Neil Trembley's Missives

 Slowly I rolled out of bed Thursday morning.  I had slept poorly.  At 7,000 feet, the air’s thin and my body struggled to adjust.  Despite the lack of sleep I was excited to hit the slopes.

The first day of skiing is always the hardest logistically.  It’s challenging just to locate all your gear, especially if you had to stuff it into nooks and crannies for the flight out.  Then you have to figure out how many layers to wear so you won’t sweat or freeze to death.  Putting on your boots becomes a solemn ritual; you have to make sure your ulta-thin ski socks aren’t bunched at all or it will come back to haunt you.   It’s real important to take time to check off what you need, make sure it’s stowed in the right pockets, and that those pockets are zipped up—something I’ve been known to forget.  Finally at this altitude, even if it is cloudy, it’s vital to slather on sun block and lip balm and stash them in a pocket for re-application. Then there is the lift ticket. Luckily the lodge had a shop where I could buy one.  Staying up the mountain meant I could spend a couple of hours fumbling with all this and still be the first one in line at the lift.

Early that morning I touched base with Jim Seiter. 

Jimmy and I go back to high school. Originally we were going to drive out to Utah together, but plans changed.  Ultimately he wound up on a 1,2000 mile car trek with his ex-wife, mother-in-law, and teenage son Earl. When I asked Jimmy why, he said it was the only way  he could ski out west with his son.  It was Jim’s sixth day skiing and he was moving slowly that day; we made plans to meet at the mid-mountain chalet @ 11:00 a.m.  I was on my own for the morning–fine with me.  

In the lift line by 9:10 a.m, I was the first skier up the mountain.  I made my way over to Catherine’s area off the Supreme Lift.  I’ve always been partial to the runs off Supreme.  As I skied down Rock and Roll, I stopped and looked over my left shoulder at Devils’ Castle, a jagged shoulder of rock that’s one of the Alta’s signature sights.  I had arrived.

(Jagged Devil’s Castle at Alta.)

I made seven runs that morning, including a couple down Challenger: a black diamond run that several years ago was the scene of a disastrous fall for my friend Bob Cramer.  He broke his pelvis there on the first run of the first day of the ski trip.  I can never look up that run without flashing on Bob’s slumped body hugging the slope.  Luckily for me, Challenger had been groomed (unlike the icy mogul field Bob faced) and I skied it without incident.

At 11:00 I met up with Jimmy.  He and I have been skiing together for about 30 years.  Jimmy is a better skier that I am, but I’m prettier, so it all evens out.  We spent most of the day skiing the middle mountain—Sugarloaf—and then Ballroom over by the Collin’s lift. (For those of you so inclined, you can google Alta Ski and view a map and interactive guide of the place).  The snow on Ballroom was the best we could find that day and we skied it several times.  That afternoon, Jimmy made his way down the mountain and I made my way over to the Peruvian.

One of the highlights of any trip to Alta is the Peruvian hot tub.  For years the Peruvian charged $5  for non-lodgers to use its hot tub, sauna, and pool, as well as enjoy the appetizers that magically appeared near the bar.  Then, about five years ago, they revoked the policy, so we just used the hot tub for free.  The key was to walk into the lodge acting like you belonged.  Because of all our practice, we never had any problem.  Now, since I was actually staying at the place, I was legit.

Alta tends to draw males skiers.  Over two-thirds of the lodgers at the Peruvian are men.  So when four charming women entered the hot tub that Thursday afternoon, we boys were in hog heaven.  De De and her buddies were from Durango CO.  They were all married and had ditched their families for a girl’s week at Alta.  Great gals!  The only problem that day was they had not skied Alta and were full of stories about how wonderful Telluride was in Colorado.  We listened patiently, because we had an ace up our sleeve—a storm was coming.

That night I had dinner with a couple I had met at breakfast.  They had arranged to have some friends of theirs come up the mountain and dine with them, so I met several interesting people from SLC; as usual I pumped the locals for information about the economy of the area and, especially, for any Mormon stories. 

