California Dreaming, Part 1

There’s almost too much to recount, so I’ll shoot to hit the main highlights.

It was the first time I’d visited San Francisco, although the idea of it had been a frequent topic in my mind for many years prior. And I was sure I knew what it was all about. There were the cable cars, the insane hills, row houses (ahem, Full House intro), and Alcatraz. I knew I would love San Francisco before I had set foot in the state of California, which was back in 1993.

So when I finally arrived in early 2011, stepping onto the curb and storming to the front of the cab line, you can only imagine my anxiety and excitement to finally have arrived. And it wasn’t until the cab driver’s martial arts fight scene music was increased to a volume level so offensive other motorists on the interstate were hovering next to us with intense puzzlement, that I realized just how appropriate of an entrance I was making after all this time. It was the type of background music you’d place in a less mainstream, independent version of Kill Bill. Something similar to this.

It was my birthday weekend, and let it be known that the boyfriend did it up. As we checked into our five-star hotel room, I was greeted by a dozen roses. Exquisite dinners occupied each evening; we even received a personal tour of one of the country’s oldest breweries – Anchor Steam Brewery. We paid homage to the history and craftsmanship by drinking our fair share of the beverages the remainder of the visit.

Most notable for me, not surprisingly, was Alcatraz. Even somebody not obscenely curious in prisons and creepy dark subject matter like myself would leave this tour in awe. And, it didn’t hurt that we received yet another private tour. This time, of a quarter of the prison that tour groups haven’t been allowed for over 10 years.  We were granted access into this area thanks to an elderly volunteer named Sean, who replied to my “Sir, where is the recreation area” inquiry with a sly unhinging of a roped-off area and an invite to “see something much more interesting.” Al Capone, Robert ‘The Birdman’ Strauss and many other high profile inmates were kept in this space. And fun fact, the movie “The Rock” was filmed primarily in this less-traveled area of the prison. It really was something spectacular.

But perhaps something a bit more unexpected that proved to be a chart-topper... was Chinatown. Saturday morning, we ventured in search of the famed Chinatown markets. After being patently lost and then utterly misunderstood by a number of Chinese storekeepers, we stumbled upon Stockton Street, where all the Chinese action was. Markets lined the street with buckets of live toads waiting to be selected for dinner, live crabs squirming in clear baggies in the hands of their new proud owners, fruit and other produce so large you would think they’d been raised with some sort of steroid soil, and a vibrant and unique culture that was not at all happy to see us that morning. Was it the ninja kicks, or the “turning Japaneesa” tune implanted in my head that I continued to allow to slip out from time to time? It really didn’t matter. It was an experience all its own, equally fascinating as it was repulsive. Would I return for the Saturday morning market action? You’re damn skippy I would.

The flight home was quick, but not altogether painless; I’m still trying to get over sore muscles I didn’t know existed from all those hills. I was sad to leave the city that I had waited so long to get acquainted with, and sad to be leaving a place that had me aquainted even more with a guy who couldn’t be more wonderful.

I'm not one to promote California tourism, but I'm just saying. I will... be back.