We had taken the train to Noe Valley so we could go out for afternoon tea. In planning the trip I had come across some reviews of a place called Lovejoy's Tea House that serves formal British tea amid antique furnishings. I was fairly sure Margaret would like that, and it seemed an interesting diversion for me, so we came here. We had to wait a bit to be seated, but it was certainly fun. We had what the menu called "light tea" (distinguished from "high tea"). I enjoyed black current tea (black, as we coffee folks would say), while Margaret had Yorkshire gold tea with milk. Each came in its own china teapot, with a silver strainer to catch the grounds (or whatever you call the remains of tea brewing) when you poured the tea into your cup. We also got to choose from a variety of sandwiches (we had cucumber and apple with cream cheese), and we had scones with jam and Devon cream (an unsweetened glop that Margaret liked, but I didn't), cookies, and fruit. All the foods were served on a three-tiered china apparatus the likes of which I had never seen before (Margaret called it a "cake plate" and said she had seen them in England). It was far from the best meal I've ever had, but it was an interesting experience.
Most of the other guests at the tea shop were there for a bridal shower. I would think it would be a fun place to have such an event. There was also a group of gentlemen wearing the telltale rainbow beads and a group that was speaking with a British or Australian accent. The owner asked where we were from and seemed amazed that anyone from Iowa would have heard of the place. I wouldn't have, except for finding it by accident on-line.
While Margaret shopped for chinaware, I used the restroom at Lovejoy's. That was an experience. You can tell from their one restroom that this is a place designed for women. Men's rooms never have flowers and potpourri and wicker and lace; this place just exuded estrogen. I could barely find the toilet amid all the decoration.
We decided to take the streetcar to the end of the line to get a better idea of what San Francisco was like. What we saw was pretty much what I described earlier--a bunch of boxy, stucco and cement block rowhouses. It's really a very dull looking city, away from downtown.
* * * * *
We transferred to BART. ... One thing that was almost disconcerting was BART's obsession with safety. Every transit system has safety posters reminding you to use your common sense (don't fall off the platform, etc.), but BART seemed to carry things to extremes. The electronic voice would periodically remind us of safety instructions, and an LED crawl above the platforms was constantly giving safety reminders. We were reminded, for instance, that "cameras in stations and on trains do not prevent all crime--please be aware of your travel environment." DUH!!! Many of the anti-crime instructions were more specific. Men were specifically told to put their wallets in their front pockets, for instance (that's where I always put mine anyhow), and commuters using the park-and-rides were told to have their keys in their hands before exiting the station. I must say all the safety messages made me feel much less secure. I can't imagine they would have them if there hadn't been some serious problems with crime. Nothing seemed particularly dangerous on BART, but all the anti-crime messages made me wonder.
One bit of safety instruction I did pay attention to was the Transbay Tube evacuation procedure. BART is unlike any other subway system anywhere in that it has that big eight and a half mile underwater tunnel, with no possible exit except at the ends. They've never had an accident in the tube, but boy would it be a disaster if they did. It would be almost like the accident they had in the English Channel tunnel a few years back. The evacuation procedure is basically to walk over to the other side of the twin tubes and wait for another train to come and rescue you. There's no provision given should both tubes be blocked.
They also had evacuation procedures for station black-outs. Unlike many subways, BART does not have an independent source of electricity. They buy power from Pacific Gas and Electric, just like everybody else in the Bay Area. The trains themselves received an exemption from the state, so they wouldn't be effected by rolling black-outs (can you imagine being in the middle of that Transbay Tube during a black-out?), but the stations were not exempted. Fortunately, while we were there, the state had at least a temporary reprieve from the rolling blackouts, so we didn't have to worry about that particular safety precaution.
We took BART back to Oakland. It amazes me how quick that trip is--less than 10 minutes across the bay. It took us about as long to walk from the BART station to our motel as it did to get from San Francisco to Oakland.
Walking back to the hotel reminds me of another peculiar thing we noticed on this trip: stoplights with audio accompaniment. I assume this has something to do with the Americans with Disabilities Act. ... We first encountered them when we were walking around downtown Galesburg. When the light changed, a loud beep would sound to let you know it was okay to cross the street. In Oakland, all the lights made two tones. When the "WALK" light was on one direction, we would hear an "uh-oh" sound repeatedly, while the other direction was more of an "oh-oh-oh". The combination of noises blended through the neighborhood and sounded not unlike a loud flock of birds. I really don't quite follow the point of the audio cues. The few blind people I've actually known in my life listened for traffic noise to guide them when they crossed streets. I can't see that the bird calls improve on that a whole lot.
