So we left off around Tuesday evening of the California leg of my summer vacation, after our early disappointing dinner at Bouchon. We stopped at a Starbucks in Napa to log onto the internet so that we could find a hotel for the night. We weren’t finding anything in Monterey or Santa Cruz that met Esteban’s approval (and I personally refuse to pay $200 a night for a freaking Hampton Inn), but I happened upon a weird quirky Joie de Vivre offering in Sunnyvale that had excellent Travelocity and Trip Advisor ratings. The downside was the name. Wild Palms. A name like that just begs to have a night filled with cockroaches dancing on your face and a toilet clogged with bent heroin spoons. However, the price was ridiculously reasonable and it was really close to the airport.
Since the plans for Wednesday involved Monterey AND San Francisco and then we needed to be at the airport in San Jose ridiculously early, it seemed reasonable to just reserve two nights, sight unseen. I took a deep breath and hit Purchase and it was done. While online, we read about Steve Irwin’s death due to sting ray, at which point I had to call my mother-in-law June and tell her, because she has also been stung by a sting ray (in the base of the foot) and hates them very much to this day (while I still think they are kind of cool, but since I also love sharks, I am clearly without prejudice for my love of sea creatures who are occasionally brutal). She and Dad were actually at our house, caring for Tilly and oh, yeah, digging up our back walkway, was that ok? I assured her that I didn’t care about the back pavers, since they were sunken way below the surface of the lawn and I was pretty sure that they were just cheap concrete slabs anyway. And then I told her about going to see the Great White Shark and mentioned that if they let me swim with it, I totally would. She freaked out and did her “WEETABIX!” in a worried voice. I shouldn’t tease her but I also sort of love that she gets so overcome with worry that she doesn’t even realize that I’m kidding. It’s such a novelty that I just can’t keep from pressing that button.
We hoped back into the car and made our way out of Napa (bye Napa!), past the big statue of the John Steinbeck-looking character pressing the grapes, and back down into the East Bay. Traffic was nasty, since it was rush hour and we’re unaccustomed to traffic, but eventually, we exited in San Jose and started to look for El Camino Real. I was pretty sure that I had seen El Camino Real the night we landed, while trying to find the highway, so it stood to reason that we could find it easily enough while exiting San Jose. Or so one might think. We drove around for a while, being super techno geeks and pointing out all the IT companies we’ve either read or written about or worked with (and maybe I squeed a little when we passed eBay) and finally found El Camino Real. Which is, by the way, the longest road in all the land. I’m certain that you’ve heard of it, because it probably passes your house too.
We drove and drove and drove, all the while Esteban was getting cranky because I did complete a detailed hand-drawn map of the entire East Bay while getting our accommodations, and honestly, mostly we were very worried that we’d have to pass hookers giving blow jobs to Johns on the way to our room, because honestly, at that price, it didn’t seem possible. I spotted the Wild Palms sign and we pulled up and realized that we were being silly, because it was actually a freshly refurbished funky and cool and the kind of place where ironic hipsters who travel in Air Stream trailers might stay. Our room wasn’t huge but it was all very pulled together, complete with a canopy over the bed and funkadelic fixtures. The bathroom sink was a thing of beauty and we decided that they could have probably charged twice the nightly rate if they had a plasma screen TV rather than the cheap hotel standard television. It was like Melrose Place, except that I kept expecting Mr. Roper to come and knock on our door.
Neither of us had an appetite at Bouchon, by that time, we were both starving. I had been whimpering about In n Out Burger all week and Esteban agreed that if I could find an In n’Out Burger nearby and would be willing to go get it, he’d be happy with that. I hopped onto our free wireless connection and found that there was an In n’Out three blocks up, right on El Camino Real. Clearly, this was the perfect hotel. I ran out and picked up cheeseburgers, fries and shakes, and we sat in our canopied hotel bed and ate glorious exotic fast food, as was appropriate for the Wild Melrose Company Motel.
