. I saw him again in the museum shop, of all places, while I was looking at books. He looked through a book too. Previously, Washington, D. C., when I went to see the Dalai Lama last year, was the only time I'd seen Buddhist monks in person.
I bought books on Siamese history, books on Tibetan history, a postcard book of thangkas, and a Tricycle magazine. Fun. As I was walking down the sidewalk next to the museum, I carried my shopping bag full of books with both arms, sort of hugging the bag, and I was smiling as I thought about the museum exhibit. Or maybe I wasn’t smiling till I saw a shuttle with these big purple words on the side: Purple Lotus Buddhist School. I wondered if that explained the presence of the Buddhist monk, at the same time that a group of kids in red t-shirts had appeared in the Tibetan gallery.
Shortly after I passed the shuttle, a red-haired woman came up the sidewalk from the opposite direction, and she said, “Easy come, easy go.” If she was trying to rain on my parade, it didn’t work. I was in a calm, equanimous mood after all that Buddhist artwork and relatively calm museum atmosphere (it’s free on Tuesdays, so there was a big crowd, but compared to the crowds on the sidewalks it was calm). I don’t know why mean people see someone who’s in a good mood and try to make them unhappy. Jealousy perhaps. Even if I had been smiling only because I had my shopping bag full of books, which was not the case, I’d rather have some good books than hoard money.
A minute after she walked away, I took a picture of the prayer flags and mani stones set up on a balcony of the Asian Art Museum, even though the prayer flags are very frayed and look like they should be replaced. Faded and tattered.
I got back to the room, used the foot massage, took a bath, and lay down to take a nap, setting the alarm so that I’d go to Pier 39 to see the fireworks. It struck me as kind of silly to celebrate Independence Day, considering the current political situation (like, considering what a stinking imperialist government we have and how we desperately need a real revolution now), and yet it also seemed kind of silly to hang out in my hotel room while I’m in San Francisco and it’s a holiday, so I went to Pier 39 that evening.
I got in line for the trolley at the bottom of Powell St, and I actually gave a tourist directions. I had to stand on the trolley, which was kind of scary on all those hills. When we got off, I moved through the crowd toward Pier 39, and the crowd on Fisherman’s Wharf was enormous and lively. There were dancers and other people with flashy glow-in-the-dark glasses (green or blue) and some people had a glow-in-the-dark all on a stick, and eventually I passed a woman who was selling them. I just kept moving through the crowd toward Pier 39, and when I got there, I kept moving till the crowd was so thick there was no path, so I turned around and backtracked till I reached a place where only one layer of people stood along the railing. The crowd was more interesting than the fireworks. At one point in the evening, while the fireworks were going off overhead, I heard “Ar, ar, ar, ar, ar!” even though I expected the sea lions to be afraid of fireworks, three of them were on a couple of barges. There I was in a crowd in the dark, fireworks overhead, boats and sea lions straight ahead.
As the crowd was walking along Pier 39 to leave, I passed a group of rowdy people dressed as a bunch of Santa Clauses and giving out candy. After I had walked far enough to be almost off that pier, I saw some minor fireworks shoot off the pier at approximately where the Santa Clauses were.
I walked and walked through the crowd and finally got to the cable car station on Hyde Street, where a smaller crowd than usual stood waiting in line to board the trolley, and one trolley was full of people but not moving. Yellow police tape was strung in front of the trolley. I got in line, and someone ahead of me mentioned a thirty-minute wait. I was willing to wait, as long as I got a ride. The wait was longer than thirty minutes, due to the pedestrians on the streets, and there were only three trolley rides. I got to ride the last trolley on July 4! And it was free. People who stood clinging to the side during this ride ecstatically yelled and cheered when the trolley started moving and also whenever it went around a corner or a steep hill. It was a very crowded trolley, but I was seated this time.
I saw some cute little dogs tonight, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate to take dogs out in such mayhem, with the crowd and fireworks. From what I’ve seen, most of the dogs in San Francisco are small and cute, and of course if you’re living in a city it makes sense to have a smaller dog, particularly if you live in an apartment.
Monday, July 3, 2006
The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art
I didn’t mention that yesterday, shortly after I got to Chinatown, I saw and choked on smoke and wondered where it was coming from. I moved on a little further, to where orange construction cones were lined up at the edge of the street. I saw a white man put a bunch of incense sticks in the top of the cone, and pea green smoke swirled abundantly out of the cone, both from the top and the bottom. I choked, as did several pedestrians, and someone said, “Where is all this smoke coming from?” I doubt a tourist would do something like that—he’s probably from San Francisco. And I suspect it’s more likely to happen around the forth of July than not.
7:10 PM
Today I went to the Yerba Buena Gardens across the street from SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) and hung out in the gardens and around the Martin Luther King Jr Memorial till the museum opened at 11 am, when quite a number of people were going in. The memorial is lovely and loud in a gentle sort of way: waterfalls cascade into a fountain approximately one and a half storeys below, and there ware quotes engraved on the wall below/behind the waterfall. Above the waterfall, there’s a walkway on two levels, with both ramps and stairs, and there are cylindrical stones, by sections of railing, and I sat on one and continued reading An Ordinary Person’s Guide to Empire until it was time to go to the museum.
Quotes from the Memorial:
We must rapidly shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.
It’s non-violence or non-existence.
I refuse to accept the cynical notion that nation after nation must spiral down a militarism stairway into the hell of thermonuclear destruction. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.
I spent the rest of the day (well, till 5:45 closing time) at SFMOMA. There was some good stuff—such as a couple pictures by Frida Kahlo (including the wedding painting used in the film Frida) and a couple by Diego Rivera, two by Georgia O’Keefe, a picture by Miro, a spear-like sculpture by Louise Bougeois, a couple of photos by Ana Mendieta. The latter two create Goddess art, and the pieces by Mendieta were:
1) A photo in which she’s lying naked in tall grass and is mostly covered in it, but you can still see her, blending in as part of the earth.
2) Again in tall grass—the imprint of her entire body, like she lay there and got up to take the picture.
Now that’s up my alley. But overall, there were more white male artists than anything else, and all the special exhibits are male artists (although one, Shomei Tomatsu, is Japanese). The Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in Kansas City is more progressive.
I explored the second and third floors before I went to the café for a lunch of eggplant soup (the soup of the day), a piece of herbal foccacia bread, and a glass of house made lemonade. I had no idea what to expect from the soup, and it turned out to be really yummy and bright orange.