Meanwhile across the way, an economist was holding sway.  If there is anything more aggravating then a historian trying to fit the history of the world into a nice neat package, it is an economist (sorry Don) trying to explain the world through an economic lens. This know-it-all posited that all cultures are completely alike, and that it’s all about GDP.  We got off on China, something I know a little about.  I challenged this GDP-world-viewer on the fact the China had a very different culture then the west, as evidenced by their invention of the printing press in 400 CE (Current Era is more PC than AD) and the fact that they never used the cussed thing because the Chinese upper class wanted to maintain control and didn’t want the plebs to learn how to read or write.  He said “the printing press was nothing” and I of course unloaded on him.  The prig.  Luckily we were rescued by the others at the table who turned to talking about other less volatile issues.  Later the economist’s wife (who I had shared breakfast with) turned to me–her husband in another argument with someone else–and sighed, “Heated debate.” I replied, “Was there any other?” I can be such a snot.

Meanwhile, outside, storm clouds were approaching.

Returning from my Tahoe trip, I sadly stuffed my skis away for the season.  Because my funds were running low and a proposed Utah road trip had petered out, I resigned myself to staying put—poor me.

Powder Alerts, however, kept slamming into my In box.  Alta was getting hammered.  For those of you unaware, Alta is the greatest ski mountain in the world.  One of four resorts within a half hour drive from Salt Lake City (SLC), Alta gets over 500 inches of snow a year.  And the snow it gets, “Champagne Powder,” is the lightest and driest in the world: gorgeous fluffy stuff.  Its varied terrain and old-style feel lend it a particular charm.  For true skiers (sorry, no snow boards allowed) Alta is Mecca.

I bit the bullet, cashed in my last frequent flyer voucher, and got a place to stay with an old high school buddy who lived out in SLC.  Was this wise?  Sure, I had skied New Mexico and Colorado in January, but the snow was crap, so that didn’t count. Yes, I had just returned from Tahoe less than a month before, but…well, a ski junkie needs little excuse to grab his skis and head for the mountains.  I booked a flight for the end of March.

Then my lodging broke down.  My buddy Frank out in SLC got tied up with work, so no bunking at the Freeman Inn until the end of the trip.  After spending a couple of days weighing my options, I decided to go all out and stay up the mountain.  One of the most charming lodges in Little Cottonwood Canyon was the Alta Peruvian.  For the last decade, my ski friends and I crashed the place to use their hot tub and swimming pool.  This time I went legit and rented a dorm room.

(The Alta Peruvian Lodge; the views are great.)

Arriving in SLC on Wednesday, I drove up Little Cottonwood Canyon to the Alta Peruvian Lodge: less than an hour from airport to parking lot.  The dorm was a very snug four-bunk room: fortunately only one other roommate showed up.  It was still cramped and the bathroom was down the hall, but the price, including meals, was reasonable—and the Peruvian dinners were legendary.  The place had a great, open common room, a funky bar, and lots of little crooks and crannies to hang out in. Besides, when you’re there you mostly ski, eat, and crash.  So the Spartan accommodations fit just fine.

That night I sat down for a family-style dinner with seven other lodgers. 

They were a group from the East Coast.  We all told tall tales about our skiing exploits.  We all worshipped at the altar of Alta.  Most of them had been staying at the Peruvian for years.  Its atmosphere, and the food, kept bringing them back—some since the 1970s.  The four-course meal was superb; I had the lamb.  As I climbed into bed that night, I checked the weather report: a storm was brewing.

On Sunday with left Angel’s Camp and headed up to Mike’s favorite ski resort: Kirkwood.  There positions were reversed, as I found it difficult to push the day-old crud around the slopes while Mike’s stiffer skis worked quite well.  I was feeling punk.  After lunch, Mike cajoled me to take the lift up to “The Wall.”

The Wall of Shame was the scene of a major debacle during an earlier expedition to Kirkweed.  At that time, I had managed to slip at the very top of the wall and slide several hundred yards down the mountain.  Just as it would appear that I was coming to a halt, the slope would steepen and would plummet down a few more feet.  Mike had bets with another skier on whether I would make it down to the tree level.  Luckily I eased to a stop before damaging anything more than my ego.  Undaunted I went back up the mountain—and repeated my belly flop once again!  That day I left the mountain with my tail between my legs.

This time it was a different story.  The snow was excellent and I whooshed and swooshed like a god down the Wall—on my skis no less!  My spirits soared.