We slept very late, and I could barely wake up, so Esteban jumped into the shower while I checked e-mail. After he was finished, I jumped in and tried to hurry, but while lathering, I suddenly felt the world start to shift and then I was falling sideways. I’m not really sure what happened but I remember screaming a girly “ice cubes down the back of the sweater” scream and then I found myself cradled between the edge of the tub and nothing. The shower curtain had formed a kind of hammock. I had time to think “Wow, that could have been bad” and then there was the high pitched SPROINGs of ten metal shower curtain rings each bending outward, one after another. In rapid succession, as each one gave, I was lowered a few inches, until I came to rest on the floor, my head somehow missing both the toilet and the concrete countertop. Amazingly enough, neither the shower curtain nor the rod were damaged, and while I finished carefully rinsing my hair in a curtainless shower, Esteban bent the rings back together and restrung the shower curtain, both laughing at how really awful it could have been and how the Wild Palms was clearly Not Your Average Hotel.
We hit the road and discovered the comedy stations of our satellite radio, so we spent most of the time laughing at old comedy routines, so the drive went quickly. We got to Monterey and ended up eating at a truly awful touristy restaurant on Cannery Row, which left us both disgusted.
When we went into the Aquarium, my husband, when presented with some of the coolest mysteries of the undersea world, chose to spend the first twenty minutes reading about the sardine canning factory that used to be there and examining the blast furnace. The blast furnace! We are so diametrically opposed sometimes. I was there in spring and I didn’t even SEE that crazy thing, but history? Esteban sniffs it out like McGruff the Crime Dog (which, by the way, what is the point of that PSA exactly? I dislike McGruff, because not only is he really sanctimonious but he confused the hell out of me as a kid. Weren’t people innocent until proven guilty? If so, criminal investigators shouldn’t be BITING people. It just seemed to be a advocating police brutality to me, as a very politically aware 9-year-old (which, wow, I really did turn 9 the year he debuted, so clearly I have been scarred by McGruff to remember that)) whereas I am all “shark shark sharky sharkness SHARK!”, which are the lyrics to a song of my own devising.
My camera flash goes off.
Immediately, the zoologist hops onto the intercom and reminds us to not use flash photography and that it upsets the White and they can tell that he’s upset by counting the thrashes of his tail, and I wanted to shout “NooooooOOOOOOoooo! It was an accident! I’m sorry!” but instead I ran away from the exhibit and maybe really did cry a little. We then watched from the side portal, and Esteban pointed out that he didn’t seem to be too upset and I squelched my grief for the stupid camera mishap. Luckily he started eating the very next day, so I can’t beat myself up about it too much. If he had then withered away to nothing, of course, I would be willing my estate to shark research right this very minute, because damn. Damn.
I decided that we were done, before I could do any more damage, and then we went back downstairs. I had been joking earlier that I really wanted a Great White Shark puppet, so that I could chase the cat around the house and also maybe attack Esteban in the dark with it, and then he found one in the kid’s souvenir area. Naturally, it had to be mine, along with a smaller one (so that Bitey the Friendly Shark would have something to snack on play with during the long flight home).
Then we drove out of Monterey up Hwy 1 through fields of artichokes. I was ok with this section of the highway, having driven over it earlier this year. It was without the cliffs of death and dismay, so I thought it would be a delightful drive. Once near Pescadero, we diverted off, figuring that we’d cut over and go back to the hotel in Sunnyvale. I planned to take a shower and then go to the City to podcast at La Wade’s. Esteban had been invited to podcast too, but wanted to pass since he had to catch a 6 am flight. However, what our map did not tell us was that this road involved a lot of twisty turny bullshit that you can’t see on this map. In fact, what you also cannot see on that map is the CLIFFS OF DEATH. Only this time, instead of Pacific Ocean, there were redwoods, so if we fell, we’d probably explode and burn up before actually getting crushed at the bottom. Brilliant. There was more whimpering and more “I don’t like hills I don’t like hills I really don’t like hills oh what the fuck is this shit why are we still going UP I don’t like hills!” It really wasn’t that far as the crow flew but the Cloud of Titties wasn’t a goddamned crow. We curled around cliffs and up hills and inches past drop offs and took two steps back for every three forward, so it took us two and a half hours before we finally emerged near San Mateo and then found the highway with about forty minutes before I had to be at La Wade’s. Instead of turning toward Sunnyvale, he turned toward San Francisco, pointing out that it was twenty miles back to the hotel, then another twenty to get back to where we were and another twenty to get to the City, which was going to make me very late to podcast, so he’d just tag along and not worry about it.