After lunch, I went into an auditorium and saw a feature-length film (145 min) directed, written by, and starring Matthew Barney, and also starring Bjork, who composed all the music for the film. The music was the best part. I’ve liked other art films, but this one was weird and gross. I think it was an anti-whaling film, but what a way to bring the point across. Afterwards, I went up to the fifth floor and saw the other Afterwards, I went up to the 5th floor and saw the other Matthew Barney stuff. Although I’m an artist myself, and I think of myself as open-minded, I have to confess that his stuff doesn’t move me. It’s cool that he works with different mediums on the same art piece—drawings, sculpture, film, all related—I’ve come across that sort of artist before and enjoyed it a lot more. But you can’t like everything.
Oh,yes, this musuem has nothing by Chihuli, let alone a chandelier. But there’s a Chihuli chandelier hanging in a gallery window not far from the hotel.
During my walk back to the hotel, I stopped at a big Walgreen’s on Market St. and got a package of plastic forks so that I don’t have to eat the stir-fry with my bare hands. Another thing I did was notice some architecture: I thought the flatiron building in NYC was unique, but I noticed two like it, just a block away from each other. There might be more. (Since writing this, I have seen countless flatiron buildings—it’s because of the angle of the streets connecting with Market.)
Back in my room, I used the Chinese foot massage, soaked in a hot tub, and had some stir-fry, two egg rolls, and one moon cake. Good eating.
It looks like, after the Asian Art Museum, I may be going to Fisherman’s Wharf again tomorrow—something that I decided on this evening, because it seems like I should be out on the 4th. Unfortunately, I didn’t copy down the place and address for the “Fuck the Forth” event that was described on a flier at the Anarchist Book Collective. So I’ll take a radical and anti-Bush book with me and hang out with the sea lions before the fireworks. There’s a possibility that I might get a ticket to Alcatraz for that day, but I shouldn’t count on it.
7:10 PM
Today I went to the Yerba Buena Gardens across the street from SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) and hung out in the gardens and around the Martin Luther King Jr Memorial till the museum opened at 11 am, when quite a number of people were going in. The memorial is lovely and loud in a gentle sort of way: waterfalls cascade into a fountain approximately one and a half storeys below, and there ware quotes engraved on the wall below/behind the waterfall. Above the waterfall, there’s a walkway on two levels, with both ramps and stairs, and there are cylindrical stones, by sections of railing, and I sat on one and continued reading An Ordinary Person’s Guide to Empire until it was time to go to the museum.
Quotes from the Memorial:
We must rapidly shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society. When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights are considered more important than people, the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered.
It’s non-violence or non-existence.
I refuse to accept the cynical notion that nation after nation must spiral down a militarism stairway into the hell of thermonuclear destruction. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.
I spent the rest of the day (well, till 5:45 closing time) at SFMOMA. There was some good stuff—such as a couple pictures by Frida Kahlo (including the wedding painting used in the film Frida) and a couple by Diego Rivera, two by Georgia O’Keefe, a picture by Miro, a spear-like sculpture by Louise Bougeois, a couple of photos by Ana Mendieta. The latter two create Goddess art, and the pieces by Mendieta were:
1) A photo in which she’s lying naked in tall grass and is mostly covered in it, but you can still see her, blending in as part of the earth.
2) Again in tall grass—the imprint of her entire body, like she lay there and got up to take the picture.
Now that’s up my alley. But overall, there were more white male artists than anything else, and all the special exhibits are male artists (although one, Shomei Tomatsu, is Japanese). The Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in Kansas City is more progressive.
I explored the second and third floors before I went to the café for a lunch of eggplant soup (the soup of the day), a piece of herbal foccacia bread, and a glass of house made lemonade. I had no idea what to expect from the soup, and it turned out to be really yummy and bright orange.
After lunch, I went into an auditorium and saw a feature-length film (145 min) directed, written by, and starring Matthew Barney, and also starring Bjork, who composed all the music for the film. The music was the best part. I’ve liked other art films, but this one was weird and gross. I think it was an anti-whaling film, but what a way to bring the point across. Afterwards, I went up to the fifth floor and saw the other Afterwards, I went up to the 5th floor and saw the other Matthew Barney stuff. Although I’m an artist myself, and I think of myself as open-minded, I have to confess that his stuff doesn’t move me. It’s cool that he works with different mediums on the same art piece—drawings, sculpture, film, all related—I’ve come across that sort of artist before and enjoyed it a lot more. But you can’t like everything.
Oh,yes, this musuem has nothing by Chihuli, let alone a chandelier. But there’s a Chihuli chandelier hanging in a gallery window not far from the hotel.
During my walk back to the hotel, I stopped at a big Walgreen’s on Market St. and got a package of plastic forks so that I don’t have to eat the stir-fry with my bare hands. Another thing I did was notice some architecture: I thought the flatiron building in NYC was unique, but I noticed two like it, just a block away from each other. There might be more. (Since writing this, I have seen countless flatiron buildings—it’s because of the angle of the streets connecting with Market.)
Back in my room, I used the Chinese foot massage, soaked in a hot tub, and had some stir-fry, two egg rolls, and one moon cake. Good eating.
It looks like, after the Asian Art Museum, I may be going to Fisherman’s Wharf again tomorrow—something that I decided on this evening, because it seems like I should be out on the 4th. Unfortunately, I didn’t copy down the place and address for the “Fuck the Forth” event that was described on a flier at the Anarchist Book Collective. So I’ll take a radical and anti-Bush book with me and hang out with the sea lions before the fireworks. There’s a possibility that I might get a ticket to Alcatraz for that day, but I shouldn’t count on it.
Sunday, July 2, 2006
Chinatown, San Francisco
I walked to Chinatown with the idea that I’d walk up the street and take some pictures, have lunch maybe, and go up till I reached Broadway St., where I’d turn left and go to the Chinese Cultural Museum, which is open 1-4 on Sundays. I didn’t realize that countless shops would distract me (of course, the same goes for countless other tourists). I think a Shetland sheep dog would enjoy herding humans on the sidewalks of San Francisco. Anyway, shortly after I passed through the ornate Chinese gate, I found a shop that interested me. Put Buddhas or lucky cats or dolls in the window, and I’ll go into the shop. That easy. The tackier tourist shops were the ones most likely to be packed with tourists (I say tacky, even though I enjoy such stores myself). The stores that sold expensive antiques were the ones least likely to be packed with tourists, or the back of the store where the antiques were located was less likely to have customers than the front of the store. (It's just as well, given how many inquisitive children there were.)