We dumped our purchases back at the hotel, walked back to the BART station, and waited a full 19 minutes (trains run every 20 minutes on Sunday) for another train to San Francisco. This time the train was very uncrowded, and we relaxed in the cushy seats as we made our way back under the bay.
Our evening plans were to ride the famous cable cars. Cable cars (which grab on to underground ropes that pull them along the street) were invented in San Francisco 125 years ago. They've been obsolete for decades, but MUNI continues to maintain and operate them--mostly as a tourist attraction. The tour books give two pieces of advice for those who want to ride the cable cars. First, they suggest you ride the California Street cars, rather than the more crowded cars on Powell Street. Secondly, they suggest you ride in the early morning or the evening, when the crowds are somewhat less. We followed both of these suggestions, and they worked like a charm. We waited at the terminal at California and Drumm and got right on the first car. The car (which was much smaller than a modern transit vehicle) was quickly full, but we were able to sit in the sheltered inside area--out of the bitter wind. We rode to the top of Nob Hill, where the enormous Grace Cathedral (Episcopal) is located, and then clear to the end of the line at VanNess Street. Since we had unlimited passes, we just stayed on and went back. This time we got off on Nob Hill and looked around a bit. We waited and waited and waited for a cable car going back downtown (they're very infrequent on Sunday night). Eventually we caught one going the other way and rode to the end of the line again, turned around, and went all the way back to Drumm.
The cable car rides alone almost paid for our MUNI passes. MUNI charges $2 for each cable car ride, instead of the standard $1 fare, and they issue no transfers whatsoever. Basically they use the cable cars as a way to milk the tourists. In rapid succession we had $8 worth of cable car rides.
Each cable car has two MUNI employees. Most of the time one of the employees operates the car, while the other takes money. (They do care that you pay your fare on the cable cars.) Operating the cable cars is very physical work. Most of the time the main operator is working a big shift mechanism that looks like it takes quite a bit of effort to move. On hills, both men (they're invariably men, even though most of the streetcar operators were women) work together. The second man works a mechanism that looks like an old-fashioned water pump and I assume somehow brakes the car and keeps it from going downhill too fast.
On our final cable car ride, the conductor was also playing with the lights in the car. There were places for four light bulbs on the ceiling of the car-two in the enclosed area, one in front, and one in back. Instead of screwing in, the bulbs twisted in like European light bulbs do. For some reason this car had only two bulbs to go in the four sockets. The conductor kept switching the bulbs from one socket to another, for no particular reason. All the passengers kept staring at each other as he did this. Margaret speculated that his reason was just to see how long it would take someone to ask what he was doing.
Almost everyone who rides the cable cars is a tourist. For much of our trip we were sitting with a group of tourists from Great Britain. They were going to Chinatown for dinner, and the California cable car goes right through the heart of Chinatown. We passed a Safeway store, where an elderly local woman got on--the only local person we saw on any of our cable car rides. A teenaged boy among the Brits quickly rose to give her his seat. She seemed shocked at his chivalry, but eagerly accepted. The boy's father promptly complemented his son on displaying what should be common courtesy.
If the signs in transit vehicles can be trusted, the son's act was also the law--though not a law very many people follow. You're supposed to give up seats to the elderly and handicapped. Every BART and MUNI vehicle had signs saying that this is a California law, often in both English and Chinese. Very few people seemed to notice those signs, though, and lots of old people were left standing. They seem to care about as much for enforcing that law as they do about preventing fare evasion, though.
Mentioning the Chinese signs reminds me of another fact. The Bay Area has far fewer Hispanic people than Los Angeles. The vast majority of the people are white, with Asians the biggest minority, followed by black people. In L.A. most of the informational signs were bilingual, and there were many Spanish publications, including a daily paper. Here we saw almost no signs in Spanish, and there are no local Spanish-language publications at all. There are some Latinos in San Francisco, and many of them don't speak much English. I suppose they get by the same way Mexican people do in Iowa, though.
* * * * *
We got off the cable car and walked back to the Embarcadero BART station. The last of the parade crowd was leaving town now, and the train was very crowded. We were among the first on at Embarcadero station, but even so Margaret and I couldn't sit together. Many other people ended up standing. I'm glad it was such a short trip across the bay.
