We woke up in the hostel in San Francisco and walked down the hall to grab some free breakfast. Bagels were aplenty, so we grabbed one and popped it in the toaster. We wanted to split it and save room for lunch in the biggest little China outside of Asia. By the time it shot out of the top (ok, unenthusiastically reared it's mildly burnt head) of the toaster, the cream cheese was finished, kaput, outta here. So we slathered our halves in peanut butter, and I hoped the free coffee would make up for it.
We had parked about two blocks away, so Chrissie waited in the lobby with our luggage while I ran over and picked up the car. It was only two walking blocks, but due to the alternating one-way streets in downtown San Fran, it translated to 6 driving blocks. After one block, I noticed the cop trailing me. After two blocks, I had been pulled over. I had just executed a perfectly legal maneuver, in which my car travels into the center of an intersection with the intention of making a left turn on green. There were pedestrians in the walkway, though, so I politely waited my turn. By the time the foot-traffic cleared, my light had barely turned yellow. I nervously shot to the side of the road and rolled my window down. The officer asked for my license, registration, and proof of insurance. I handed over my license, and told him I would have the others as soon as I could find them, as this was my girlfriend's car.
Me: "She's at the hostel waiting for me right now."
Him: (looking at license and, eventually, registration and yada yada (
thanks Chrissie for keeping them easy to find)) "What happened to her?"
Me: "Umm, nothing. She's just waiting with the luggage while I get the car from the parking garage. It's only two blocks away."
Him: "What happened to her that put her in the hospital?"
Me: "Oooohhh, no sir. The HOSTEL."
I then asked him what I had done wrong and apologized in advance. He told me that he
thought he had seen me looking at a cell phone, that in the state of California a front tag was required as well as the rear one, and that in this state a yellow light means "prepare to stop," not "zoom on through." I told him that I didn't have my phone available, that I was obviously from Florida (as he should have known from my tag), and that I would be more careful with the lights. After realizing that every straw he grasped at was actually nothing, he told me not to worry about it and let me go. Rightly. What a jerk.
After we loaded the car up, we dropped it back off at the garage and walked to Chinatown, only 6 or 7 blocks (uphill) from our hostel. Not that I would know, but I can only say that it felt like I was stepping into the real China. I could see over everyone, and it was LOUD. Everyone was yelling and laughing and buying and selling. We went by a bunch of souvenir shops and faux-name brand good stores before we hit the jackpot; the markets. Fresh produce and seafood were right there on the sidewalk, with customers touching and smelling and haggling and proprietors smoking and watching cameras and haggling in their own right. Then we got to the dead animal strip. Ducks and other fowl cooked with their heads still on, fish flopping on ice, and a turtle that was trying to escape before being unceremoniously knocked back over into the Tupperware bin in which he would live the rest of his life (short as it may be). We opted not to eat in one of those cafeteria-esque places, as it made me a little bit un-hungry and Chrissie perfectly queasy. We instead marched down to a basement restaurant that delivered amazing green tea and wonderful sweet and sour pork. All for way less than the Great Wall in Islamorada. Sated, we found our way back to good old Alf.
We drove to Crissy Field (
America's Best Idea) to sight-see the Golden Gate Bridge, and on our way drove down Lombard St., the "
world's crookedest street." The crookedness would have been much cooler if the SUV-driving dude in front of us hadn't been going 5 miles an hour and filming out of his window while driving. We parked and got some great views of the bridge, and then spent 30 minutes trying to figure out how to actually traverse it. The surrounding neighborhood was apparently under construction, so all of the obvious entrances were closed. We found a way onto the road about two miles south of the actual bridge, and drove over. Then turned around and drove back. There was no toll to exit San Francisco, but there was one to get back. Six dollars. So we ran it. I think you all will understand the decision.
We then drove to Haight-Ashbury. Aside from the jerk driver behind me, it was pretty fun. Got a coffee, shopped for some clothes, and witnessed the requisite paraphernalia and inconspicuous- as well as conspicuous- drug use. Chrissie wanted and got an ice cream and we proceeded to MY reason for being in San Francisco,
City Beer. They serve and sell (by the bottle)
Pliny the Elder, one of the highest-rated beers in the world. After going into the building and falling head over heels in love, I took control of myself and purchased two pints of the hoppy brew and walked away, possibly never to return. We jumped on I-80 towards Sacramento and joined the rush-hour traffic that was waiting for us. California knows a thing or two about traffic, let me tell you. We jumped onto 50 near Sacramento, and took that all the way into the Lake Tahoe region, where we would spend two nights with our friend Tori. We arrived late at night, and cracked one of the Pliny's to celebrate. Pretty over-rated if you ask me, but at least Chrissie liked it. While Tori's dad is out of town, she is dogsitting an Akita named Rooney and her dad's Chocolate Lab named Mousse. I rolled on the floor with them for a good bit, and will miss them maybe more than any human I've met on this trip.