Some of these stores contained really big old Buddhas that looked like they belonged in museums—these truly were antiques, in many cases. Painted wooden Buddhas, bronze Buddhas, whatever. Not just Chinese—there were Zazen and Tibetan (I must have seen four or five 11-headed Avalokiteshvaras for sale) and Siamese (I bought a two inch tall one) and even one large Cambodian Buddha. Wonderful stuff. I took pictures in a couple of stores—it was like being in a crowded storage room of a museum, and displays in the front of the store seemed as if they were set up for the purpose of being photographed. In one store, a round table was topped with (among other things) a couple of big Siamese Buddhas, and also a one and a half foot tall Sun Wu-King, Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, tagged, “Monkey King.” I thought of the line from the Chinese classic fantasy novel The Journey to the West, “Let Old Monkey take care of it.” Someday I’m going to make dolls or statues based on the main characters from that book—I even have the notes in a sketchpad.
At a corner (I can’t remember the street), not long after noon, a young woman gave me the menu and a coupon for The China Restaurant, which has been in business since 1919. So I went there and had quite a banquet. Spring rolls, veggies and tofu over fried rice, and green tea ice cream with a fortune cookie. It came out to $22.50, but I have enough leftovers for three or four meals. I’m so glad the room has a fridge and microwave.
Since I had these leftovers to carry around, I decided to go back to my room and return to Chinatown, so I headed back down the other side of Grant St. and kept getting distracted by more window shopping. On my way back to my room, I heard loud Indian music and wondered where it was coming from—this was close to Union Square. Coming down the sidewalk toward me was a group of Hindu Indian people with one guy in front singing into a microphone and behind him someone hitting a big drum—I’m not sure if everyone was singing and/or clapping, but I did get a picture quickly before scooting out of the way. There was something about the situation that delighted me, whether or not this has to do with past life experiences. I was compelled to smiled blissfully as they went by. On my way back to Chinatown, I ran into them again—they were walking away from Chinatown, and there was a different singer leading with the microphone. It reminded me that if I could only afford it, I’d be going to Indian in about six months, but I didn’t seriously think I could afford the tour.
After the Hindus drifted past, a white boy in front of me said, "I could live in India."
Just this morning, an English guy behind me said, “This city—it has so much character.”
Back in Chinatown (OK, it was about 4 pm when I was back in my room, so I knew I wasn’t getting to the Chinese Cultural Museum), I did more shopping and moving slowly through the crowd, as I had been doing since about 10 am (and it was 7 pm when I got back to my room). This time, I came to a store that was selling new dolls (some not Asian) but also antique Japanese dolls like the ones at the Japanese Fest in St. Louis. I bought one—in a bright purple brocade robe. That was definitely my most major purchase of the day. I also got a couple of moon cakes at a bakery, and small cat figures in another tourist shop (along with a gift of scented candles for my mom), and at the very last, when I thought I was totally sick of shopping, I spent thirty-one cents on a Chinese foot massage (that includes tax). I have used it already. Several times.
I definitely know the meaning of “shop till you drop.” And I’m glad that tomorrow I’m going to the Museum of Modern Art—hopefully I’ll stay away from the museum shop.
I soaked in a hot bath—so far, I’ve done more meditating in the bathtub than on the cushion, or rather two pillows off the bed—and took a nap. It was 9:45 when I woke up.
I can’t believe I forgot to mention this—
Form the sidewalk in Chinatown, I heard a marching band, like many others I had to find out where it was, what it was. Someone said, “Oh, yes, the parade.” A small marching band came in front, behind it a black convertible with about four people, and those in the back seat held up a framed portrait of an old Asian man, with a wreath around the picture, and it was on an easel. Behind that came a hearse and the usual trail of cars marked “funeral.” I don’t know whom you have to be to get a marching band at the front of your funeral parade.
Much later, during my second walk through Chinatown, I went into a fascinating store that was at least two storeys and had not a a spiral staircase but a spiral ramp, and large paper lanterns hung around. Centered in the spiral of this ramp was a huge dragon, hanging from the ceiling. This shop included a calligraphy artist who was making a picture for a little boy, and on the upper floor were the tiniest mud figures.
As I headed down the staircase, admiring the lanterns, I started to hear drums. Big drums, or a big drum. So I went out onto the sidewalk. Across the street, there were some Asian teenagers dressed in red and white. Two brought out huge red and white flags. Three dragons came out, as did a drummer boy—it was a very big drum indeed. They all marched down the street, going in the opposite direction from where I was headed.
One or two stores in Chinatown sold DVDs, and I got to thinking I didn’t see how anyone could take the time to watch TV or videos in San Francisco. Going out on the sidewalk and people watching is more fascinating.
Some of these stores contained really big old Buddhas that looked like they belonged in museums—these truly were antiques, in many cases. Painted wooden Buddhas, bronze Buddhas, whatever. Not just Chinese—there were Zazen and Tibetan (I must have seen four or five 11-headed Avalokiteshvaras for sale) and Siamese (I bought a two inch tall one) and even one large Cambodian Buddha. Wonderful stuff. I took pictures in a couple of stores—it was like being in a crowded storage room of a museum, and displays in the front of the store seemed as if they were set up for the purpose of being photographed. In one store, a round table was topped with (among other things) a couple of big Siamese Buddhas, and also a one and a half foot tall Sun Wu-King, Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, tagged, “Monkey King.” I thought of the line from the Chinese classic fantasy novel The Journey to the West, “Let Old Monkey take care of it.” Someday I’m going to make dolls or statues based on the main characters from that book—I even have the notes in a sketchpad.
At a corner (I can’t remember the street), not long after noon, a young woman gave me the menu and a coupon for The China Restaurant, which has been in business since 1919. So I went there and had quite a banquet. Spring rolls, veggies and tofu over fried rice, and green tea ice cream with a fortune cookie. It came out to $22.50, but I have enough leftovers for three or four meals. I’m so glad the room has a fridge and microwave.