We had eaten breakfast this morning at the Buttercup Kitchen, and we had dinner tonight there too. Margaret had a hamburger, while I had what they called a chicken tostada. It wasn't a tostada, but rather what most Midwesterners would call a taco salad--an edible bowl filled with lettuce and salsa. I also had their version of the standard California treat, fresh-squeezed lemonade.
We settled in at the motel and attempted to watch television. I say attempted, because this was another of the quirks that made me feel I was getting ripped off at the Best Western. They had far more channels available than the Roosevelt did, but the reception was horrendous. I think they had paid for one cable hook-up for the entire motel and then split it 104 ways to bring cable to each guest room. Several of the channels didn't come in at all (we never could get The Weather Channel, for instance), and those that did were mostly black and white snow that reminded me of my childhood in Mt. Pleasant. We managed to tune in one station well enough to understand the local news, which mostly focused on the "Queerific" festivities. After the news we settled into bed.
I got up early this morning and took a long walk around Jack London Square. I'd read guide books that described the area as a failed attempt to replicate Fisherman's Wharf, and I suppose it is. It's precisely because they've failed to attract huge crowds that to me makes Oakland's waterfront the more enjoyable of the two. Jack London Square is a much more attractive place than Fisherman's Wharf, probably because it has to be. They have a delightful waterfront promenade with pleasant views of the harbor and marina. Most of the area is essentially a pedestrian mall; cars aren't formally banned, but all the parking is well away from the waterfront. There's a lot of housing and offices here, as well as commercial space. Most of the people seem to be locals, with a nice mix of ages and races.
The commercial focus of Jack London Square is an enormous Barnes and Noble bookstore at the foot of Broadway. It's the only Barnes and Noble I saw anywhere in the Bay Area, and it's got to be close to the largest one in that chain. Surrounding the bookstore are a variety of restaurants, mostly representing national chains that cater to businesspeople. There are also a few shops, some art galleries--heavy on African and African American artists--and a variety of nightclubs. Early morning is about the deadest time in Jack London Square, and it seems to be at its busiest in the evening.
After Margaret was up and we had gone through the morning preparations, we went back to Jack London Square. We stopped in at Jack's Bistro, the restaurant for the elegant Waterfront Plaza Hotel (rooms start around $200/night). There we had coffee and some of the most tasty danish I've ever eaten. The majority of our fellow diners were well-dressed black business executives. Oakland has a black majority, but it's also quite a wealthy city. That combination makes it an attractive base of operations for black people who are visiting the Bay Area on business.
* * * * *
After breakfast we walked about two blocks along the waterfront to the ferry dock. The dock is located right next to another historic site, the U.S.S. Potomac which was President Franklin Roosevelt's "Floating White House". The Potomac is open very limited hours, and we were not able to go aboard. It was interesting to see the boat, though. It's surprisingly small, quite a bit smaller than our ferry. I had imagined the President would have a large ship to accommodate him and his staff. This was not much more than a pleasure yacht, though.
Commuting between San Francisco and Oakland is pretty much a one-way affair. There was a big line waiting to go to San Francisco, but exactly one person got off the ferry at Oakland. The people who work in Oakland mostly live either there or in suburbs further east. A lot of East Bay residents work in the office towers of downtown San Francisco, though. Each day they cram the Bay Bridge, the BART tube, and the ferries as they shuttle back and forth to work.
It costs $4.75 to take the ferry one-way across the bay, which makes BART seem like a bargain by comparison. It's a lengthy trip, but quite relaxing. First the boat makes a quick trip to the town of Alameda, which is located on an island just west of Oakland. Then it passes the enormous Port of Oakland, America's third largest port (after New Orleans and Los Angeles). Here we saw where all those containers they were loading earlier came from. Enormous ships are loaded with nothing but cargo containers. They dock in Oakland, where huge cranes unload them. The containers are stacked as many as six high along the shore. Different cranes lift them onto rail cars, which presumably in turn take them to truck transfer depots like the ones we saw in L.A. and San Bernardino.
Just past the port we traveled beneath the Bay Bridge. This is by far the longest connection across San Francisco Bay. It's also older than the more-famous Golden Gate Bridge, just not in as picturesque of a setting. You probably know the Bay Bridge best from the 1989 earthquake. It's a bi-level bridge, and part of the top-level collapsed in the quake. The bridge is still not up to quake standards today.
We sailed roughly parallel to the bridge, with a beautiful view of the city. The bulk of the passengers got off at the Ferry Building in downtown San Francisco. However we stayed on until the final stop at Pier 41 on Fisherman's Wharf. The whole journey took about forty-five minutes.