We lodged that night in a funky, haunted, overheated hotel in Truckee with the windows wide open listening to the roars of the mainline trains of the Southern Pacific streaking through town.  Charming.

Monday morning we headed to Squaw Valley.  I had been there the year before and loved it.  It did not disappoint.  The high point of the trip was skiing Granite Chief, a wonderful area full of cliffs and hollows, just the kind of place I love to explore.  Conditions still held and we spent much of the day carving in the soft, forgiving snow. 

I had blown my legs out by @2:00 p.m. but “One More” Conner felt the need to explore.  It was fun, but I was exhausted and started getting a little owley.  Finally I begged him to call it a day.  Since we had a three and a half hour drive back from Lake Tahoe to Oakland, he finally relented. 

Back in Oakland that evening we went to the Burma Superstar restaurant on Telegraph Ave.

Although it was Monday, the place was packed: we grabbed a two-top just before the supper rush.  I had a wonderful salad made with peanuts, sunflower seeds, and a Burmese tea reduction that turned into a tart dressing. Fantastic!

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For the main course, I had a chicken-shrimp casserole that I could not stop eating. It was delicious.  I’d like to relate how Mike and I discussed the mysteries of the world and all its splendor, but really we just talked trash.  He and I see one another enough that we don’t “catch up” but just experience our lives together.  Skiing does that.

Thus ended my trip to California.  Up next: Utah!

California Part VI: Saturday, February, 27, 2010 – Bear Valley and Angel’s Camp

Early Saturday morning, Mike and I took off for the Sierras.  Mike suggested we ski Bear Valley—a little mom-and-pop resort in the Gold Rush country between Lake Tahoe and Yosemite.  We arrived at Bear Valley about 9:00 a.m. and got on our gear. 

(Here is a photo of my from a few years–and pounds lighter–ago, with my gear on, ready for the slopes)

I had a great time skiing the two feet of soggy snow laid down by the storm that had soaked Oakland the day before.  Mike, still recovering from a cold, skied like crap.

(Here’s a photo of Mike, also in gear)

That evening we stayed at Mike’s sister’s place back down the mountain.  Sue lived in Angel’s Camp, an old gold mining town on Hwy 49—the scenic route through the California Gold Rush country.  She’d been living in Angel’s Camp for the better part of thirty years.  Nestled in the foothills of the Sierra, the town had no discernable economic engine that I could espy.  Sue explained the demographics: mostly teachers, government employees, and commuters to Stockton and Sacramento—about an hour and a half away.  In essence, Angel’s Camp was a bedroom community.

 (Here’s a photo of Sue. Photo curtesy of Alan Mathiowetz)

By chance Patti—Sue and Mike’s sister—was also staying the night.  Three Conners in one room is a combustible mixture, as I knew firsthand.  The Conner house in Hopkins had been ground zero for our high school gang.  Down in their basement, Old Man Conner would hold the floor against all comers; he and my friend Alan had many a lively—and loud—conversation.  Mike’s dad loved to egg us weak-kneed libbers on.  Mr. Conner’s children inherited much of his volubilityand irascibility. To an outsider, a Conner summit can be quite a deafening experience. Of course, Conners revel in it.

(Here is a photo of Mr. Conner with my old friend Alan looking at him adoringly. Photo curtesy of Alan Mathiowetz.)

That night the din was incredible.  No one Conner appeared to be listening to the other, yet they quickly sabered a repost when they overheard something disagreeable, which was often.  Sue and Patti’s significant others were inured to the robustness of the proceedings and sought to carry on civil conversations whenever they could hear each other.  But Conners tended to suck all the air out of the room and dominate the divergent conversations.  It was great fun and I joined in when I could get a word in edgewise.

We talked about the Recession and the California Abyss.  Sue and her husband were teachers and the perennial budget cuts (as well as the “Near Math” philosophy espoused by the California Dept of Education) had them in a lather.  California was in a deep financial hole.  Sue traced the roots of the disaster back to  Proposition 13 passed back in 1978.  The Jarvis-Gann Amendment rolled back and capped property taxes; since then state and local governments had been cutting back services.  “I was teaching in San Francisco when Prop 13 was passed.”  Sue explained. “Within a few years, the city was so strapped for funds that it started cutting staff.  It was the same throughout the Bay. I had to move out to the country to find a place to teach.”  Despite the problems, none of them were planning to head back to Minnesota anytime soon. “Too cold!”  Sue cried.