Since I had these leftovers to carry around, I decided to go back to my room and return to Chinatown, so I headed back down the other side of Grant St. and kept getting distracted by more window shopping. On my way back to my room, I heard loud Indian music and wondered where it was coming from—this was close to Union Square. Coming down the sidewalk toward me was a group of Hindu Indian people with one guy in front singing into a microphone and behind him someone hitting a big drum—I’m not sure if everyone was singing and/or clapping, but I did get a picture quickly before scooting out of the way. There was something about the situation that delighted me, whether or not this has to do with past life experiences. I was compelled to smiled blissfully as they went by. On my way back to Chinatown, I ran into them again—they were walking away from Chinatown, and there was a different singer leading with the microphone. It reminded me that if I could only afford it, I’d be going to Indian in about six months, but I didn’t seriously think I could afford the tour.
After the Hindus drifted past, a white boy in front of me said, "I could live in India."
Just this morning, an English guy behind me said, “This city—it has so much character.”
Back in Chinatown (OK, it was about 4 pm when I was back in my room, so I knew I wasn’t getting to the Chinese Cultural Museum), I did more shopping and moving slowly through the crowd, as I had been doing since about 10 am (and it was 7 pm when I got back to my room). This time, I came to a store that was selling new dolls (some not Asian) but also antique Japanese dolls like the ones at the Japanese Fest in St. Louis. I bought one—in a bright purple brocade robe. That was definitely my most major purchase of the day. I also got a couple of moon cakes at a bakery, and small cat figures in another tourist shop (along with a gift of scented candles for my mom), and at the very last, when I thought I was totally sick of shopping, I spent thirty-one cents on a Chinese foot massage (that includes tax). I have used it already. Several times.
I definitely know the meaning of “shop till you drop.” And I’m glad that tomorrow I’m going to the Museum of Modern Art—hopefully I’ll stay away from the museum shop.
I soaked in a hot bath—so far, I’ve done more meditating in the bathtub than on the cushion, or rather two pillows off the bed—and took a nap. It was 9:45 when I woke up.
I can’t believe I forgot to mention this—
Form the sidewalk in Chinatown, I heard a marching band, like many others I had to find out where it was, what it was. Someone said, “Oh, yes, the parade.” A small marching band came in front, behind it a black convertible with about four people, and those in the back seat held up a framed portrait of an old Asian man, with a wreath around the picture, and it was on an easel. Behind that came a hearse and the usual trail of cars marked “funeral.” I don’t know whom you have to be to get a marching band at the front of your funeral parade.
Much later, during my second walk through Chinatown, I went into a fascinating store that was at least two storeys and had not a a spiral staircase but a spiral ramp, and large paper lanterns hung around. Centered in the spiral of this ramp was a huge dragon, hanging from the ceiling. This shop included a calligraphy artist who was making a picture for a little boy, and on the upper floor were the tiniest mud figures.
As I headed down the staircase, admiring the lanterns, I started to hear drums. Big drums, or a big drum. So I went out onto the sidewalk. Across the street, there were some Asian teenagers dressed in red and white. Two brought out huge red and white flags. Three dragons came out, as did a drummer boy—it was a very big drum indeed. They all marched down the street, going in the opposite direction from where I was headed.
One or two stores in Chinatown sold DVDs, and I got to thinking I didn’t see how anyone could take the time to watch TV or videos in San Francisco. Going out on the sidewalk and people watching is more fascinating.
Saturday, July 1, 2006
Haight-Ashbury
I unfortunately didn’t get to the Basic Meditation class at the San Francisco Zen Center, because I pretty much got lost after I stepped off the bus at Van Ness Station. It was at least 9 am by the time I found Page Ave, and you’re supposed to be there at 8:45 for the class. So I started my walking tour of the Haight, with help from pages I photocopied out of a travel book, and I took quite a few photos. The tour included an apartment where Janis Joplin lived in 1967 (it was an upstairs apartment in a grey Victorian house, and she had a curving balcony), and the Grateful Dead house, which was a more festively painted purple Victorian house. I also passed the Free Clinic, which dates back to the hippie era, and a café/peace activism center the name of which I’ve forgotten. On one slanting street, as I passed the Buena Vista Park (which looked quite beautiful and extremely green) I actually saw the mist appear, floating through the air as if it were some sort of spirit. Before that, I had noticed rather more normal fog, which seems to be norm in the morning here.
Toward the end of this tour, I came to a store called Tibetan Style, which of course I had to visit. A Tibetan ma and pa store, that is, it was run by a middle-aged Tibetan couple, and the woman wore a green brocade chupa and green silk striped apron rather than a homespun one. Inside, the traffic was muffled, a recording of monks chanting was playing, and a feeling of tranquility came over me. It was very pleasant, therapeutic.
There was clothing on sale (mostly shirts like the one for which I made a pattern off the import a friend Jill gave me after she cleaned out her closet), lots and lots of jewelry, and meditation supplies such as colorful brocade cushions and prayer wheels and dorjes. I lost count of how many prayer wheels I spun—I must surely have improved my karma quite a bit. There were a couple of antique portable shrines and a silver-and-turquoise antique needle case, and ritual items like dorjes and bells. Lots of jewelry—I saw a mandala pendant made from silver, coral and turquoise, and a Tara pendant made from the same materials plus some sort of green stone that I didn’t recognize but that reminded me of Egyptian faïence. There were many many Buddhist pendants, countless. Also necklaces made from dzi beads, and malas. I picked up a prayer wheel pendant to purchase (it was $19 and spun really well). I eventually made my way to a far corner full of ritual items, including bigger prayer wheels that I spun, and there were tiny tiny statues, very detailed although only about one inch tall, and selling for $5 each. I bought several—a medicine Buddha, a particularly detailed Green Tara, a yogi, and a deity riding a peacock that I’m sure I can look up in the handbook of Tibetan symbols.
The Tibetan store also included a larger and heavier figure (all of them were metal, probably bronze) about two inches tall that I’m thinking is a dakini—actually, she rather looks like a Sheela-na-gig! And I purchased her also. Now I wish I’d been less timid and had asked whether she was a dakini. (While typing this: now that I’ve gotten home and have taken her out of the box, I think she’s the most intriguing thing I brought home, and that she may be a dakini or something from the indigenous Bon religion rather than Buddhism. Also, the Asian Art Museum has on display a whole bunch of little metal things that Tibetans think fell from the sky—things that farmers and nomads found in the dirt, and I wouldn’t be surprised that she’s one of those, which would suggest that she could be really old.)
