What We Saw

Here are some photos from our day of vacation during our recent trip to San Francisco. Most important, I finally got to see and stand in the Pacific Ocean! I can cross that off my bucket list.

From a distance we saw Alcatraz Island, home of a military prison as early as 1868, a federal prison (1933-1963), and an occupation by Indians of All Tribes (IAT) (1969-1971). Maybe next time we'll take a ferry cruise to it.

Murals in the Mission District -->
(from Sunday before dinner)


What we didn't see:
We had hoped to see the Camera Obscura at Cliff House, but it had apparently closed early due to a really wicked wind that was blowing by the time we made it from Muir Woods to the Land's End look-out point (check out DH's pants in the photo; also, that's why I'm holding onto my sunglasses above).



We also didn't get any closer to the Sutro Baths than the top of the hill, since the wind was so bracing, and we needed to get across the bay to Oakland in time for the baseball game. The Baths were once the world's largest indoor swimming pool complex: 1 fresh-water pool, 6 salt-water pools of various temperatures, a travel museum, a concert hall, and later an ice-skating rink. The complex burned in 1966 and is now a favorite haunt for locals and tourists alike. Click here for a photography project.

What Is Love?

Some people don't bother to fix vegetables when eating by themselves but dutifully prepare them if their partner puts them on the menu the night they cook. And sometimes they defy expectations and are even creative about it, fixing delightful salads with all manner of nuts, berries, fruits, and chopped veggies.

One night this week it was Dear Husband's turn to cook. I happened to be away all day on campus, forgot my phone at home, and managed--oh so brilliantly--to dial my number from the office phone when trying to call him to say I wouldn't be home to eat before my evening meeting.

The pop singer Haddaway asked in his 1993 hit, What is love? It's a salad waiting for you to get home for dinner, still sitting forlornly on the table when you walk in at 9:30pm that night. (But love is not, apparently, a fork with which to eat said salad. I guess it takes a real commitment to get utensils in a relationship.)

What We Ate

Editor's note: The following is just a sampling of what we ate on our San Francisco vacation. These are not in the order in which they were consumed, nor were they consumed all in the same day!


Breakfast: Lemon Blintz with Creme Fraiche from Crepes on Cole. Kinda pricey but organic and yummy. Dear Husband had French Toast with Fruit, which he thought was better than the short stack of pancakes he'd had the day before.







Lunch: Paninis from Il Piccolo in Sausalito. In retrospect I agree with one of the reviewers on Google: best view in town, but poor food and over-priced. DH's mozarella and basil panini was fine, but my veggie one was still cold in the center. The second half, which I stashed in my purse for latter, tasted better once the bread had cooled and the patty had warmed up.




Dinner #1: Argentinian pockets of warmed meaty or cheesy goodness from Venga Empanadas in the Mission District. Also a tossed salad and a tamarind soda. DH had beef, while I chose spinach (below).






Dinner #2: One night after the conference, several of us rode the cable cars down to Boudin's on Fisherman's Wharf, where a gal pal and I shared seafood chowder in a sour dough bread bowl (below). In addition to a restaurant and cafe, they also have a small (free!) museum on their famous sour dough bread, whose start goes back to 1849 and was rescued by the family matriarch from the earthquake in 1906. (Click here for some stunning period photographs.)

Dinner #3: finally, our ballpark food. DH got a Coliseum Dog, which was "better than average." He scarfed it down right quick, because we had waited until after the first-inning rally to get dinner. Having read a positive review in a local free newspaper on the BART on our way to the game, I opted for the pricey Ribs & Things BBQ; it is, according to multiple sources, the only thing worth your money at the stadium. Thankfully we didn't use very much of our money, as each of our $12 seats came with a $6 food coupon. The potato salad and bread were okay, but the pork tips were a little burnt, and the sauce wasn't sweet enough to my taste. In retrospect I wondered if the food staff looked at me funny for ordering the pork while wearing my scarf like so (the warmest get-up I could devise, as we were seriously under-dressed for as cold as the weather had turned: it was in the 30s!).