We lolled away the night in lively  conversation.

The next morning Mike and I stole away from the sleeping house, on our way back up the mountains to Kirkwood.

California Part V: Friday, February 26, The East Bay

Dedicated readers will recall my first day (Tuesday) in San Francisco began in a downpour.  For the next two days, the weather gods smiled on me; it was sunny and sixties in SF—as good as it gets.  (Here is a photo of Golden Gate Park taken from the De Young Museum.)

On Friday, a huge storm front swept in from the Pacific drenching the Bay area, but blanketing the Sierras with two feet of snow.  The Yin and the Yang.

I boarded BART mid-morning on Friday and thirty minutes later it had whisked me under the bay and dropped me off in Oakland. 

At the station, my old high school friend Mike Conner was waiting for me. Mike and I go way back.  He had moved out to the Bay Area in the early 1970s and since then had (mostly) graciously put me up in his various hovels.  From the Sunset neighborhood of San Francisco to the arid pastures of Pleasant Hill (about forty mile inland beyond the Coastal Range), Mike had homesteaded in the Bay area before settling down in the Oakland about 20 years ago.  A writer, band member, and now computer geek (I have no idea what he does to earn a living), Mike had managed to lead an eclectic life while siring four children with his first wife. (Here is a photo of Mike torturing his first grandchild.)

Conner drove me back up to his home.  Despite its reputation, the East Bay boasts a number of wonderful neighborhoods, many of them wedged into the hills overlooking the Bay.  Berkeley, Piedmont, and Oakland Hills are lovely areas.  Along Telegraph and Piedmont Aves, there are superb restaurants—including a Burmese restaurant on Telegraph Ave where I had a delicious meal.  But I get ahead of myself.  Mike (and Lisa’s) home was nestled within the city of Oakland just below Skyline Blvd.  Above it stood Redwood Regional Park and Joaquin Miller Park.  The walking trails there are formidable and afford splendid views of the Bay.

After a monsoon-like storm, the weather turned quite pleasant.  I took a quick walk up the road (there is no level in the Oakland Hills) for much-needed supplies: granola bars, pop, and sunflower seeds.  Later that afternoon I returned to my missives. It was during that time that I became a full-fledged blogger as Conner badgered me into creating one.  Although he had never created a blog before, he was a master in the ways of the internet and had no trouble directing me through process.  Thanks, Mike.

Later that evening Lisa came home.  Lisa Seitz and Mike Conner were married in 2002.  As I heard it, there’s had been a true rock and roll romance.  Lisa had been a follower of The Naked Barbies–the band Mike was playing in–and attended most of their concerts. 

(Here’s a photo of the Naked Barbies playing at Mike and Lisa’s wedding, with Mike’s Best Man, Pattie Spiglanin on vocals and guitar. Note Mike, attending to his guests, playing keyboard far right.)

Thrown into one another’s company, Mike kept hitting her until she relented and went out with him.  Their wedding affair on the shores of Lake Tahoe was a wild affair attended by several of the old Benilde High School gang, some of whom can barely remember the event.  Their names, Brian/Steve Mundy, shall remain nameless.

Lisa is a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat.  She worked for former Governor Jerry Brown during his successful bid to become mayor of Oakland.  A marvelous blend of progressive and realist, Lisa can take a nuanced view of events while remaining optimistic.  Lisa and I spent most of that evening talking politics.  She was much more upbeat about the possible passage of the health care bill (at a time when the bill appeared all but dead) and about President Obama’s performance.  We talked into the evening as Mikey whipped up dinner. (Here is a photo of Mike and Lisa at the de young museum a few year’s ago.)

The next day we would head to the mountains.

Thursday dawned cool and sunny. Perfect SF weather.  A day in the city had reset my directional compass.  Armed with a three-day Metro pass and a transit map, the transportation system was at my command. With my Eyewitness (DK) San Francisco Travel Guide (absolutely the best travel guides out there) and my Barbary Coast map in hand, I was ready to rock.  I took the trolley down Mission St to my jumping off point at the old U. S. Mint on Fifth and Mission. 

