No trip to San Francisco is complete without a ride on the cable cars. At least, that's what the tourism board would have you believe. But hey, I'm a sucker. So my day began with a ride down to Fisherman's Wharf on a cable car. It was fun, I chose to hang off the side rather than sit down, and aside from nearly being collected by a tree a few times at was great fun.

I arrived at the bike rental place and, after a false start with a bike that was a little too small, began the trek toward the bridge. Now, the path to the Golden Gate is almost totally flat, but the wind in invariably coming off the pacific, and this day was particularly fierce. So I battled a miserable headwind much of the way up the bike trail, stopping to take photos of the ever-growing bridge itself, and occasionally get my breath back.

Something you don't expect - the bridge is noisy. There's six lanes of traffic, the bridge has numerous metal plates along the length of the road to re-inforce it in case of an earthquake, and everyone's in a hurry. This all equates to an ungodly racket as you pedal or walk across. However, the view of the bay is incredible. Just awesome.

The Golden Gate Bridge also has a skeleton in its closet - it is the number-one suicide spot in the world. At regualr intervals along the bridge are free phones that connect to emergency services and counselling hotlines. They are marked with signs that say 'the consequences of jumping from this bridge are fatal and tragic'. I looked at one of them and then over the rails. Directly below me were strewn peanut shells, they looked like they'd only been there for a few days. I wondered who had been sitting there, on the edge of the bridge, on the edge of their hopes, shelling peanuts and wondering if it was all worthwhile.
I hoped they decided it was.

After you come off the bridge its all downhill - literally. A winding road with a generous bike lane leads down to the tiny town of Sausalito. A lovely and quiet little town, the hills above full of houses that have amazing views and, most likely, amazing price tags. I got some lunch, wandered downtown, and finally hopped on a ferry back to San Fran.

Once I'd dropped off the bike, and was now thoroughly exhausted, It was time to head back to the hostel. A quiet evening, including a long and thoroughly entertaining yak with the front desk guy I'd befriended. Finally I headed for bed, planning to hit Berkeley the next day.

So my day begins with a panicked dash to the bus-stop so I can get to Fisherman's Wharf and thus claim my ticket for the 12:15 boat to Alcatraz. See, the people who run the tours are fucking Nazi's. They know what a cash-cow they have on their hands, and thus the rules for pre-booking are absurdly strict. You have to pick up your tickets no later than 20 minutes before boarding the boat, and start boarding the boat 20 minutes before departure. That right, get there 40 minutes before the boat is due to pull out or no refunds, no returns, thanks for playing.

Once on the boat, the trip across the bay is relatively swift and even a little daunting, as the wind whips up and the rock gets closer and closer. Alcatraz is a constant presence for San Francisco, it hunches in the middle of the bay, visible from almost any vantage point. I could actually get a sense of what a prospective prisoner would feel on his way to his new home. You notice that the temperature drops, the water get choppy, and then there you are, being hastened ashore, the cell block and admin building towering over you.

A famous part of Alcatraz history is also one I didn't know about - there was an Indian occupation there for 2 and a half years in the mid 70's. Whilst the calls to have the island returned to it's traditional owners was never realised, it served as the basis for later Federal land returns to the indigenous population. The occupation is marked by largely unfaded graffiti on various buildings around the island, which I managed to get some shots of.

As with the U.S.S. Midway, entry to Alcatraz includes a free, 40-minute audio tour of the Cell Block. Narrated by both former guards and former inmates, it gives a pretty good overview of what the day-to-day operations of the first maximum-security prison were, and also gave some good background on the notorious Anglin Brothers Escape, the Battle of Alcatraz, and the infamous inmates such as Al Capone ('He was an ex-streetfighter....big man, but his mind was gone' - former inmate) and the Birdman of Alcatraz. I also sat in on a 45-minute talk from one of the rangers on 'Daily Life for the Inmates', which was interesting for its' anecdotes about the guy who tried to escape though a steam vent, and the man who decked the Warden.

I gave my camera a workout and captured some decent shots - will try to get a few up later this evening. I also headed to the inevitable gift shop and made a rather unusual purchase. The Powers That Be have been wondering for years what to do with the demolished remains of small cell areas and guard lodgings, which were basically piles of rubble for years. Disposing of the rubble en masse would be slow and really expensive, and the entire Bay is a wildlife preserve in one way or another, so tipping it all into the harbour wasn't an option.

Then someone suggested a novel idea - why not sell it, and use the money to fund the Rock's upkeep and restoration?

So yeah, for the princely sum of $6USD, I now own my very own neatly packaged piece of the Rock. A rock from the Rock.

After returning, I hit Pier 39, the tourist trap to end all tourist traps, for a spot of shopping. I made a few purchases and wandered goggle-eyed through the charmingly named 'We Be Knives', which had just about every flavour of man-slicer you could possibly want. No chef's knives, just an massive assortment of handy-dandy inflicters of bodily harm. Finally, when one too many shop-assistants tried to jam something down my throat I fled back to the hostel.

