"So man, you've been back in the states for a while now. Are you getting settled?"
"Ha, never."
Getting back from Europe was more disorienting than my arrival had been a year prior. Wine tasted like vinegar, bread had a metallic tang of preservatives, and the sandwiches...piles of soft, salty, texture-less meat and bland vegetables.
Mackenzie and I had been inconsistently swapping travel stories for the last few months. I would send her pictures of Barcelona beach parties and she would return with macro images of bizarre Chinese fruit. It seemed that our adventures were scheduled for a mutual hiatus and so I booked a quick flight to San Francisco for the purpose of exploring what possibilities might lay in store if I were to turn the bezel East.
The flight was a bit of a show. I miss read the ticket and arrived 12 hours early for a 6pm flight. So I forked out another 75 dollars to get on standby for the next available flight. By 1pm I was riding a commuter bus across the Golden Gate into Mill Valley. The bus dropped me under a highway overpass with two hot, dry empty roads giving no discernible indication toward the direction of my destination. I reckoned it was north and began walking. A few minutes later Mackenzie caught up on her beach cruiser.
Mill Valley was, like so many areas of California, a sleepy community secluded by space and nature which has been infested with investing. Her house is a homey, comfortable place that will one day be bought and remodeled for a prosperous view across the valley. We watered up an took a hike up the canyon to admire the ferns and architecture.
We were a bit uncertain where to begin our tour and thought it best to discuss our appetite over the turning of machinery in the cable car museum. What I found most impressive was the relative quietness of the operation....but that's pretty hard to take a picture of.
About the time the sun was erect enough to burn through the haze and give color to the world. We celebrated with a lox bagel.
Feeling, for the moment satiated, we proceeded up to Grace Cathedral where a very excited and flamboyant docent took an hour to explain every small detail of the buildings history and the significance of the varied art. The facts escape me in full, but I do recall that the Cathedral's theme was to document the history and culture of San Francisco. It was impressive, but I appear only to have documented the view from the front steps.
The day was edging on noon, appetites were growing, and Mackenzie wanted me to experience what real Chinese food taste like. She had been fielding many of concerns about living in China with a mix of wonderment and disdain for the most populated country in the world. I was beginning to feel a bit disoriented by the discussion because there was always a "but" confusing each clarification. Of course life really is best when the going gets weird, so I was excited to see what exotic cuisine lay in store.
Chicken feet are good for you. So is shark fin, tiger claw, and panda penis.... which were not on the menu. The chick feet were apparently, fried, steamed, and covered in a tangy sauce. Fair enough. With a cool glance and reassuring smile, Mackenzie watched me sink teeth into a texture explosion. It began with sticky sauce, crunchy skin, rubber cartilage, and a hard bone at the center. Something made me think of chilled monkey brains.
Suffice to say, it is a dish everyone should try once.
The rest of the food was amazing. This with pork, that with pork, oh and these amazing steamed rice bread buns with pork inside.
That evening her mom brought home Chinese food from a different place and then we had a Chinese breakfast the following day. All my body odors changed.
I really was interested in documenting the infamous SF hipster in it's natural environment. So her brother drove us to a bar with enormous velvet painting of a nude woman over a plush violet couch and a large window facing the street by which to view the fauna. In summary, a hipster should appear as though because of their borderline handicapped IQ, they decided to dress in the dark with clothes that were found in the refuse bin of the local thrift store. It is preferable to mix as many fashion genres as possible or commit to a vintage style that didn't look in it's time.
Dude, how old are you?
Yoga pants? I'll allow it.
No comment.
Is that the ghost of Mary Tyler Moore?
I suppose the idea is to look poor... which is why so many people like to dress like bike messengers, smoke American Spirit tabacco and hang out around the 3 guys that are actually bike messengers. In France you might call these people the Bohemia Bourgeoisie... which roughly translates as Rich Hippie.
Does anyone else see the irony in a bunch of fashionable bums hanging out around a monument to the hard labor and ingenuity that built SF?
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