If you're going to San Francisco...

Shiva as Lord of the Dance (Nataraja),

 Chola period, c. 10th/11th century, India 

Regular readers of this blog know that last weekend Dear Husband and I were in San Francisco so I could give a couple of papers at a conference and so we could have a mini-vacation. Ahead of time, I researched and wrote a series "Poetry and the Pacific" to celebrate the occasion; but as I tried to indicate in editor's notes and quick editing, our travel plans were set topsy-turvey from the beginning. We had to improvise quite a bit. Later I'll post about our time in San Francisco but spare you the details of our return trip, which fell on the same day as that big computer glitch. Here is what happened on travel day 1:

7:55am Left home 10 minutes "late" but arrived at airport in good time since we weren't checking anything. Apparently it is possible to take a sewing needle and a shaving razor through the x-ray machine, but a barrette in your hair will set off the metal detector. I am willing to get dressed again at the airport after removing my shoes, jacket, and scarf to go through security, but I draw the line at doing my hair again! I got a pat down. DH did too, although we're not sure why. Maybe because of his thighs of steel from training for all those half-marathons? (The next one is this coming Saturday.)

8:55am Lingering rain was causing delays at O'Hare. Finally boarded and took off a little late.

Wolkenkrätzer = skyscrapers

10:30am Jogged through two terminals at O'Hare only to discover the second flight was even later. Boarded with confidence and congratulated ourselves on making it after all and on finally being on our way to San Francisco, which we had wanted to visit since getting engaged. Then the captain came on the intercom to announce that a mechanic had broken something, and we might have to change planes.

Shiva as Lord Who Is Half Male, Half Female
(Ardhanarishvara), 14th century, India

We had to change planes. Almost immediately, the flight was cancelled, and an entire plane-full of people had to reschedule their travel. Facing the choice of getting into San Jose in the evening and missing 2/3 of our vacation or shifting our departure and return back by a day (courtesy of the airline), we chose the latter.

12ish Ate burgers for lunch at the airport Chili's. Airline offered to pay for dinner, hotel, and breakfast, and the ticket agent gave us a tip to visit the Art Institute of Chicago while we were grounded.

1:45pm Caught shuttle to hotel. Discovered I had left my laptop in the seatback pocket of the decommissioned plane. Frantically called various official phone numbers. Left a message with Lost & Found. (I have since made many more phone calls and sent many emails. So far no luck.)

2:45pm Caught shuttle from hotel back to airport, where we transferred to the Blue Line to downtown. Giggled about the stops "California" and Damen/O'Hare (Damen und Herren).

Shiva and Uma Seated on the Bull Nandi
in Loving Embrace , 9th century, India

4pm Arrived at Monroe Street. Having entertained a fantasy of attending a Thursday night taping of "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me," we settled for "obstructed view" seats to "Book of Mormon" at the Bank of America Theater.

4:10pm In the meantime, pleased to discover the Art Institute is open until 8pm in Thursdays--and even more pleased so find out about "Free at Five" for Illinois residents. Left museum for an early dinner at the Potbelly Sandwich Shop across the street (a Chicago original).

5pm I didn't want to see any Western art, so we headed for the Alsdorf Galleries of Indian, Southeast Asian, and Himalayan Art to look at Buddhist, Hindu, and Jainist art, mostly sculpture. Reading all the art history descriptions on the labels, I wished for more of a world religions education. DH remembered from reading he has done that being a pantheistic religion, Hinduism was historically relatively welcome to Buddhism. Meanwhile, Buddhists debated how much to deify Siddhārtha Gautama Buddha. My understanding is that Buddism is often practiced today more as a philosophy than as a religion, but I am willing to be corrected in the comments section.

6pm DH wanted to attend the keynote lecture by Oxford historian Christopher Kelly on early Christian appropriations of classical art and culture, "Confronting the Classical—The Making of Christian Art," to celebrate the opening of the new Mary and Michael Jaharis Galleries of Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Art with some items on loan from the British Museum.
.