I joined the two guys from Quebec I'd met the night before for some Chinese food at the place next door. Again, for about $10 I was presented with enough food to feed me for the next several days. Stuffed, we chatted until it was time to collapse, but not before they had given me advice on the best place to rent a bicycle.

Because the next day, I was going to ride across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Following the previous night's depression (mentioned over in wiretrippa), I woke up on Tuesday determined to come to terms with San Francisco my way. Which inevitably means on foot. Fortunately, Lonely Planet had a pre-planned walking tour which started a mere ten-minute wander from my hostel. So, off i went.

Now, let start by saying I knew that San Fran is full of hills. Movies have taught me so, usually with car chases. However, there's seeing the hills, then there's ascending the fuckers. Again and again and again.

Nonetheless, I began in Chinatown, and after 45 minutes of following the Lonely Planet guide, I made a small deviation to a place that a fellow backpacker had suggested to me, Vital Leaf Tea. Awesome experience, the owner insisted I grab a seat at the long bench within two minutes of my entering the shop and expressed delight when I showed the most basic understanding of asian tea. For the next half hour myself and the other people at the bench were plied with about 9 different types of tea, all accompanied by explanations and anecdotes from the proprietor. I am hoping that before I leave I'll be able to swing by to pick up some of the Ginseng Oolong to take home with me.

Back on the trail, my next stop was City Lights Bookstore. City Lights is famous, amongst many other things, for being the favoured hang of Allan Ginsberg, author of the poem 'Howl', which sparked a landmark obscenity case in the U.S. Needless to say, I purchased a copy, snapped a few photos, and was on my merry way.

I stopped for lunch at Caffe Trieste, which has a small calim to fame; Francis Ford Coppola wrote much of 'The Godfather' hunched over the tables. I contented myself with a foccacia and san pellegrino. Strange, even this tiny and unassuming coffee house had wi-fi for those with a laptop.

The walk then required I, ahem, scale Vallejo Street, which includes a portion that's a memorial park. Picture a park that exists for the width of three houses, up five set of stairs. Naturally, the view got more interesting every time I stopped to catch my breath, and by the time I got an unexpected call from Cass I had a sweet view of Alcatraz.

Finally cresting the hill I stumbled on a native sitting in the sun and reading. We chatted for a few minutes and then she insisted that I eat dinner at a Vietnamese place called Tu Lan, on the corner of Market and Sixth. I promised, and made my panting way down to the flat.

At this point I had run out of walking advice from Lonely Planet. However, I consulted a map and, after only ten minutes or so of swearing and turning the map around several times, ascertained my position. And that I was close to another park.

Stupid maps not showing incline.

By the time I had reached 'Patriot Park' (also called Telegraph Hill), I was cursing to the depths the idiot who decided to make a city on such uneven ground. I drowned my sorrows in the views, and wandered into nearby Coit Tower to take a few shots of the amazing murals that were painted on the inside walls after the tower's completetion in the 1930's.

Then I decided to go and see Lombard Street, the 'crookedest street in the world'. The steep incline led the city to make a total of ten switchbacks, and the result is visually interesting to say the least. Surely, I thought, I am approaching the crooked section from the low end, and hence will not have to climb any more.

Yeah. Right.

The crooked section of Lombard Street is just under the very crest of the hill. Now you know.

The path of least resistance after all this was the Fisherman's Wharf section of the bayfront, a raucous collection of souvenir shops, eateries, souvenir shops, 'museums' of several kinds, souvenir shops... you get the idea. Nonethless, I strolled along, feeling oddly at home. Maybe Manly in summer has given me a higher tolerance for tourist-trap style areas.

After making it all the way to Pier 39 (tourist trap on meth) I finally gave up, it was getting late and I was hungry for some recommended Vietnamese cooking. I grabbed a cab and spent the whole time chatting to my Moldavian driver about him wanting to take his little girl to New Zealand and Australia for holidays. However, when we hit the location he turned in his seat and looked at me. 'You be very careful. Very bad neighbourhood.'

Market and 6th streets are, well, how to put this. 'Crackhead Central' springs to mind.

I dived into the store. It was a tiny place, humming with activity. I was lucky to snag a table and ordered beef with vegetables in sauce and a Beck's. What can I say? The food was good and filling, the staff were friendly, and enough food to fill me up, plus a beer, set me back the princely sum of $9.

Of course, now I had to get back to the hostel. 7 blocks of crackheads, homeless people, homeboys and prostitutes later I wandered in the door, a little freaked out but mostly freaking exhausted. I did manage an entry on here before I hit the hay, and I also booked a ticket for the main activity of Day 2: Alcatraz

Before I get into relating my time in San Francisco, I have to mention a few things about the three days Dad and I spent with my Uncle, Col. Jacque Cohen (USMC, retd.).

It's pronounced 'Jack'.

At 83, Jacque is still totally there both in body and mind. He lives in a suburb of Santa Ana called Oakmont. It's a retirement community. The size of a suburb. I'm not kidding, there 3000 houses, the palce has it's own phone prefix and zip code. And two golf courses. And because it's right in the area Jack London called 'The Valley Of The Moon', there's wildlife everywhere. I saw a family of deer wandering the golf course one afternoon.