So off we went to Wade’s, which I had only the foggiest of notions how to find, but somehow I managed to do it by locating the wine bar by her house and then retracing our steps to her apartment from there. I was pretty impressed with my memory, quite honestly, since I’ve only been in that area of the city twice before. At some point in the day, my crazy lip allergy had flared up, so I walked down to Walgreens while Esteban waited outside for Shannonk, Mopie and Fu. I also had forgotten to bring my asthma medication and was starting to wheeze pretty bad, so I ordered just a few pills (which, since insurance wouldn’t cover another refill so quickly, ended up being six bucks a pill. I’d be dead without insurance, because there’s no way I could afford that crap otherwise. Those prices are a dirty sin) and grabbed a tiny pot of Vaseline (the only thing that cures my lip attacks, thanks to a commenter for suggesting it) as well, then walked back and called La Wade, who let us in.
And the rest of that evening can pretty much be summed up on the podcast (titled “Work”). After podding, we drank wine and watched a very uplifting but also scary documentary about plane crashes that made several of us cry, then Shannonk and I spooned for awhile and then we cleansed the cinematic palate by watching the Spongebob Squarepants movie, which was, naturally, a delightful way to end the evening.
Then it was time for Esteban and I to skedaddle, so we made our way south once more and somehow managed to get completely lost in San Jose again. I almost called Jake to ask him where we were, except that it was 2 am his time. Finally, we managed to figure it out, get back to the hotel, repack all of our stuff (I was sending my larger suitcase, filled with dirty clothes and stuffed shark toys, home with Esteban) and fall into bed, where we laid for roughly eight minutes before my phone alarm went off and it was 5:00 am and still pitch black. Time to take Esteban to the airport.
According to Google maps, it would take fourteen minutes to go from the door of the hotel to the San Jose airport, except that we got lost once more, confusing the road we were lost on four hours earlier with the road we were supposed to be on. How is it possible that we made the same damned mistake twice in one night? We drove and drove and drove, panicked that we were cursed to miss yet another flight. We finally stopped at the only open convenience store and bought a map of San Jose and then almost threw up when we found that we were on a road that actually went off the map. We were in the white margin area of the damned map. We retraced our steps and finally got onto the right expressway and were off to the airport. I dropped him off at exactly 32 minutes before his plane departed. He checked in with two minutes to spare.
I sped away and as soon as I hit the highway I realized that while I had driven the Cadillac a few times while running out for supplies or Starbucks, I obviously hadn’t done any serious driving, because holy shit, it had some balls. Even in my half-awake state, I couldn’t help but be impressed by its prowess on the pavement. I made it back to the hotel in a scant eight minutes, stumbled back into our room and crashed hard, waking up at 10:45 am, only because I had to be out of the room by noon.
I showered (standing carefully and with purpose this time), packed and wandered into the business center to find a hotel for that evening. I was going to MoPie and Ian’s, so I wanted someplace close to that, but I also didn’t want to be too far from the San Jose airport, as I was flying out the next day. I did some searching and since I didn’t want to stay in Oakland, I ended up just randomly picking a hotel that looked sort of in the middle of those spots, which was in Fremont. If you know the Bay Area at all, you know that this is delusional. I don’t know. I was half awake.
Then I hit the road and went into the city, where Mopie and Ian took me out to lunch at the best place I’ve ever eaten in Chinatown, although I don’t think it was technically in Chinatown. Regardless, it had the requisite scary items (Golden Buddha Something? Still have PTS about that) and absolutely delicious things that words cannot describe. I may never be able to eat sesame balls again, because they will never be as good as those sesame balls, that’s all I’m saying. Damn.
