Boy and Girl have been dreadfully desperate to get out of Dodge. We made our first attempt two weeks ago, but were thwarted by Boy's unbelievably invasive job (Girl's a little bitter about it). However, our second attempt to flee Grand Junction was a smashing success.
San Francisco.
Boy's favorite city in the states.
Boy and Girl have a fundamental conflict wherein Girl likes to be surrounded by wind and willows and ponds and the random local cheese lady and Boy likes to be surrounded by people. Lots and lots of people. All the time.
Girl likes this very little. Or not at all.
"I gave big cities a chance!" an exasperated Girl told her beseeching Boy as he attempted to persuade her to consider London (or some other monstrosity) as a future home. "I lived in Istanbul for three months! And I've been to most of the capital cities in Europe. I feel overwhelmed and disconnected in cities."
"Istanbul doesn't count!" Boy retorted to his stubbornly resistant Girl. "You hated Istanbul anyway. There was the language barrier, the cultural barrier, the four hours of commuting on the daily..."
"...ach. Fair."
So in an effort to share his fascination with big cities, Boy whisked Girl away to San Francisco last Thursday night. We'd hoped to take Troy's incredibly efficient three-cylinder Geo on the journey, but as we'd received rejection message after rejection message on couchsurfing (no one hosts couples. Ever) we took my mom's behemoth beast of a van (which we've named "Rosamund". As she is both rose colored and rotund). We figured we'd just park Rosamund on the side of the road, pull down the curtains and snooze in the back every night. Also, Troy's Geo is stick shift, and as neither Girl nor Daniel (Troy's longtime, err.... homieG? homiegee? homie-G?... oof. I don't understand gangsta... gangster?) drive stick, Troy would have been in the unenviable position of driving all the way to San Francisco.
"The front tires are new and I changed the oil for you," my saint of a mother said as she handed me the keys to the beast. "However, the brakes need to be replaced, so try not to go down too many hills."
"Sure thing," I responded naively, totally ignorant of the fact that the topography of San Francisco is modeled after the seismograph of a 8.5 earthquake.
Daniel met us at Troy's place at 10:00 on Thursday night and we loaded our backpacks and blankets into Rosamund.
"We're going to San Francisco!" Daniel hollered to Troy.
"We're going to San Francisco!" Troy whooped to me.
"Eh. I'll believe it when we're halfway there," I mumbled bitterly, thinking of all the times our past adventures have been "shtoinked" (in Troy's words) by his unbelievably invasive job.
Troy took the first shift. Like the fabulous girlfriend I am, I kept him company for at least five minutes and then went to sleep in the back. In a nest I'd created out of four pillows and an abundance of fluffy blankets.
Daniel took the second shift, and drove like a fucking champ for five hours. I woke once during this marathon and found myself surrounded by a maelstrom of slow-moving semis (maelstrom is the animal grouping terminology for salamanders. I think it also works for semis).
This is how it would feel to be a small dinosaur in a herd of brontosauri, I thought deliriously and then fell back asleep, wrapped in Boy's arms and comfortably nested in three and a half of the four pillows.
As it was still dark by the end of Daniel's shift and Aimee + Dark + Rosamund = Death and Disaster and All Manner of Unpleasantness for All, Troy took the third shift. And drove like a zombie for an hour.
Finally, when Troy and Daniel were both ashen and exhausted and I was (believe it or not) the safest driver available, I reluctantly left my Boy and my three and three-quarters pillows (I steal blankets and pillows in my sleep), and took a shift.
This is the first time I've driven over 60 miles an hour in... errr... four years? God, I hate driving.
I pulled out of the gas station and onto I80 just as it began pissing rain.
"Wake me up if you need anything," Boy said before passing out in the seat next to me.
The jerk. He could at least stay awake and keep me company (Most say the blindness of love is related to the faults of the beloved. I say, what a waste. If I'm going to be in love and I'm going to be blind, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity and be blind to my own faults).
I drove through the piss for two and a half hours, eyes glued to whatever road I could see through the steady stream of sky urine and fingers going numb from gripping the wheel like it was a piece of cheese someone was trying to take away from me.
