cuponoodles

Part 1 of 4

A month ago I was struck with the sudden urge to get out of Oregon for a while. Well, to be honest, it wasn't that sudden. The itch to travel had been building inside my head since I graduated from college, and the last week of March was the first opportunity I've had to take a decent vacation. The reason for this window of opportunity: I work at a public high school and spring break was approaching.

I considered taking a flight to New York, but decided that I didn't want to deal with the effects of jet lag if I was only going to be gone for a week. I boiled my choices down to San Francisco and Vancouver, B.C. I ended up picking San Francisco, but didn't have any intention to wear flowers in my hair.

Day One

The trip began on Sunday March 26 with a 18-hour train ride from Portland to Emeryville, which is outside of Oakland, where I was to catch a bus into San Francisco.

Riding on Amtrak was decent enough, aside from the fact that I probably got only four hours of sleep due to a crying child and that the harsh aisle lights were left on during the night. I was seated next to Rachel, a Brit in her late teens who was taking a year off to travel in Canada and the states before heading off to study nursing at a university. Sitting next to her I felt a little old seeing how she had already been traveling on her own for half a year, while I was just venturing down the west coast on my own for the first time in my life. Well, I guess it's never too late to start.

The train was a couple of hours late Monday morning, but the bus was waiting when we finally reached Emeryville, which is apparently just a few blocks sandwiched between Oakland and Berkeley. We crossed the Bay Bridge from a sunny Oakland into a partly cloudy San Francisco. After being dropped off at the Ferry Building near Fisherman's Wharf I said my goodbyes to Rachel and headed down the wharf. The area was choked with tourists, but I took a moment zig-zagging between them to buy a ticket for the Alcatraz tour for Tuesday morning.

After walking a couple of miles and taking in as much of the sights, sounds and smells as I could, I made it to the hostel, which was located in Fort Mason, an old military base with a great view of the bay. It was still around 11 in the a.m. and check-in wasn't until 2:30 so I had a few hours to kill. The staff was very friendly and helpful and gave me some directions and a free map with some of the major bus lines. I bought a seven-day Muni pass at a kiosk and hopped on a cable car headed downtown.

There was a sidewalk guitar player by the cable car station, who swung between being annoying and being amusing from one moment to the next. At one point he attracted a heckler, and once the heckler left, the singer mused that he would rather have the heckler come back because he was more responsive than the line waiting for the cable car. He told a kid who must have been staring at him, “Hey, if you think I'm weird I don't know what you're going to think once you get to the Castro.”

Once I reached downtown it had started to rain heavily. After getting myself oriented, I hopped on a bus that I surmised would take me to Haight-Ashbury. The bus was packed and wet and I ended up hanging onto a pole near the front steps of the bus. The apparently stressed-out bus driver barked at me and other passengers in a heavy Asian accent. At one point, the door swiveled open and smacked me in the head. It was, as Wesley Willis would put it, a “fit-throwing hell ride.” I didn't realize until later that it was good Muni etiquette to slowly maneuver your way to the back of the bus and make room for new passengers. After learning this, I didn't get smacked in the head again. A young clutched onto my arm to keep from falling over during the trip. She apologized and said she was from Sacramento, apparently mistaking me for a native. I told her I was from Portland. She was surprised at how well I was taking the whole chaotic experience. I guess riding MAX at rush hour helps a bit..

Since I hadn't had anything to eat except for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some pieces of Starburst on the way down I was pretty hungry by the time we reached the Upper Haight. Zerlesen had told me that I should stop by the Pork Store Cafe and, fortuitously, I noticed it as soon as I got off the bus. I had a BBQ pork loin sandwich, though I instantly regretted not getting some pancakes or hash browns, as they looked tempting as they were served to other customers. The Pork Store had the fastest service I've witnessed, as my food was ready for me right after I returned from the restroom to wash my hands.

With my belly full, I set out to explore the rest of the famed neighborhood. I stopped in Amoeba Music and gawked at the aisles of records and DVDs. The store had nifty listening stations that ran on Winamp. I was tempted to buy something, but seeing how I didn't bring a CD player with me I decided against it. There was an information booth in the store and I got directions to the Giant Robot store.

The GR store had a lot of cool stuff including a number of graphic novels created by Asian-American artists and I bought a copy of Same Difference. I overheard a conversation about Kid Robot, a similar but unrelated store down the street, and ventured over there. I bought a Gloomy Bear plush and quickly renamed him Mr. Klaw; my new traveling companion. I settled down with a coffee and a copy of the Guardian at Coffee to the People and then took a bus back to the hostel to check in as the afternoon came to a close.

The room has three bunk beds with thin mattresses, but it wasn't much to complain about since I was paying $25 a night. At least I wasn't being kidnapped and tortured for entertainment. I took a long shower and went to eat at an In-and-Out I had spotted in Fisherman's Wharf. Hey, it's fast food, but at least it's good fast food and I thought I may as well eat at one since I was in Kah-lee-fo-nee-a.

I decided to go find the Black Horse London Pub, a spot that Zerlesen had given a ringing endorsement. He also mentioned the place was small; very small. I took the F train street car, but realized it would take me down Fisherman's Wharf and not up to Russian Hill like I wanted. I then proceeded to walk several blocks to Union Street and continued my up the street until I realized I was climbing up a really steep hill. I had found the Russian Hill I was looking for, but according to the street numbers the pub was on the other side of the imposing geological formation. I walked back down to a street of lower elevation and grade and hopped on a passing cable car. I missed the stop for the street near the pub and ended up downtown. I took the same car back and found the right stop and finally made it to the Black Horse.

Upon entering the pub I was greeted by the bartender and got a pint of Bombardier. Zerlesen was right, the place was tiny. It basically consisted of the bar, some stools, and about enough space between the stools and the wall to squeeze by other patrons. I started chatting with Cory the bartender and his friend Anna, a future psychology grad student. We talked about Portland (they both had friends here), pets, drinking and the usual stuff. Anna traded phone numbers with me and told me to give her a call if I went to the pub on Tuesday night so that she could stop in a chat over a couple more pints. She also invited me to check out Berkeley on Thursday, which would be my last day in the Bay Area. After a few more pints, Cory closed shop before midnight (the pub is technically a deli, so it can't stay open and serve alcohol after midnight), and I wandered down the street to catch a bus back to the hostel and some much needed rest.

Tomorrow: Alcatraz!