He and I spent a day touring the local wineries whilst Dad slept off the end of his cold, and never once were we stuck for something to talk about. I found him a great companion (if hilariously right-wing) and interesting conversation. I also think he was trying to get me a little pissed on Zinfandel, a local red that the Australian climate can't support.

Both Jacque and my Uncle Wally were in education, and both offered some excellent advice about the impending possibility of my entering the same field. Terrifyingly, Jacque went straight from being a full Colonel in the Marines to being the vice-principal of a high school.

I can now say that I've had a chance to talk, as a man, to both of my father's older brothers. They're both in their early 80's and have totally different world-views, but I can;t express how much I've enjoyed being able to ask them about their lives a little, and also see some of the nuances of expression and personality that have, for my entire life, only been expressed in my father.

Dad and I had a night in the house of my cousins the Ciatti's (again, you'll have to ask me in person for the story on them), and them we parted company.

And I came to San Francisco.

Well, Dad and I did, but only just.

We awoke in our lovely cabin and headed for Pfeiffer State Forest in Big Sur. We did a bit of trail-wandering, and I snapped some of the photos from the previous post. the parks in Big Sur certainly have that 'primeval forest' feel to them, but they lack the grandeur of Yosemite or the Giant Sequoia Forest.

Thus sated with nature, we continued north. We had a brief but fruitful stop in Monterey (lunch and a trip to the bank). Whizzing along the freeway we had a cool ittle moment; we passed Fort Ord, which is where Dad did basic training when he was drafted just at the end of the Korean War. And I mean the end - the war ended twelve weeks into the 16-week basic training program. Dad marvelled that Ord was still in active use, reminisced a little, and then gleefully sped past the off-ramp, giving his training place the finger.

We considered heading all the way to Jacque's place (north of San Francisco), but Dad had been battling a cold and was pretty tired. Then I saw the page in the Lonely Planet for the Winchester Mystery House and well, we decided to make camp in San Jose for the night.

Next morning, with Dad still feeling bad thanks to both of having an...odd night (you'll have to ask me in person for the full story), I went and did the tour of the house. The tour was interesting, the guy who showed us around was a portly, slightly camp fellow named Thomas, who put a little energy into his recitation of the room-by-room spiel. He answered every question I posed him as we chatted between room explanations (there was a horrible Thai couple who kept being grumpy and asking the same question three times, so I made small talk to cheer him up). Overall, he offered when I asked about Mrs. Winchester, they probably weren't dealing with a woman 'guided by spirits', but simply a bereft widow with too much money on her hands and no skill as an architect.

There was, however, one moment that gave me a little chill. 'Surely' I asked near the end of the tour, 'Surely this place has long since been mapped out. Some sort of retroactive blueprints, no?'.
Thomas offered me a slightly evil grin.

'No. They won't allow it.'

So the house still has a few mysteries left in it.....

Following our semi-exhausting day at Hearst Castle, Dad and I struck out north along Highway 1. Lonely Planet bills Highway 1 as 'the road of a thousand dreams and just as many car commericals'. It is the very definition of the scenic route - miles of two-lane highway that cling tightly to the cliffs and mountain ranges along Cali's 'Central Coast'. Driving along it gives you plenty of time to look out the window - unless you're the soul behind the wheel.

However, our first stop came just a few miles up the road, to have a visit with the huge Elephant Seals who have made a 7-mile stretch of the coastline their home. When we swung by (around 11am) it was naptime, but there were literally hundreds of these huge guys lolling on the sand and making snuffling growls at nothing in particular.

Thereafter we spent about three hours making a 2-hour trip - there was so much scenery that we kept pulling over so I could snap pictures and stand there marvelling at nature with Dad. It was a good time for both of us. Finally, we stopped for lunch at Lucia Lodge. We had some great food, enjoyed the utterly killer views, and I happily talked some shop with one of the waitresses. Cass, when we head over this way I'd really like to spend a night here with you, it's remote and relaxing and the people are lovely.

We continued north, leaving the immediate coastline for increasingly forested surrounds of Big Sur. Big Sur is a large location rather than a specific part of the area, it contains several national parks which offer bushwalks etc etc. We stopped, partially due to insistence of several people we'd spoken to, at Nepenthe for a coffee and a noodle around the huge shop.

Finally, with the day wearing on we reached a place suggested by Lonely Planet, the Ripplewood Resort. By this time Dad, who was suffering from the beginnings of a bad cold, was getting increasingly tired. So he rested and I checked out the river that runs by the lower cabins (in case your wondering, we were in Cabin 11).

We drove all of a mile down the rpad for dinner, all-organic produce in a quiet setting, then back to the cabin for a well-earned collapse.

Speaking of collapse, I just spent 7 hours wandering the streets (and hills) San Fran, and I'm calling it a night.

I took all of these.

( Clicky )