After lunch, I went to Flax, and then tried to figure out where I’m staying when I’m there for Halloween. Or more specifically, was it on a Big Fucking Hill or not. Because honestly, I already know that I’m going to be drinking and that my Halloween costume involves high heels, and I can finally kneel on both knees for the first time since 2003, and you know what? I really MISSED doing the things that require kneeling, you know? Like, um, scrubbing a floor. And Shannonk had sent me a link to a map that showed the hill grades of San Francisco, and using my 8th grade Earth Science abilities to read that, my response back to her was “fuuuuuuuuhk. It’s hilly.” But maybe I didn’t remember how to read those lines? I mean, after all, I spent most of that class mooning over my lab partner (who I now realize might have been mooning over me because you do not voluntarily grab someone’s homework and do it for them if you aren’t make some kind of prepubescent overtures, right? Or was he just a control freak? Who can say) so what do I know? Clearly a scouting mission was required. I did a drive by in the CoT. I don’t know the exactly address of the apartment rental, but my 8th grade learning was sound: it’s either on a Big Fucking Hill or at the base of said Big Fucking Hill.
I’m hoping for the base. Which is appropriate, since it’s in the Castro. Always go for the base in the Castro.
I headed back out to the East Bay to find my hotel, which was pretty much impossible. I got lost in Fremont. I got lost in San Jose. Basically, the exit I needed was only labeled correctly in one direction, so the answer involved going back and forth on an overly congested highway four times. I finally found it, threw all of my stuff on the bed, took a very fast shower, grabbed a cookie and ran back out the door. Mopie had given me directions to her house, one of which was “Make sure to follow the signs toward Berkeley, otherwise you’ll find yourself on the Bay Bridge, which is very easy to do.” People, I was so worried about accidentally making a wrong turn onto the Bay Bridge, my arch nemesis of bridges, that I realized that I actually had clenched my ass cheeks for the entire drive until I was safely in Berkeley. Which I think is pretty much a metaphor for Berkeley itself.
I found Pie’s new Haunted Mansion very easily. We were planning to live blog Project Runway with Jenfu, Jen Wade and Monkey, and soon they arrived and the revelry began. It was, of course, a delight, and the hilarity is encapsulated in an easy-to-swallow tablet over on Weetapidol. If you’re a Project Runway fan, Mopie has continued the live blogging with the San Francisco crew and the recaps are hilarious.
Then I was back on the road to find my crazy little unmarked Fremont exit (this time, it wasn’t a problem) and asked at the front desk if they had a business center with a PC. They didn’t but the hippy behind the desk let me use the one in the office. The office where he had strewn his crusty flip flops. If he hadn’t been so nice, I would have written a strongly worded letter to Kathy Hilton, let me tell you. I tried to secure a rental car in Salt Lake, but weirdly could only find trucks and SUVs or crappy little Focii. After trying every possible venue, I could hardly see straight and just reserved the only reasonable car I could find (a Pacifica) at some rental car place I had never heard of, then went up to bed, but once tucked in, I couldn’t fall asleep. I ended up staying awake until 1 am, watching Dane Cook’s newest comedy thing on HBO. The man is strangely appealing for reasons I just cannot explain. (Also, I must add right now that I was weirdly crushed when I found out that he was dating Jessica Simpson, but now that phase has passed and I hope he got some ointment to clear up the rash he probably got from her, because my god, that’s like sleeping with Knoxville and who knows where that thing’s been!)
I had no idea what time my flight was, and since I didn’t have my frequent flier number, I would have had to call the airline to find this all out. It all seemed like too much work and since I knew ABOUT when my flight was, I figured that I’d just go to the airport extra early and then hang out, which I did. It turned out to be a good plan, as I had estimated my time perfectly and arrived at the gate just as they were boarding.
I had a delightful flight to Utah, having an entire row to myself on a mostly empty plane. In SLC, I wandered to the car rental desks and found the random place where I had made a reservation. There was a Book of Mormon sitting on the desk. So this was Salt Lake. Not satisfied with her uncertainty if they had my reserved Pacifica or not, I hauled myself and my tippy luggage over to each and every rental desk to see if they had anything better. They didn’t. It was SUVs and trucks and Focii as far as the eye could see. Meanwhile, the rental agent at the random place left, so I was stuck waiting, a victim of my own impatience. She eventually returned and I got on the shuttle to locate my Chrysler product, which turned out to be a 300C rather than a Pacifica.