Built in 1874 in the Beaux Arts style, the old mint was one of the few buildings to survive the 1906 earthquake.  It served as a mint until 1937 and then as a museum until 1994.  Now the Granite Lady stands unused, its future uncertain.  Although I love old historic buildings, I am mindful that they must continue to function economically or eventually they face the wreckers ball–such is the nature of the urban condition.

 Leaving the mint, I made my way west to  Union Square then skirted the edge of Chinatown before reaching my next destination: Portsmouth Square.

The Spanish laid out Portsmouth Square early in the town’s history.  Until the 1850s, it lay about a block up the hill, up a steep hill, from the water’s edge of Yerba Buena Cove.  The cove was filled in long ago and now the square looks out at the city’s downtown financial towers.  The Spaniards have long vacated the square; now it teems with Chinese. I saw scores of  children played on the swings, guarded by grandmothers and grandfathers.  Nearby men played games, practiced martial arts, and smoked while women chatted, with ever an eye on their wards.  It was a vibrant scene. 

Descending the square, I came to Montgomery Street, which used to be the old water’s edge.  Named after the captain of the USS Portsmouth who sailed into the Yerba Buena Cove in 1846 and ran a U. S. flag up in the aforesaid square, Montgomery Street is now the gateway to downtown SF.  The Transamerica Pyramid, one of the most recognizable symbols of the city, dominates the Montgomery Block.  An imposing (though not universally esteemed)  building, it was its surroundings that I gravitated to.  Wrapped around three-quarters of the base of the Pyramid stands a small Redwood Park.  The trees provide a bucolic setting in the heart of this whirlwind forest of commerce. The park contains some charming statuary (including “Bummer and Lazarus:” two legendary dogs that roamed the city in the 1850s) and places to sit and watch SF go by.  Such a lovely park in the middle of this pell-mell city.

(Click below to see a google map of the park: I hope!)

http://maps.google.com/?ie=UTF8&ll=37.794854,-122.402245&spn=0,359.998585&t=h&z=20&layer=c&cbll=37.79475,-122.402368&panoid=g3gOB-9AZI-q_6ge7Ml1pg&cbp=12,27.07,,0,-13.85

About two blocks west of the Pyramid lay Jackson Square, home to some of the oldest structures in SF. I’m not sure why it is called a square, although it did have some trees lining the old street corners.  Walking down the block, my eyes were snared by some amazing maps in the window of a gallery housed in one of the old brick buildings.  I decided to enter.  The Arader Gallery displayed very high quality prints as well as a few superb original paintings.  A huge Albert Bierstadt painting of Mount Rainer was, at $3.5 million, the highest priced piece of private art that I’ve ever stood before; it really should be in a museum. 

The gallery Assistant told me that the shop across the street contained beams that were made from masts of old abandoned Gold Rush ships.  I had to go look.

While the masts were interesting, the most charming aspect of the journey was the director of the gallery.  Greta was delightful.  She shared a love of history and art.  An avid skier, she told about her favorite ski resorts and runs including Granite Chief at Lake Tahoe.  Alas, I took no photos that day. 

I grabbed some lunch at a forgettable shop near the Pyramid and decided to tour North Beach.  I soon happened on a bicycle shop.  It being a fine day, I decided to rent one.  While walking has its charms, one can take in a lot more of a huge city like San Francisco on a bicycle.  I wheeled down to Fisherman’s Warf, then west along the Bay Shore until I started the climb up to the Presidio.  All the while, I could feel Charles the Great and Joan of Arc beckoning me.

The steep climb from the Bay Shore to the heights overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge quickly blew out my legs.  I got a little lost, despite my map, but eventually I made my way to Lincoln Park. There, in a beautiful setting overlooking the bay, flanked by statues of the great French hero Charlemagne and heroine Jeanne d’Arc, stood the Palace of the Legion of Honor.  Home to some excellent European artwork from the 15^th through the 19^th century, it boasts a fantastic Rembrandt.  I felt a little foolish walking around drenched in sweat in my shorts, but looking like a fool has seldom daunted me.

After the museum trip I made my way over to Golden Gate Park.  While there, I began to have some technical issues with the bike and I soon decided to return the shop.  After the strenuous journey out, I WAS daunted by the trip back.  What I failed to realize was that the journey out was mostly uphill.  After walking up one short but extremely steep hill, the rest of the ride back to the bike shop was a breeze.