7:30pm We concluded our impromptu religions symposium with "The Book of Mormon." A charming psychological coming-of-age story staged as a musical about missionaries in "Uganda," this is a satire, folks, not a documentary. (It's by the creators of South Park.) The salty language and ridiculous propositions were hilarious to the young people sitting behind us who had obviously come to make fun of Mormonism. But the show--which has won 9 Tonys--also prompted more thoughtful questions, like what does the faith of a 9-year-old get you as an adult? Does religion have to be factually accurate, or do metaphors suffice (like "Salt Lake City" as paradise)? The Catholics I talked to during intermission didn't like an early song cursing God for misery, but I reasoned it was easy to miss God in the midst of human suffering. More disturbing to me than some of the criticisms of Mormonism (which are applicable to conservative Christianity, too) was the humor predicated on physical and medical problems--but I suppose that is my personal bone to pick. We probably won't go back to that theater, since the ushers seemed unable to seat anyone on time or properly, but the music for the show was catchy, the acting was quite good, and they collected donations for an HIV charity afterward.


10pm Caught Blue Line back to O'Hare.

11:15pm Caught shuttle back to hotel and a little shut-eye before attempting--and succeeding--to fly to San Francisco, where there is sourdough bread in creative shapes, seafood galore, redwood trees, and much more.


...be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

The Poetry of the Pacific, Day 5

Editor's note: This blog was pre-written. In fact, we are traveling on Tuesday.

We woke up early this morning for a day of traveling, in order to get DH home in time for his rehearsals tonight. You could say I'm "putting out the light" on our trip and this Poetry of the Pacific series with this poem by San Francisco native Robert Frost (1874-1963). If all you know of Frost is "I took the Road Less Traveled," his verses may sound quaint to your jaded ears, but in fact he was a modern poet who used contemporary English to express a range of often dark emotions. This sonnet captures psychological dread at loneliness and at the destructive capability of nature. Found on Famous Poets & Poems.com.

Once By The Pacific (1928)

The shattered water made a misty din.

Great waves looked over others coming in,

And thought of doing something to the shore

That water never did to land before.

The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,

Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.

You could not tell, and yet it looked as if

The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,

The cliff in being backed by continent;

It looked as if a night of dark intent

Was coming, and not only a night, an age.

Someone had better be prepared for rage.

There would be more than ocean-water broken

Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.

Point Bonita light house; the suspension bridge became necessary after strong
waves eroded the land bridge. Click here to read about this and other lighthouses
around San Francisco. Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

The Poetry of the Pacific, Day 4

San Francisco is known as much for its neighborhoods and characters as it is for its sights, so I decided to feature one of them: Chinatown. It's supposed to be the oldest one in the Western Hemisphere, having been founded around 1848 for immigrants working on the gold rush and the transcontinental railroads. Due to the determination of its residents, it survived the destruction of the 1906 earthquake and plans to expand the Financial District into the area. Now it stands in the heart of a bustling, gritty urban center. More than just a collection of Chinese restaurants, Chinatown supports Asian-American art, culture, and activism.

Red lanterns in San Francisco's Chinatown, dwsmiley (pixabay.com)

Today's poem was written by San Francisco native, poet, playwright, and performer Genevieve "Genny" Lim (1946- ). It is the title selection from her book, Winter Place (1989). Whereas her more recent pieces have tackled more expansive or universal themes, her older work like "Winter Place looks at the world from my alley window." She is particularly known for Paper Angels, a play about Chinese immigrants incarcerated at Angel Island. Borrowed from Jaime Wright's website.

