Fisherman's Wharf and Alcatraz

I dreamed about Janis Joplin and hippies all night long. But then that last dream I was just having was creepy---I think it was about conformity and oppression. There were all these women wearing grayish-blue dresses somewhat reminiscent of the 1950s, and their faces were covered with veils that matched the dresses, and the back and sides of their heads were covered with these somewhat fitted hoods so there was no hair showing and not a hint of individuality. They were walking outdoors as a group, about four rows of them (maybe six) and there were four or five of them in each row. The garbage truck woke me up as usual—probably a good thing. (Actually, there was a very loud ambulance siren at like 4 am.) I don’t think the streets are ever quiet here.

“Are you a princess?” he asked.
She said, “You can call me a princess, but I’m much more than a princess. This world hasn’t invented a word for it yet.”
(That was on a colorful, whimsical plaque inside a wonderful boutique that was closed on Sunday, when I was on the way to the theater to buy my Love, Janis ticket. The store sold lots of wonderful and whimsical art. A wall was covered with clocks in the shape of dogs’ heads with tongues hanging out as pendulums. Small clay sculptures looked like American folk art dolls or figures out of folk art paintings (early 19th century). I saw a clay mermaid almost identical to the one I bought at the Booktique (the Topeka Public Library’s used bookstore) and also several of the metal sculptures like the one I got there, which was surprising since I assumed the artist was local in Kansas.

I took the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf, where I finally sat in the front part, where you sit on a bench facing outwards, and you’re actually outdoors, and the people who are hanging out are hanging out right in front of you. It was a bit scary, although we were packed together tightly enough that I didn’t really need to worry about falling out. The view was fabulous—at one point, we stopped on a hill and I looked down and could see Coit Tower and the ocean. You don’t need to twist around like in the back area.

I bought a ticket to Alcatraz, then I watched the sea lions for a while—there were only two, but one came close up and scratched itself with a flipper. It was cold and windy, and I found not only a juggler on the stage but also a booth that sold hot apple cider. I stood drinking while watching the juggler (a college student and a volunteer), and he even juggled flaming torches. At the end, he made as if he were about to swallow flames from one of the torches, then stopped and said, “Just kidding!”

I afterwards went to the big Boudin Bakery and had a tomato, basil, and garlic pizza for lunch and also cranberry juice. Inside, there are baskets of bread circulating overhead, suspended from tracks. Outside, by the tables, there are tall poles that give off heat, and I sat very near one. Lots of pigeons and a few other birds scrounged around, and I saved a couple of pieces of crust, broke them into little pieces, and fed them to the pigeons. They were delighted.

Next I headed back toward Hyde Street, where the cable car stop is, and went through a garden/park beyond the cable car—admired the flowers—as I headed up the hill toward Ghiradelli Square, the castle-like chocolate factory that sits up on a hill and overlooks the ocean. It’s now more shopping center than factory, although the ice cream parlor does have the antique chocolate-making machines on display and still in working order, churning liquid chocolate. Swirling chocolate syrup. No Willy Wonka in a velvet frockcoat, however. Anyway, Ghiradelli Square has a courtyard containing a fountain with mermaids and lots of frogs and some turtles. I should perhaps clarify that they are all metal sculptures.

Then just beyond that is the chocolate store, where someone hands you a chocolate as you come through the door. Ummm—dark chocolate with caramel, and fortunately the caramel was melted. I went through the store and got myself a cylindrical container of hot chocolate mix (hazelnut) and got a local aunt a trunk-shaped box filled with a variety of chocolates.

(It occurred to me that I had no trouble finding stuff for some friends who they like Asian stuff, but I decided to get something for this aunt so she doesn’t feel left out—I rather suspect that she’d be resentful. After I got back from Ireland, she was resentful that I had supposedly not invited her on the trip, and I reminded her that I did indeed invite her on the trip--not because I wanted her to verbally abuse me in Ireland and thereby ruin my vacation, but because I knew she'd like to go to Ireland and would be offended if I didn't invite her. She clearly hasn't figured out that I go on vacation to get away from her.)

Next I went into the ice cream parlor next door and had a hot chocolate fudge sundae with lots of whipped cream, nuts, and a maraschino cherry on top. Yum. (It wasn’t until after I ordered it that I remembered I swore off chocolate, and it wasn’t until much later that I remembered that I’ve apparently become lactose intolerant, but fortunately I didn’t get sick this time.) And I looked at the huge antique chocolate-making machines.

I had time to wander through some art galleries. There was one that actually had lots of wood block pictures by Salvador Dali, another that had a few sketches by Whistler and two by Renoir, and I went to at least one other gallery. Oh, yes, stuff by Dr. Seuss! Not only pictures, but also weird animal head trophies sticking out of the wall. Imaginary animals, not moose. And there was a delightful sculpture of a fish walking in boots and holding up a parasol. I went to a store that was selling Hopi stuff including Katsina dolls, and somehow I refrained from buying any. Same goes for a store selling Russian nesting dolls. I guess it’s because I’ve been satiated with shopping on this trip.

One more visit to the sea lions followed by waiting in line for the Blue and Gold Fleet Ferry to Alcatraz. Really, the best things about Alcatraz are the ferry ride (I sat outside and near a railing), the view, and the seagulls. On the island, whenever I looked over a railing, I saw baby seagulls. They’re grey and fluffy, and they have black spots on their heads. They also make very high-pitched chirps. One cocked its head, looked up at me, and let out a series of little chirps. That was the highlight of my visit.

Otherwise, it was dismal and gave off oppressive vibes. I got particularly bad vibes when I stepped inside a dark solitary confinement cell—I quickly got back out and breathed deeply.

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.