I walked into Golden Gate Park and after much wandering got to the Japanese Tea Garden (as did many other people—this was a Saturday). It was very lovely and pleasant with winding paths around a pond containing coi and crossed by Japanese-style bridges... and very compact compared to the Japanese garden at the Missouri Botanical Gardens.
The Japanese garden includes an outdoor café, where I bought three bags of cookies (fortune, sesame, and almond) and had a cup of jasmine tea with a snack of rice crackers and cookies. That was lunch. I’ve decided that I prefer jasmine tea to traditional green tea. After eating, I wandered around and took pictures. Lots of tourists did the same thing. A group of Indian (as in India) tourists, mostly children, stood in front of a big beautiful Buddha (made in 1790 in Japan), and the guy with the camera asked me if I’d take their picture. I said, “Sure, if I can figure out the camera.” Well, I did. I also used my own, simpler camera to take a couple pictures of the Buddha, one close up and one through a gate.
Near the cafe is a tourist shop, or teahouse, and although it was very crowded I went in and shopped. I’m taking home a cute Asian boy! I mean I bought a doll. He’s made in a Japanese style, but he’s actually dressed like a Chinese (Mandarin) emperor rather than wearing a kimono (this kind of doll is usually female, wearing a kimono, and sometimes in a glass box), and he sits on a blue and white porcelain barrel. I also got something that reminded me of Jill: wooden Japanese nesting dolls, since she collects both Japanese dolls and Russian nesting dolls.
After I got out of the park, I headed down Haight St. to go to the Anarchist Book Collective, which was the only store I had meant to shop in. But hey, it’s an adventure, and it’s not like I frequently come to San Francisco. I did a lot of window shopping, and before I got to the bookstore, I came to a store with big Buddhas and Ganesh in the window. Fascinated, I just had to go in and wander all over the store. I spun more prayer wheels and saw many many statues—that was the specialty of this store—including more Tibetan Bodhisattvas (like a Manjushri that was probably a foot tall. I didn’t look at the price on most of them, in part because I’d spent so much on the doll. There was really cool Indian music playing, like a cross between traditional and techno, and I bought the CD. I put the change in the hands of a four-foot wooden Buddha statue. Oh, yes, there was also a four-foot Ganesh in the middle of the store, on which people had placed both American and Indian money.
When I got to the bookstore, I realized that I had passed it that morning without even noticing. But it had been closed then, and I wouldn’t have wanted to carry a bunch of books around all day. The store was smaller than I pictured, but packed with cool rad books. The employees are all volunteers, they don’t have a computerized register—they use an adding machine—and they only take cash.
After the bookstore, I kept walking down Haight—I got to be back in the residential area—when I came to a bus shelter and looked at the map. The first bus that came along did indeed go to Powell St., so I didn’t have to do nearly as much walking as I expected. But from the time that I got off the bus that morning, I had done a great deal of walking.
Toward the end of this tour, I came to a store called Tibetan Style, which of course I had to visit. A Tibetan ma and pa store, that is, it was run by a middle-aged Tibetan couple, and the woman wore a green brocade chupa and green silk striped apron rather than a homespun one. Inside, the traffic was muffled, a recording of monks chanting was playing, and a feeling of tranquility came over me. It was very pleasant, therapeutic.
There was clothing on sale (mostly shirts like the one for which I made a pattern off the import a friend Jill gave me after she cleaned out her closet), lots and lots of jewelry, and meditation supplies such as colorful brocade cushions and prayer wheels and dorjes. I lost count of how many prayer wheels I spun—I must surely have improved my karma quite a bit. There were a couple of antique portable shrines and a silver-and-turquoise antique needle case, and ritual items like dorjes and bells. Lots of jewelry—I saw a mandala pendant made from silver, coral and turquoise, and a Tara pendant made from the same materials plus some sort of green stone that I didn’t recognize but that reminded me of Egyptian faïence. There were many many Buddhist pendants, countless. Also necklaces made from dzi beads, and malas. I picked up a prayer wheel pendant to purchase (it was $19 and spun really well). I eventually made my way to a far corner full of ritual items, including bigger prayer wheels that I spun, and there were tiny tiny statues, very detailed although only about one inch tall, and selling for $5 each. I bought several—a medicine Buddha, a particularly detailed Green Tara, a yogi, and a deity riding a peacock that I’m sure I can look up in the handbook of Tibetan symbols.
The Tibetan store also included a larger and heavier figure (all of them were metal, probably bronze) about two inches tall that I’m thinking is a dakini—actually, she rather looks like a Sheela-na-gig! And I purchased her also. Now I wish I’d been less timid and had asked whether she was a dakini. (While typing this: now that I’ve gotten home and have taken her out of the box, I think she’s the most intriguing thing I brought home, and that she may be a dakini or something from the indigenous Bon religion rather than Buddhism. Also, the Asian Art Museum has on display a whole bunch of little metal things that Tibetans think fell from the sky—things that farmers and nomads found in the dirt, and I wouldn’t be surprised that she’s one of those, which would suggest that she could be really old.)
I walked into Golden Gate Park and after much wandering got to the Japanese Tea Garden (as did many other people—this was a Saturday). It was very lovely and pleasant with winding paths around a pond containing coi and crossed by Japanese-style bridges... and very compact compared to the Japanese garden at the Missouri Botanical Gardens.
The Japanese garden includes an outdoor café, where I bought three bags of cookies (fortune, sesame, and almond) and had a cup of jasmine tea with a snack of rice crackers and cookies. That was lunch. I’ve decided that I prefer jasmine tea to traditional green tea. After eating, I wandered around and took pictures. Lots of tourists did the same thing. A group of Indian (as in India) tourists, mostly children, stood in front of a big beautiful Buddha (made in 1790 in Japan), and the guy with the camera asked me if I’d take their picture. I said, “Sure, if I can figure out the camera.” Well, I did. I also used my own, simpler camera to take a couple pictures of the Buddha, one close up and one through a gate.
Near the cafe is a tourist shop, or teahouse, and although it was very crowded I went in and shopped. I’m taking home a cute Asian boy! I mean I bought a doll. He’s made in a Japanese style, but he’s actually dressed like a Chinese (Mandarin) emperor rather than wearing a kimono (this kind of doll is usually female, wearing a kimono, and sometimes in a glass box), and he sits on a blue and white porcelain barrel. I also got something that reminded me of Jill: wooden Japanese nesting dolls, since she collects both Japanese dolls and Russian nesting dolls.