Winter Place

I live in this foghorn moon of a fishhole alley
Every night there's a derelict dog, mangy with a cataract stare
Lickin' the wounds of old North Beach
Leftovers, fish'n chips, upchucked cheesesteak, antipasti
Blasted against the antiseptic glare of trendy resaurants,
glossy Gelatos
Where MTV couples glide frozenly by
Catching in the corners of their ray-banned eyes
Their store-bought reflections 

It ain't so bad
Sundry hookers straining their fleshbait
out of windows, doorways
Orifices of the Europa glistening like fish
It ain't so bad
The winos and the refugees, bag can ladies and panhandlers
Eye-talians, Chinamen, tourists, punks, junkies
Boat people and runaways
Converging on this teeming waterhole
where the corporate buffalo roamed 

The city reeks of crab shells, fishheads, cabbages
Soiled pampers, cappuchino and Kotex
in shocking orange-and-pink
Day-glo shopping bags ripped and spewing out the
Guts of Chinatown 

They all come
The natives like homing pigeons
Midwesterners like homesteaders
Southerners like shipwrecked sailors
Eastcoasters like fugitives
Through the fog-laden cable cars plummeting
over Russian Hill backyards and
narrow chopstick alleyways
where camera-toting tourists
eat cheap chop-suey and
snap moon-faced babies wide-eyed on their mothers' backs
out of curiosity 

It ain't so bad
the Indians once said
They traded their land for horses 

It ain't so bad
the Coolies reasoned
as they jumped ship only to
Sweat in baskets
with pickaxes and dynamite
Twenty-thousand feet in the Sierras
like wet human laundry

copyright 2001, Genny Lim

p.s.--You should absolutely click here to watch Genny Lim perform a version of this poem.

Poetry of the Pacific, Day 3

Editor's note: these were pre-written posts, but due to a comedy of errors (not on our part), we did not actually arrive in San Francisco Thursday afternoon. I will post the story at the end of this series. Until then, please enjoy the poetry!

Golden Gate Bridge in fog, from toptravellists.net.

Lonidier Rampant 
            As from a distance, watch yourself
            Disintegrate in foaming seas.
                              -- Weldon Kees

You are too near the bridge
To have such hair
Hair a man would love
To comb his fingers through
Lonidier 

Walking down the old familiar street
Doorways reappear
Shoe Repair New Soles
Smell of polish and leather
Where you sat in a chair
Swinging bobby soxed feet
Lonidier

Salvation waits on the corner of doughnut holes
Six to a bag
And in Mr. Bay's barber chair
Platinum bangs feathered on the floor
Lonidier

The bridge Lonidier and the sea Lonidier
And the dark morning hours
Chew through your brain
Looking for innocence
Lost Lonidier 

And the stab in your heart where the intersection
Of life and death is marked

Cool fingers of fog have been waiting
All these years
Lonidier
Knowing one day you'd be theirs
You are too near the bridge

To have such hair
So you'll cut it off
Leave its stories behind
Or if they stay
Whispering in the roots
You'll feel it pulled by the updraft
Of love you left behind
Wasted
Unbelieved
Lonidier Your hair
Will be the last of you
To hit the sea
The city that saved you again and again
Rising swiftly
To still you
To sleep



The Golden Gate Bridge celebrated its 75th anniversary last year. When it was completed in 1937, it was an architectural marvel in "international orange": 8,891 feet long, 6 lanes and 90 feet wide, 4,000 feet between towers standing almost 820 feet tall from top to bottom buried under the water. At 220 (or 245?) feet above the water, it sadly also presents an opportunity for suicide. Today's poem, courtesy of the literary group Big Bridge, considers the possibility. It was written by California poet Katherine Hastings, known for her   beautiful, haunting, often mythical poems. This poem is dedicated to Lynn Lonidier (1937-1993)--teacher, feminist, poet, cellist, lesbian, activist--who committed suicide by jumping off a cliff in San Francisco.

As a bonus, when researching Hastings I found out she had led a campaign among Californian poets to raise money toward saving some of the state's parks from being shuttered due to budget cuts. The campaign is over, but she still had a copy of the resulting anthology, What Redwoods Know, to send me. That is a far better souvenir than any trinket I could buy in a gift shop.