After I received my keys from the lot agent, I dropped my cell phone and watched it explode on the tile floor. “Oh golly! Well, it could have been worse!” He exclaimed. His name was Tevin. Like Kevin, except not. I bit my tongue instead of replying “Like what, I could be bleeding out my eyes?” Mopie always laughs at me because I once said that I’m edgy for Wisconsin, but man, I am damned edgy compared to Utah. The phone was actually ok, so technically, he was right, it could have been worse, but hell if I was going to admit that to Tevin.
I hit the single Utah highway and got stuck in more damned traffic. I spent the time listening to the radio, looking at mountains, and also watching for temples (of which there were plenty) and brine shrimp (of which there were none). Finally, I saw a sign for Jake’s town, so pulled off the highway. He was finishing up with work and on the highway behind me, so gave me directions to his parent’s house (who were graciously inviting me to stay with them) and I headed over that way. He gave me a tour, introduced me to the dogs and showed me the room where I’d be sleeping. I met his parents and then we went out for dinner in downtown Everwood, and then he showed me the state liquor store, which was just so wee and cute, like a doll’s house or something. Then we went to his friend Shannon’s, where they introduced me to Clone High and we drank faux Lemon Drops and I fended off advances from Shannon’s boxer Buster.
The next morning, Jake and his mom took me to their farmer’s market in downtown Everwood (we parked in a spot that used to be some important thing on the show, but I don’t remember what it was) and I saw a real live cop on a horse, wearing a cowboy hat and in a non-ironic way and everything. Very cool, Everwood! Now where is Treat Williams?
We had a delightful brunch outside and then it was time to get prepared for the big housewarming party that evening. We went over to the house and this is where things get fuzzy. There were a lot of things going on, many trips out to gather supplies, furniture being loaded and unloaded, food prepared, dishes unpacked, a lot of pumpkin colored paint in places (luckily, none on my absolute favorite DKNY t-shirt), many shirtless roommates, a lot of dogs, and one very unfortunately located thorn discovered the very second I took off my Pumas. And through it all, there was Uncle Dave, whom I could probably talk to for hours and still be entertained.
The party started and raged until dawn, although I made a memorable impression on his roommates, friends and family by dousing myself with Diet Coke exactly two minutes after the party started. Luckily, I had brought a black hoodie, so with a quick change, I was unstained but, save for the grace of a zipper, a wee bit risqu&AMMAqQ-. I ended up losing steam after 1 am, and headed back to the quiet darkness of the family fortress.
In the morning, Jake’s dad made me coffee and we chatted while his mom planned to can peaches. We headed out to see some Utah pastoral scenes, which were mostly mountains and some more mountains and then another mountain. It was all very postcardy. We had a great breakfast outside, overlooking another mountain, and then wound our way back around a lake. And heard a dance mix of Pirates of the Caribbean on the satellite radio. A very good morning. While in the mountains (which only once gave me the fear of Cliffs Of Death) we got a call from Eben, his roommate, who said that everyone was hanging out back at his house, so we joined them there for post-party clean up and chat of what went down, who wouldn’t talk to whom and who exactly was still passed out in the living room at 11 am that morning. And then Aaron told the best story ever, involving a Buddha statue and an anus, which brought me to tears of joy. In fact, I still chuckle when I think about the phrase “Hey, come on, my dad gave me that!” Because that is comedy gold.
And that’s why I love hanging out with boys, right there. Girls just can’t tell a sodomy joke. They lack that special something. It’s a shame, really, because if it weren’t the case, I think Tupperware parties would be a lot more popular.
And then it was time for me to go. Of course, once again, I didn’t know exactly when my flight was leaving, having made the arrangements for said flight at the last minute, so I only had a vague notion of when I had to be at the airport. So we went back to the house and I said thank you and goodbye to his truly delightful parents and then had the easiest and most wonderful goodbye of our entire best friendship:
“See you in four days!”