After I got out of the park, I headed down Haight St. to go to the Anarchist Book Collective, which was the only store I had meant to shop in. But hey, it’s an adventure, and it’s not like I frequently come to San Francisco. I did a lot of window shopping, and before I got to the bookstore, I came to a store with big Buddhas and Ganesh in the window. Fascinated, I just had to go in and wander all over the store. I spun more prayer wheels and saw many many statues—that was the specialty of this store—including more Tibetan Bodhisattvas (like a Manjushri that was probably a foot tall. I didn’t look at the price on most of them, in part because I’d spent so much on the doll. There was really cool Indian music playing, like a cross between traditional and techno, and I bought the CD. I put the change in the hands of a four-foot wooden Buddha statue. Oh, yes, there was also a four-foot Ganesh in the middle of the store, on which people had placed both American and Indian money.
When I got to the bookstore, I realized that I had passed it that morning without even noticing. But it had been closed then, and I wouldn’t have wanted to carry a bunch of books around all day. The store was smaller than I pictured, but packed with cool rad books. The employees are all volunteers, they don’t have a computerized register—they use an adding machine—and they only take cash.
After the bookstore, I kept walking down Haight—I got to be back in the residential area—when I came to a bus shelter and looked at the map. The first bus that came along did indeed go to Powell St., so I didn’t have to do nearly as much walking as I expected. But from the time that I got off the bus that morning, I had done a great deal of walking.
Friday, June 30, 2006
My First Full Day in San Francisco
I walked from the Dakota Hotel to the Adelaide Hostel for breakfast—basically, they serve scones, toast, bagels, butter and jelly. So I had a buttered and jellied (marmalade) bagel with a scone. Afterwards I walked from there to the Asian Art Museum, sightseeing the whole time. There was a paved sort of courtyard by the Civic Center Station that was called U.N. Plaza, with quotes engraved on a cement water fountain and in the pavement, and there were big stone buildings and a lane of pavilions where merchants sold stuff like Buddhas and jewelry. I spotted a beautiful Buddha statue—probably Avalokiteshvara.
The U.N. Plaza faces a big neoclassical building with a huge dome. It looked like it could be a museum (now I’m thinking it’s probably City Hall) and I was ready to cross the street, when I looked to my right and noticed that the Asian Art Museum was the big grey stone Neoclassical building next to me—first I noticed the banners advertising exhibits and then I noticed “Asian Art Museum” carved at the top of the front, columned façade. (The Asian Art Museum was in Golden Gate Park until about 2002, so this building—or rather pair of buildings linked by a modern glass lobby—wasn’t originally the art museum but I rather think used to be a library.)
Benches flanked the front steps, and a couple occupied one bench, so I went to the other bench, because I was fifteen minutes early. While I sat there reading, a little old Asian man came along with a really cute little white, fluffy dog. I think it’s called a Bisson Frieze or something like that—not a vicious yappy poodle. It seemed like a well-behaved dog and even seemed to be smiling. When I thought the museum was about to open, I moved to the front steps to where people lined up. The security guards remained by the front doors for long enough that I came to the conclusion that either their clock was slow or my watch was fast. Meanwhile, I saw little kids go up to the dog and pet it.
When I did get inside, I went ahead and signed up for a membership. It’s $40 for people who live out of state (and in southern California)—and the woman who helped me gave me a bag of goodies (a poster, a magazine, etc) and a pair of temporary, hand-written membership cards.
I had seen that an exhibit “Elephants on Parade” was currently going on, so I headed up to the second floor. There’s a hallway exhibiting Vietnamese blue and white porcelain that has recently been found in the ocean, thanks to ship wrecks hundreds of years ago. Before the elephant gallery, I had to go through galleries of Korean art, and some of it attracted my attention. I stopped to take notes and sketch in front of an Avalokiteshvara hanging, that was close to a big screen illustrated with tigers and mynah birds. I also saw a beautiful, embroidered brocade robe made for a bride, and near it some accessories (like hair combs) and patchwork silk wrapping cloths. Oh, the things you can do with fabric scraps.
The “Elephants” exhibit was in a small gallery and included a piece of fringed and embroidered velvet for draping over an elephant, and over that a silver gilt throne for a Raj, to be placed on an elephant’s back—it was elaborately decorated with lions, etc, and upholstered in red velvet, and there was a an embroidered and fringed red velvet parasol. A display case contained bronze elephants, and the walls were lined with stuff like photos from around 1903, and more cloths behind glass. The next several galleries contained Japanese stuff—there was one room with ancient Japanese pottery, dating back to a time when, as island dwellers, they were out of touch with other cultures and not influenced by them, so they had their own style. This included wonderful clay figures, including a couple that represented female shamans.
I kept going, and there was a gallery devoted to Buddhist art (not to mention a couple of Shinto sculptures representing Kami spirits, and a wall panel explaining the Shinto belief in spirits that shed a lot of light on Japanese anime). There was a gallery devoted to everyday life in Japan, that included a collection of netsuke--a bigger collection than that in the V & A in London, and an off-white (trimmed with navy blue) set of field clothes—robe and pants—dating to at least the year 850. They were made of flax or something very breathable, and I’m thinking that when I use the Japanese field clothes pattern (a Folkwear pattern I bought a few months ago) I’ll use cotton. I didn’t get through the whole Japanese exhibit, when it was nearly 5 pm and I headed for the coat check.
Oh, yes, I didn’t mention that right after lunch (they have a café that serves a variety of Asian food and where I discovered the delights of Thai iced tea), I saw an artist demonstrating Noh mask carving, and there were lots of masks on display. One even was the "Girl with the Pearl Earring," and another was the "Mona Lisa," though there were also traditional masks.
In the evening, after a little time in the hotel (to rest my feet), I went to the Geary Theater, a short walk away, and saw the American Conservatory Theatre’s production of Happy Ending by Kurt Weill and Bertold Brecht. It was a wonderful performance, and the music of course reminded me of The Threepenny Opera. Also, the theater auditorium reminded me of Powell Hall, home of the St. Louis Symphony, although instead of gold and white it was gold, green, and mauve, and it was built more upward than outward so that the balcony steps were steep and the second balcony, where I sat in the second row, was above the stage; I had to look down at it. This wasn’t too bad; the scenery included a walkway high up, and the orchestra was on the stage, just behind this walkway.