After dropping my bike off, I boarded the Powell & Hyde St. Cable Car.  Now for years I visited SF and never took the cable car. “What do you want to do that for?” my friend Mikey would sneer, “That’s just for tourists.”  Suddenly one day I embraced my tourist persona and jumped on board.  I’ve never regretted it.  The Powell & Hyde St. cable car took me from North Beach, up and down some really steep hills and through the downtown area.  It is a great way to see the sights and meet fellow travelers.  I met some Swedes and got to impress them with my knowledge of Stockholm and the Vanska Ship/Museum.  The cable car can be also be a really good way to get from here to there.  And there was where I was going.

One more transfer and I was on the trolley going up Mission Street.  Soon I was back in my hotel.  The next day would be transfer day.

I thought I’d share some of my favorite photos from my visit to Paris in September of 2006.

Here I am looking good but feeling bad–I had horrible jet lag my first three days in Paris. I go old…

View of the garden at the Musee Carnavalet. The Hotel Carnavalet (Hotel in French means large house) once was the home of the famous Mme. Sevigne; now it houses the museum of the history of Paris. I love the museum and I adore the jardin.

One of my favorite restaurants in Paris, its on the northwest corner of the Place des Vosges. Not to be missed.

With my gals.  Renior’s Jeunes Filles au Piano captured my heart when I first visited Paris in 1978 when I was 26.  They have moved from the Jeu de Paume (on the corner of the Tuileres Gardens) to the Musee d’Orsay on the Left Bank.  The girls still look as beautiful as ever.

Beauty at the Musee Picasso.

With my Paris friend, the author Thirza Vallois.

San Francisco Part III: Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Mission Delores was only four blocks from 16^th and Mission, yet it was a world away.  As I walked up the road, (up and down being the operative directions in San Francisco), the scenery changed from vagrants and check-cashing joints to small, well-manicured lawns and well-kept homes.  Mission Delores itself was dwarfed by its larger sister—the cathedral next door—but charming. It’s a white adobe structure that must have served as a fortress/church back in the 1800s.  The grounds around it included a small cemetery containing some of the city’s oldest grave markers.  But the real gem was the street itself.

Delores Street runs north-south from Market Street.  It boasts a tree-lined boulevard and some small, single-family dwellings.  Three blocks south of the mission was Delores Park.  (See photo)  The day before, I had been stuck in a city with three feet of dirty gray snow.  Here before me, nestled in the foothills, was a broad swath of green extending upwards.  I was stunned.  I lolled about the park for a while before strolling through the park and up into the hills overlooking the Castro District.

Man, those hills were steep!  The map I had showed a normal grid pattern, but there was nothing normal about the swift, sharp pitch of the street.  I paused several times before reaching the summit.  I had planned on heading further south into the Noe Valley District, but I when saw the severe undulation below me, I decided I was not going to brave that climb again.  Instead of heading south, I followed the ridgeline west and then headed north on Castro. 

Far below me to the north, I could make out a street scene; the chief feature visible was a theatre marquee and a huge rainbow flag rippling in the wind.  As I descended the hill into the heart of the Castro District, I took in the revels of Gay San Francisco.  Perhaps the most striking landmark was that huge rainbow flag—it seemed to shout out “Gay Pride” for all the world to see.  It was a vibrant scene, full of students, street musicians, hippies, and lovers.  On the corner, folks were passing out handbills extolling the value of safe sex, socialism, and sadomasochism.  Interesting as all these were, I was getting hungry.  I decided to hop a bus and head for the ocean.

I jumped off the bus at an entrance to Golden Gate Park about a mile from the coast.  I sauntered through the park heading west.  Our olfactory system conjures up some of our most persistent memories.  One of my first recollections of coming to Golden Gate Park back in 1971 was the smell of the Eucalyptus trees.  Now, as I passed one, I bent down and stuffed a few Eucalyptus acorns into my backpack.  Fresh memories.

Then, another sense activated.  As I got closer to the ocean I began to hear waves crashing against the shore.  I love Minneapolis, but it has no mountains and no ocean.  So every time I get a chance, I have to see the silvery-gray ocean waves and hear their dull roar and smell the sharp salty air and squish sand between my toes.  Golden Gate Park ends at the West Coast, and there, as far as the eye can see, the ocean washes over a wide beach front, with sea gulls and strollers moving along it.  To the north, just up the hill, was the day’s final destination.