"Boy," I said as I pulled to a stop just outside of Reno, "I can't do it anymore. Will you take over?"
Boy blearily took the wheel.
I promptly fell back asleep.
We arrived in San Francisco about three hours later. Judging by the terrifying amount of traffic, everyone and their mom's tlayuda buddy was on their way to San Francisco for the weekend.
"Let's find a Trader Joe's and have a picnic in the park," I suggested, feeling all nostalgic for park picnics and already overwhelmed by the size of the city.
"Anything to get out of Rosamund," Boy groaned. "Gosh, I hate big cars."
Traffic slowed suddenly. Boy is accustomed to driving his three cylinder, ultralight Geo -- a vehicle that stops significantly faster than a luxury van with bad brakes.
*brakes slam*
*Girl shrieks*
*Rosamund gently *thwump*s into the truck in front*
*Boy face palms*
"GOSH, I HATE BIG CARS."
"Wait until he moves forward so you can see if there's any damage," Daniel kept his cool. Daniel appears to be a fellow of perpetual calm. A chap of eternal easy-going.
There was no damage. Nary a nick. And as the traffic was far too convoluted to pull over and discuss the ding, Troy gave the... err... disgruntled driver of the *thwumped* truck a thumbs up and we continued on our merry (although somewhat rattled) way to the wonderland that is Trader Joe's.
We purchased nuts and cheese and fruit and charcuterie.
And wine.
Always (always) the wine.
Then we descended into Golden Gate Park.
Daniel and Boy played soccer in the AIDS memorial park whilst I jotted down a Savasana relaxation in my yoga notebook.
Then Daniel napped and Boy and I wandered about the seemingly endless park (1017 acres of endlessness).
During the 16 hour drive to the Golden Gate City, Daniel had received a text from another... umm... homieG... about some manner of cousin in the city who'd be willing to host us Friday and Saturday nights.
"If they live in the city limits, we should definitely stay with them. Showers are nice. Rosamund has a lovely backseat nest, but toilets are nice. And strangers inviting us into their home are nice."
So we walked back to our sleeping, perpetually pacific friend and then bumbled up and down the precipitous streets all the way to the charming apartment of Stephanie and Jake.
An apartment located about .5 miles away from Golden Gate Park.
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| Daniel waking up from his nap |
I love it when these are the most difficult decisions in my life. Do I want to eat delicious Korean, Japanese, Ethiopian or Vietnamese food? Mmmm, life is hard right now.
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| Gosh, do I love this guy. |
Boy might have experienced a violent foodgasm whilst consuming one of the cafe's blueberry cream danishes.
I know I experienced a fairly intense lattegasm.
"It's so creamy!" I said, handing my mug to Boy. "This has to be one of the best lattes I've ever had. And I've... uhh... not had a small amount of lattes."
San Francisco is winning at cafes. Even though the prices are outlandish, they provide out-of-this-world blueberry cream danishes, lattes, and men with epic ginger beards.
Our first morning in San Francisco was west coast of Ireland style windy (and just as cold). I shivered and shook under my poncho as the wind buffeted me from (seemingly) every direction, and Boy clumsily unfurled Madeline in hopes that she would offer some manner of protection.
Daniel took off his shoes to feel the sand.
"Never wear shoes on the beach," he trumpeted.
"Ummm... yes. When it's either blisteringly hot or absolutely frigid. Then wear shoes."
(Three months of living on the beach in Mexico have made me significantly more practical and less romantic when it comes to sand)
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| Boy avec Madeline. Daniel sans shoes. |
Boy watched Daniel romp for approximately 2.7 seconds before dumping his umbrella, stripping off his sweats and skipping off towards the waves.
Heels clicked a time or seventeen and Girl sufficiently windblown and frozen, we walked back to the train station, boarded the Muni, watched the city rumble by for 45 minutes, and disembarked at the Embarcadero.
Where we gazed longingly, lovingly, lustfully at all the delicious goodies, and then ate our leftover picnic cheeses on a bench near the water.