The U.N. Plaza faces a big neoclassical building with a huge dome. It looked like it could be a museum (now I’m thinking it’s probably City Hall) and I was ready to cross the street, when I looked to my right and noticed that the Asian Art Museum was the big grey stone Neoclassical building next to me—first I noticed the banners advertising exhibits and then I noticed “Asian Art Museum” carved at the top of the front, columned façade. (The Asian Art Museum was in Golden Gate Park until about 2002, so this building—or rather pair of buildings linked by a modern glass lobby—wasn’t originally the art museum but I rather think used to be a library.)
Benches flanked the front steps, and a couple occupied one bench, so I went to the other bench, because I was fifteen minutes early. While I sat there reading, a little old Asian man came along with a really cute little white, fluffy dog. I think it’s called a Bisson Frieze or something like that—not a vicious yappy poodle. It seemed like a well-behaved dog and even seemed to be smiling. When I thought the museum was about to open, I moved to the front steps to where people lined up. The security guards remained by the front doors for long enough that I came to the conclusion that either their clock was slow or my watch was fast. Meanwhile, I saw little kids go up to the dog and pet it.
When I did get inside, I went ahead and signed up for a membership. It’s $40 for people who live out of state (and in southern California)—and the woman who helped me gave me a bag of goodies (a poster, a magazine, etc) and a pair of temporary, hand-written membership cards.
I had seen that an exhibit “Elephants on Parade” was currently going on, so I headed up to the second floor. There’s a hallway exhibiting Vietnamese blue and white porcelain that has recently been found in the ocean, thanks to ship wrecks hundreds of years ago. Before the elephant gallery, I had to go through galleries of Korean art, and some of it attracted my attention. I stopped to take notes and sketch in front of an Avalokiteshvara hanging, that was close to a big screen illustrated with tigers and mynah birds. I also saw a beautiful, embroidered brocade robe made for a bride, and near it some accessories (like hair combs) and patchwork silk wrapping cloths. Oh, the things you can do with fabric scraps.
The “Elephants” exhibit was in a small gallery and included a piece of fringed and embroidered velvet for draping over an elephant, and over that a silver gilt throne for a Raj, to be placed on an elephant’s back—it was elaborately decorated with lions, etc, and upholstered in red velvet, and there was a an embroidered and fringed red velvet parasol. A display case contained bronze elephants, and the walls were lined with stuff like photos from around 1903, and more cloths behind glass. The next several galleries contained Japanese stuff—there was one room with ancient Japanese pottery, dating back to a time when, as island dwellers, they were out of touch with other cultures and not influenced by them, so they had their own style. This included wonderful clay figures, including a couple that represented female shamans.
I kept going, and there was a gallery devoted to Buddhist art (not to mention a couple of Shinto sculptures representing Kami spirits, and a wall panel explaining the Shinto belief in spirits that shed a lot of light on Japanese anime). There was a gallery devoted to everyday life in Japan, that included a collection of netsuke--a bigger collection than that in the V & A in London, and an off-white (trimmed with navy blue) set of field clothes—robe and pants—dating to at least the year 850. They were made of flax or something very breathable, and I’m thinking that when I use the Japanese field clothes pattern (a Folkwear pattern I bought a few months ago) I’ll use cotton. I didn’t get through the whole Japanese exhibit, when it was nearly 5 pm and I headed for the coat check.
Oh, yes, I didn’t mention that right after lunch (they have a café that serves a variety of Asian food and where I discovered the delights of Thai iced tea), I saw an artist demonstrating Noh mask carving, and there were lots of masks on display. One even was the "Girl with the Pearl Earring," and another was the "Mona Lisa," though there were also traditional masks.
In the evening, after a little time in the hotel (to rest my feet), I went to the Geary Theater, a short walk away, and saw the American Conservatory Theatre’s production of Happy Ending by Kurt Weill and Bertold Brecht. It was a wonderful performance, and the music of course reminded me of The Threepenny Opera. Also, the theater auditorium reminded me of Powell Hall, home of the St. Louis Symphony, although instead of gold and white it was gold, green, and mauve, and it was built more upward than outward so that the balcony steps were steep and the second balcony, where I sat in the second row, was above the stage; I had to look down at it. This wasn’t too bad; the scenery included a walkway high up, and the orchestra was on the stage, just behind this walkway.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Are You Going to San Francisco...
I arrived in San Francisco this morning, but my suitcase was slightly too big for a carry-on, so with many other people I stood waiting for my luggage for probably 40 minutes. At one point, the luggage came up on the wrong conveyor belt, so everyone moved over there and soon we had to move back over to the original one. It was like musical chairs. Or musical baggage claims.
I also got lost looking for the hostel. It turns out that Isadora Duncan Lane is actually a short, dead end alley. Also, since I requested a single room, I had to go to a different building.
Fortunately it was close—half a block away, on Post St. It was built in 1914, has high ceilings and picture rails like the Webster University dorm, and even a similar elevator. It’s one of only four functioning birdcage elevators in San Francisco, and it’s scary. I like stairs. Anyway, this is the best hostel room I’ve ever had: it has a bay window, a bathroom all to itself (the tub has feet with claws!), a fridge, a microwave, a TV, a double bed, two nightstands with lamps, a phone, a closet, a small table and two chairs by the window. Nicer than a lot of hotels. No wonder it’s so expensive…for a hostel. Actually, the other building is the hostel, and this one is a hotel.
I took the cable car (I’m thinking they’re actually antique, not reproductions) to Fisherman’s Wharf, where I wandered around a great deal. The best thing about Fisherman’s Wharf isn’t the tacky stores or the tacky museums (like the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum). It’s the scenery: the water sparkling in the sun, Alcatraz Island and other pieces of land in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge, and of course the sea lions and seagulls. And the pigeons that enter restaurants and clean up after customers. I want to hire a pigeon to clean my kitchen and dining room floor. I had lunch at about 5 pm, at a small Boudin (a local café/bakery) location on Pier 39, and although it was a good sandwich the menu wasn’t as good as Panera, a.k.a. the St. Louis Bread Company.
