To the people of London: Stay strong. Be safe.
I land in the San Francisco International Airport and feel very alone. Esteban is in the outskirts of London, Ontario and has no cell service (but, oddly enough, wireless internet) and unlike previous trips, I do not expect anyone to pick me up from the airport. There is almost complete radio silence. In fact, I’m not really certain what this weekend will hold, only that I have coffee plans with Shannon, a book shopping date with Patsy Cline, tree gawking with Jenfu, and plans for brunch with Tricia, an editor for the magazine where I’m freelancing. That is it. There are many minutes between these things, minutes where I wonder if I will feel lost and alone and watch movies in my hotel room, or if this, like other travel adventures, will be filled with high expectations and overachiever To Do lists until I am sinking back into a take off, feeling exhausted and sore but happy.
I hope desperately for the latter.
Aside from the previously mentioned plans, I land hoping to: shop in Chinatown for designer knockoffs for my friends, go to Nick’s Lighthouse for some dungeoness crab or lobster bisque or something, shop at Tiffany’s with a sense of entitlement that makes the snotty staff suck it hard, go to Nordstrom and buy shoes, look for my favorite designer’s shop somewhere in the Mission, sing karaoke at The Mint, have a vegetarian dinner, call my friend Andy and see what he was doing, and get caught up on my freelance projects.
My eyes, they are bigger than my wristwatch. Stupid need to sleep.
After fits and starts, my rental car and I swoop out of the parking garage, scan the radio for the gay boy channel (is that techno I hear? Why yes it is), open the sunroof and make my way to the highway, ignoring the maps. I find the City and then find Fisherman’s Wharf, figuring that I can find my cute little hotel on the hill from there, somewhere, something. But the truth is, I am not in a hurry. I have no plans, nothing but time and a weekend full of possibilities. I check my messages and find that Mopie, who originally had travel plans for the weekend, is going to be in town. Ecstatic, I blather to her about hills and being lost, then call Fu and make excited girl sounds at her as well. While this internet thing makes you feel as though you can touch someone and listen to their voice, there is really nothing like actually seeing them and making faces and rolling eyes and laughing and crying and kissing and head banging with them in person. There is a community here, certainly, but a website cannot tell you to put on bright lipstick or reach into your shirt to insert a dollar bill next to your nipple.
I walk into my favorite little hotel on the hill and the valet escorts me to my room on the 9th floor, which has a scenic view of another hotel, and says ‘Welcome back, Ms Bix.’ And it is good to be back. I cannot believe it has taken me two years almost to the day to return.
I park myself on the bed to call Patsy Cline, but before we can make any plans, the time difference strikes and I beg off plans for the evening in order to save any semblance of being energetic the next day. PC, always the consummate gentleman, bids me happy dreams. And they are, full of hills and sea birds and Great White sharks trolling the dark waters, popping up to sing show tunes from time to time. Never underestimate a shark’s love of Broadway, apparently. Andrew Lloyd Webber and a really juicy seal, that’s all they crave.
The next morning, I jump in the car and then drive around, getting over my fear of the big scary hills. Surprisingly aerodynamic, the KIA Amonte. Who knew? I meet Jenfu outside her apartment and she offers a diverse selection of breakfast choices, involving French food, croissants, Swedish pancakes, crepes, or a place that makes greasy hashbrown sandwiches. The choice is clear: I can have Swedish pancakes anytime, but I’ve never had a hashbrown sandwich. We score great parking and then have lovely bacon and cheese filled hashbrowns, then find a serendipitous shoe sale next door, where Fu denies shoe fate and does not select the Cinderella-esque perfect fit of the grey slippers with red pompoms on the toes, but who am I to deny the tangerine beaded slippers that fit my giant feet perfectly, even with socks on? And are less than half price? No. I listen to the Fates and soon have cute shoes for the princely sum of $21.40. So what if I never wear the color orange? They are way cute. Then we embark over the Golden Gate bridge toward one of my unrequited adventures, one of the things on my list of things to do before I turn forty: the giant redwoods. I have wanted to experience the redwoods since I was a child, listening to folk singers and eating hummus. And now, there they are, but a quick ride through Marin. Fu takes a video while we were driving, which ends with a spontaneous head banging session, and thus a tradition is born. A decree heard round the land: heads will be bung on this day. And bung they would be.
The thing about Muir Woods is that when you walk along into the canopy, there is a heavy air that descends upon you. It is very calming and serene, save for the random idiotic yuppie sniping at their ridiculous spawn. But once you walk past them, past the point of whining children and weirdos looking for Lothlorian, it’s just you and the trees. There are these stately behemoths above you, their limbs like cathedral rafters, their trunks like silos, exhaling mists of pure clean oxygen. Everywhere the color green, in variations and deviations, speckled and dappled, a fairy tale forest short of Robin Goodfellow and a man with a donkey’s head, no more yielding but a dream.
Jenfu and I salute these ancient stately graces by head banging.
You know what’s crazy about where the redwoods are? You have to drive down an insane valley road that has absolutely no guardrail preventing you from toppling over the side. Like’ nothing. Maybe a few stout dandelions, if you are lucky. We’re talking a drop of perhaps a thousand miles. I think there is no bottom. Going down was fun, but you know what was more fun? Going back up, when the passenger can look down into the underside of China. Fu quotes Nietzsche and damn, she was right. Or rather, Nietzsche. The abyss does roar back. Guard rails. Look into it, maybe, ok California?
We meet up with Ian and Mopie at my hotel, where we laugh and watch videos and they post their delightful guest entry (nothing artificial consumed, save for sketchy “fruit” snacks, despite the comments section). We change into collective cuteness before dinner, and I try to wear my high-heeled hootchie impractical black shoes, but after the walk to the car, decide that the impractical shoes need adjustments before they can be logistically worn. I swap them for my new orange slippers, despite the fact that my black and pink flowered shirt does not have orange in it anywhere. And yet, surprisingly it works. See? Always listen to the Shoe Fates and you will be rewarded.
We agree upon sushi, specifically, a signless sushi place that is seriously authentic, and where other patrons are ordering in Japanese. I am so intimidated when it is my turn to order that I get flustered and order tuna, tuna, and tuna, respectively. Luckily my dining patrons are not dorks and try lots of fun things, squealing over the eel and agreeing that the monkfish liver steamed in sake was divine. I can’t try it, so now I have regret. But my tuna is good. Also, the tuna. And the other tuna. After, we walk across the street to a wine bar for dessert and wine, where we meet up with Jen Wade. There, we claim the entire bar, then after walk to Jen’s new apartment for Moscow Mules. There, everyone gets silly and there are some fun acrobatics and feats of athleticism involving the couch. And also head banging. A good way to end an excellent day.
More later, and also pictures. And maybe more head banging.