As we all love walking, Daniel had been pining for a workout, and tickets for the Muni were 2.25 apiece, we decided to walk ten miles back to our temporary home with Stephanie and Jake.
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| Troy wants to live in one of these houses. I want to live in a tree in Golden Gate Park. |
Ten miles in theory is quite a bit shorter than ten miles of walking up and down a remarkably hilly city in practice. By the time we reached Stephanie and Jake, I had a blister forming on my left foot and was all manner of resentful towards anything that looked remotely sloping.
Daniel returned to the apartment to spend the evening studying and chatting with our hosts.
And Boy took Girl on a date.
In San Francisco.
A date at a fancy French restaurant for which we were thirty minutes late. Due to the fact that Rosamund is enormous (and rotund) and we couldn't park her, anywhere.
"I'm sorry we're so late," Troy said as we walked into Chapeau! (yes. That is the French word for "hat." And yes. The name of the restaurant does have an exclamation mark).
"Yes, you are very late," a large, gregarious frenchman responded sassily. "But now I can see why," he looked at me.
I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel. Flattered? Like, I look like I took a long time to get ready? Well, THAT'S hilarious.
The frenchman led us to our table, "Here you are, and here you are," he pulled out a chair for Boy and motioned to a soft bench against the wall for me."
"Can I actually sit here?" Troy moved to sit next to me.
"First you are late, and now you choose where you sit?" The frenchman boomed. "Of course. Enjoy your meal."
Salade Landaise was the appetizer.
My main was a pork tenderloin with parsnip puree in an apple calvados sauce.
Boy's main was Carnard au Miel & Aux Epices -- duck leg confit, pan seared duck breast, polenta, honey and spiced duck jus.
I can't even talk about dessert.
After the meal, we stumbled back to Rosamund (who was parked about a mile away. Uphill) and then galumphed (Rosamund is quite the galumpher) over to a place with a view.
Gosh, do I love this guy.
The frigid wind had not died down, so we didn't linger at the viewpoint as long as we'd have liked, but even this nature-loving girl could deeply appreciate San Francisco's city lights at night.
We walked back to Golden Gate Park the next morning (after a quick jaunt to the gasmic cafe and a soccer session on the beach), returned to Trader Joe's, and picnicked in the Panhandle.
The evening was spent on Golden Gate Bridge.
Jake and Stephanie had graciously offered to let us stay in their apartment Sunday night, even though they were out of town. So we opened a bottle of Trader Joe's wine and watched The Big Lebowski (Boy had never seen it before) until we fell asleep.
Rosamund wouldn't have been AWFUL to sleep in... but dear me, this has been such a blessing.
If Jake and Stephanie had been couchsurfers, I would have left them a rave review. Super engaging, helpful, hilarious and the proud owners of a magical coffee pot that looks like a vial one might use for science (I named it "Nicholi).
What a beautiful surprise this was.
Troy had wanted to take me to an Italian breakfast at "Mama's" the next morning, but like all self-respecting Italian restaurants, it was closed on Monday. So I found another nearby restaurant that looked decent enough.
It was so decent. So very, very decent.
Polenta with gorgonzola... drizzled with honey... topped with two poached eggs and two strips of bacon...
... is not gross.
It's rather decent, as a matter of fact.
Boy and I left Daniel in a church park to nap and people watch whilst we returned to Chinatown to purchase some exotic fruits.
Troy took the first shift.
I took the second.
Daniel took the third (darkest and longest).
Troy took the fourth.
I took the fifth.
We arrived back in GJ around 8:30 on Tuesday morning.
"Let's stop by my family's house, have a quick breakfast and thank my mom for the use of Rosamund," I told my haggard travel companions.
I wish I had a beard. The "haggard" look is so much better with a beard.
In the next life. I will be a bearded wonder.
A haggard, bearded wonder.
Tuesday afternoon was full of naps, cocktails (thanks, Cathy!), cooking and more naps.
That. Was so much of what I needed. Four days with Boy, in one of Boy's favorite places and with one of Boy's closest, most supportive friends. So. Damn. Healing.
Also, Cathy's cocktails. Those are always healing.