The Cliff House Restaurant doesn’t serve the greatest food, but it serves up one of the greatest views in the world.  Perched precariously on a cliff overlooking the ocean, Cliff House has been a SF institution since the late 1800s.  The present structure is the third building on the site.  Mark Twain frequented the first one; I frequent the third.  As usual the food was OK (warm, fresh bread), but the real treat was watching the setting sun sink slowly into the sea.  Awesome.

My first day in SF was over.

Part II: Mission Bay and Mission Delores

It was still misting a bit when I got out on Wednesday morning.  I had gone online the night before and found a walking tour of the Mission Bay area—it started about two miles from my hotel.  On my way to the tour I stopped to get a 3-day Metro Pass.  For $20 I was able to jump on any kind of public transportation—except BART.  That day, it came in real handy. 

The Mission Bay Walking Tour was a lot of talk and not much walk.  The Mission Bay district is one the east side of SF below Market Street–and it is no longer a bay.  By the late 1800s, Mission Bay had been filled in and was used as a major rail yard for the Southern Pacific—still a giant and powerful California entity.  In the 1980s, the railroad pulled up the tracks and a huge swath of land lay waiting for development.  For about 20 years the city debated what to do with the land.  About 2000, the San Francisco Giants built a new stadium in Mission Bay’s China Basin area.  Meanwhile the Southern Pacific Railroad started the largest building project in SF since 1906, the year of the earthquake and fire.  Mission Bay began to fill in once again.

Now the Bay is about 50% developed.  Several hundred private condominiums dot the landscape, while the University of San Francisco has begun building a new medical campus in the area.  Of course, everything came to a halt two years ago; there has been little activity lately.  Still it seems to be a good and needed addition to the city.  In the midst of all this building, 20 houseboats bob on Mission Creek, a large stream bisecting the district.  It’s quite a sight to see them strung along the creek, with brand new rows of condos towering over them.

While on my tour, the sun came out and the pavement dried up.  Suddenly life was much better.  I hurried back to my hotel to change and then headed out.  I took the trolley to 16^th & Mission Street: a more depressed area then that around my 9^th and Mission hotel.  At least the sun was shining.

My destination was Mission Delores.  You may have noticed that this missive contains a lot of references to Mission: Mission Bay, Mission Creek, and Mission Street.  All of them take their name from Mission Delores.  La Misión de San Francisco de Asis is the oldest building in San Francisco, dating from 1776.  At that time, there were only two structures in the area, the mission and the fort on the Presidio: church and state.  San Francisco was, like Santa Fe, the northernmost post of the Spanish Empire in America.

Some of you brighter lights, those who haven’t dozed off by now, may be saying, “Wait a minute. The Spanish came to America in 1492; Santa Fe was founded in 1610. Why did it take the Spanish until 1776 to found a city near the greatest natural bay in the world?”  Why indeed.

Folks had been poking around the west coast of the America since the 1500s.  Sir Francis Drake reported landing on the coast of California in 1579, probably somewhere near Monterey.  For 200 years after, hundreds of ships had passed along the coast.  Yet no one was able to find the entrance to the great harbor; no one even knew it was there!  The thick fog that so often curls up from the Pacific Ocean hid the bay entrance. In fact, the Golden Gate was not first discovered by sea, but by land.

In 1769 a lowly Sergeant Jose Ortega, on an expedition to the northern reaches of the Spanish Empire, found the La Boca Del Puerto (the mouth of the Bay).  It took seven years before the Spanish colonized the area, coming in 1776.  The military set up at the Presidio, near the Boca, and the Franciscans set up about three miles to the southeast, on a creek leading into the bay.

Under Spanish rule, San Francisco remained a small concern; it was simply too far north. Meanwhile, the Spanish Empire was slowly disintegrating and there was little money or will to exploit the area.  It wasn’t until the Yankees and other foreigners came into the bay in the 1820s that business began to pick up.  Whaling ships had begun to use the bay as a place to take on wood and water, and enterprising Yanks began to trade with them, using the Yerba Buena Cove (the cove, like Mission Bay, is completely filled in and is home to SF’s Financial District).  Captain Montgomery raised the American flag in Portsmouth Square in 1846 and two years later the U.S. had secured California.  It January of 1848 gold was discovered in the mountains to the east.  It took a while for the news to leak out, but by 1849, the rush was on.