I witnessed sea lion wrestling on Pier 39. A couple of ugly male sea lions had a fight, and one of them shoved the other off the platform into the water, and the crowd said, “Ooooooooh!” as if they were at a sporting event. I just laughed.
In the evening, I went all by myself to a bar in a rundown neighborhood. Nothing like the full San Francisco experience. It was a Latino neighborhood with plenty of graffiti and stores with gates to go across the front. The bar on the outside looked like a hole in the wall, but inside it wasn’t bad at all. Outside on the patio, where the benefit for the coolest magazine in the galaxy, Bitch: Feminist Response to Pop Culture, took place, I was quite impressed with the ambiance, including small tables and chairs and an orange tree, among other plant life. I met some people, including Lisa, one of the two founders of Bitch. It was her birthday, so in addition to radioactive popcorn there was chocolate cake before the movie screening. Actually, I got a tall glass of cranberry juice from the bar before going out on the patio; I enjoy surprising bar tenders by asking for nonalcoholic cranberry juice. The film was the original Freaky Friday, which is still good after all these years.
I actually took a bath this evening instead of a shower. Relaxing. It’s a deep bathtub to climb in and out of, but worthwhile.
An odd thing I’ve noticed is not only the prevalence of panhandlers, and the occasional street musicians, but if I look confused on the sidewalk while looking at a map, strange men approach me and give me directions and want me to tip them for it. I’ve never before encountered people who expect you to pay them for giving you directions.
I have to mention the Fisherman’s Wharf store with a front window displaying some Asian sculptures, including handcrafted netsuke selling for $99 each. I got really interested and went up to the window for a closer look. A bunch of the netsuke were pornographic and, in my opinion, gross. Ew. There was a fascinating set of animals on a wooden boat, too.
In one of the two candy stores (that I ducked into so I could look over the map without attracting unwanted attention or getting in the way on the crowded sidewalk), I wandered all the way around the store and looked at everything. There were actually boxes of gummi penises and gummi boobs. I had somehow no inclination to buy a box. How would you stick a gummi penis in your mouth? Ew. I did get a handmade collage bookmark accompanied by Ghiradelli chocolate, and a similar little box accompanied by chocolate, and I’m thinking they’ll both be gifts.
I also stopped at a fruit stand and bought the Most Expensive Cherries in the Universe—the price per pound wasn’t displayed, and they looked so good piled up, and I had to weave through tables of fruit to get to the checkout table. It was a small bag—a zip lock bag that was too full to close—and it came out to $8. Ouch.
I also got lost looking for the hostel. It turns out that Isadora Duncan Lane is actually a short, dead end alley. Also, since I requested a single room, I had to go to a different building.
Fortunately it was close—half a block away, on Post St. It was built in 1914, has high ceilings and picture rails like the Webster University dorm, and even a similar elevator. It’s one of only four functioning birdcage elevators in San Francisco, and it’s scary. I like stairs. Anyway, this is the best hostel room I’ve ever had: it has a bay window, a bathroom all to itself (the tub has feet with claws!), a fridge, a microwave, a TV, a double bed, two nightstands with lamps, a phone, a closet, a small table and two chairs by the window. Nicer than a lot of hotels. No wonder it’s so expensive…for a hostel. Actually, the other building is the hostel, and this one is a hotel.
I took the cable car (I’m thinking they’re actually antique, not reproductions) to Fisherman’s Wharf, where I wandered around a great deal. The best thing about Fisherman’s Wharf isn’t the tacky stores or the tacky museums (like the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum). It’s the scenery: the water sparkling in the sun, Alcatraz Island and other pieces of land in the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge, and of course the sea lions and seagulls. And the pigeons that enter restaurants and clean up after customers. I want to hire a pigeon to clean my kitchen and dining room floor. I had lunch at about 5 pm, at a small Boudin (a local café/bakery) location on Pier 39, and although it was a good sandwich the menu wasn’t as good as Panera, a.k.a. the St. Louis Bread Company.
I witnessed sea lion wrestling on Pier 39. A couple of ugly male sea lions had a fight, and one of them shoved the other off the platform into the water, and the crowd said, “Ooooooooh!” as if they were at a sporting event. I just laughed.
In the evening, I went all by myself to a bar in a rundown neighborhood. Nothing like the full San Francisco experience. It was a Latino neighborhood with plenty of graffiti and stores with gates to go across the front. The bar on the outside looked like a hole in the wall, but inside it wasn’t bad at all. Outside on the patio, where the benefit for the coolest magazine in the galaxy, Bitch: Feminist Response to Pop Culture, took place, I was quite impressed with the ambiance, including small tables and chairs and an orange tree, among other plant life. I met some people, including Lisa, one of the two founders of Bitch. It was her birthday, so in addition to radioactive popcorn there was chocolate cake before the movie screening. Actually, I got a tall glass of cranberry juice from the bar before going out on the patio; I enjoy surprising bar tenders by asking for nonalcoholic cranberry juice. The film was the original Freaky Friday, which is still good after all these years.
I actually took a bath this evening instead of a shower. Relaxing. It’s a deep bathtub to climb in and out of, but worthwhile.
An odd thing I’ve noticed is not only the prevalence of panhandlers, and the occasional street musicians, but if I look confused on the sidewalk while looking at a map, strange men approach me and give me directions and want me to tip them for it. I’ve never before encountered people who expect you to pay them for giving you directions.
I have to mention the Fisherman’s Wharf store with a front window displaying some Asian sculptures, including handcrafted netsuke selling for $99 each. I got really interested and went up to the window for a closer look. A bunch of the netsuke were pornographic and, in my opinion, gross. Ew. There was a fascinating set of animals on a wooden boat, too.
In one of the two candy stores (that I ducked into so I could look over the map without attracting unwanted attention or getting in the way on the crowded sidewalk), I wandered all the way around the store and looked at everything. There were actually boxes of gummi penises and gummi boobs. I had somehow no inclination to buy a box. How would you stick a gummi penis in your mouth? Ew. I did get a handmade collage bookmark accompanied by Ghiradelli chocolate, and a similar little box accompanied by chocolate, and I’m thinking they’ll both be gifts.
I also stopped at a fruit stand and bought the Most Expensive Cherries in the Universe—the price per pound wasn’t displayed, and they looked so good piled up, and I had to weave through tables of fruit to get to the checkout table. It was a small bag—a zip lock bag that was too full to close—and it came out to $8. Ouch.
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