San Francisco went from a town of @ 500 in 1848, to a city of 35,000 by 1850.  Such an explosion of humanity naturally overwhelmed all the resources of the civil administration.  SF was as wild a town as there was.  In 1850, an egg cost $1.00. Thoughout the 1850s, vigilanty justice was the law of the day.  The city boomed throughout the late 1800s and into the 20th century.  The great earthquake and fire of 1906 slowed it down for a year or two, but it went right on booming.  Today the Bay Area has a population of 6.9 million people.

But I digress.

Throughout this time, Mission Dolores remained a magnet.  Market Street started out as a way from the bay to the mission.  As SF began to prosper, the church was remodeled and a new cathedral was built next to it.  Still the old Spanish mission continues to draw people to it—people like me.

End of Part II.

California Part 1: San Francisco

I just spent two days in SF and have now crossed the bay to Oakland.  I’m staying at my friends Mike and Lisa in the foothills overlooking Oakland.  It’s a beautiful area with a number of spectacular parks just a short climb up the hill.  Tonight (Friday) I’m bunking here, then Mike and I will be off to the mountains skiing.

My trip got off to a rocky start.  Blame it on my quitting caffeine a week ago Thursday; my brain is still a little foggy.  Why did I quit caffeine? Because I am tired of running to the bathroom every ten minutes.  The Trembley brothers, as I found out last week, all have the same problem, so I fault my father,  as for so much in my life.  Anyway, besides the splitting headaches, which subsided after about two days (but have not yet ended), it seems I’m in a bid of a haze. But I really digress.

For those of you who do not travel much via air, here’s a helpful hint: There is a difference between your seat number (14 C in this case) and your gate number (G 16 as it were).  Since I’m a seasoned traveler I didn’t bother to check at the gate to see where it was going to take me. (I vaguely remember looking at the screen; I thought it said San Francisco.)  Even after the time past for me to board, I was blithely unaware of the impending doom.  Only when it came time to board the flight to Colorado Springs did I finally wake up to my dilemma.  Instantly the adrenaline rush dispelled my fog.  I ran to gate G16 to find … the bird had flown. 

The desk attendant was very helpful.  “Yes, we were wondering where you were,” she said serenely.  I told her what an idiot I had been and she replied, “This happens a lot.”  I asked her if they had taken off my bags, she said no, they were on their way to SF.  I knew there was a later flight leaving  in about three hours.  I was praying that they wouldn’t charge me too much for my hubris.  To my astonishment, there was no charge.  She just printed up a replacement ticket and sent me on my way.

The travel gods would not let me off that lightly though.  Instead of getting into SF midday, I arrived after dark.  When I got to SF, it was pouring rain.  Although it was only two  blocks from the BART station to my hotel, it seemed a mile. Dark shapes lurked in every recess. Although I was quite soaked by the time I got to the hotel, I was quite relieved.  The gods will have their way.

I stayed at a cheap hotel below Market Street in a rough part of town. The number of homeless in SF is truely astounding, as are the number of panhandlers and street hustlers.  So many people begging for money. Although it was street life of a sort, it was not the kind I was looking for.

I arrived Tuesday evening and took a little stroll down Market Street towards Embarcadero.  I stopped at a great old refurbished building: On the fouth floor it had a huge dome with small tables set out under it. I had a bite at a charming French pastisserie there, then headed back home.  I had made it.  Now I could settle in and plan my campaign.

San Francisco is a large, densely packed city, ideal for public transportation.  The city itself is spread across the entire peninsula from the Bay to the Ocean.  The city (as opposed to the metropolitan area) is not compact like Paris or London; it is more like New York: millions of people in a large, but delineated area of land.  Since I’d been to SF at least a dozen times, I knew that I needed to pace myself: no need to walk everywhere.  Better to take the Metro, (bus, trolley, and cable car) and then walk once I had gotten “there,” wherever that was.  On the first day, my plan worked pretty well.

So where’s the history lesson? Patience my friends.

End of Part 1