We had come back to Fisherman's Wharf to catch another boat that would take us to San Francisco's largest tourist attraction, Alcatraz. More than two million people a year visit "the Rock". We had gotten tickets ahead of time, which turned out to be a good thing. Apparently this week's sailings were sold out until Thursday. That was evident from the enormous line waiting for the 10:15 departure. They backed people all the way down a long pier to keep them from causing congestion on the sidewalk. While people were boarding a photographer snapped pictures of each group, just as they might when people went on a cruise. Those photos were for sale after visitors returned. It was probably fortunate that just before we neared the front of the line, they announced that the boat was about to depart. They had to stop the photography and just let the rest of us board.
Most of the postcard views you see of San Francisco were taken from the bay. One of the best parts of going to Alcatraz was the opportunity to see the city from the best possible angles. Set on hills and surrounded by water, it really is a lovely place. Honestly it looks better from a distance than it does close up, but then a lot of cities are that way.
We were greeted on Alcatraz by a very loud guide who bellowed words of welcome into a megaphone. We chose not to join the crowd that was rushing up the hill to the cellblock. Instead we joined a park ranger who gave a guided nature tour of the island. In addition to being a historic prison, Alcatraz functions as a bird sanctuary. This is one of the few places that western seagulls nest, and we saw dozens of them up close and personal on our hike. The ranger gave a detailed description of the life cycle and mating habits of the native birds. It was interesting, but not enough that I'll bore you by repeating it here.
The bird tour took us up the hill at a leisurely pace, and it was comparatively uncrowded when we got to the cellhouse. Most visitors tour Alcatraz via a tape tour. It seemed as if almost everyone was walking around with headphones, staring blankly off into space. I wish they would have the script of the tape tour available for sale. I hate headphones, and I didn't want to pay extra for something I probably wouldn't enjoy. Most of the cellhouse was not terribly well signed, though, and it would have been good to have had a print version of the information on the tape. Unfortunately nothing of the sort was for sale.
The cellhouse was interesting, though not so interesting as the Eastern State Penitentiary we visited last summer in Philadelphia. Eastern was older, and it was historic in being the first place on earth to experiment with solitary confinement. It has also decayed much more than Alcatraz, and the contrast between what had been restored and what hadn't was much more interesting there. Alcatraz is mostly famous for the gangsters who were there and for its reputation for being a place no one could escape from. It basically looks like a prison. I'd imagine that if I toured the old state prison in Ft. Madison, the appearance would be similar. Years ago I remember watching "Scared Straight", which was set at the New Jersey State Prison in Rahway. It had the exact same set-up as Alcatraz, with three-floors of tiny green-barred cells.
The most interesting thing at Alcatraz was the recreation yard, which was a huge cement area tacked on to the northwest corner of the cellhouse. The wind whipped through the area, and kept trying to imagine playing ball in such weather. The yard provides lovely views of the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, and suburban Sausalito, but barbed wire obscures all those views. It was interesting to imagine what might have gone through the prisoners' minds when they were so close to these lovely places, but so thoroughly contained within the prison.
There was one more interesting sight at Alcatraz. They apparently sponsor education programs for school children. A group had recently been there to learn about the American Indian occupation of the island in the 1970s. They had summed up their experiences through an "alternative assessment", creating masks that demonstrated what they had learned about Alcatraz. I'm not quite sure what the mask idea had to do with either Indians or Alcatraz, but their creations were interesting to see.
I got a taste of home as we were waiting to leave the Rock. Small ships sail all over the bay, taking tourists on day cruises. One passed right by the docks at Alcatraz while we waited, and it was amusing to see that it had been christened the "Golden Bear". Garrigan's mascot is the Golden Bear, so I felt properly welcomed to San Francisco. I'm sure, however, that it wasn't Garrigan they were thinking of with that name. The only other school of any level I know of whose teams are called the Golden Bears are right across the bay in Berkeley at the University of California.
By the time we got back to Fisherman's Wharf it was lunchtime. We happened to pass by a little stand that was selling chili and clam chowder in sourdough bread bowls. That struck both of us as a reasonable lunch, so we stopped and had some. While I'm not normally one to mix bread and soup, this wasn't bad.
While we were eating, we were entertained by another of the sideshows on Fisherman's Wharf. A man had a trampoline set up, with poles to the side of it, onto which bungee cords were attached. For six dollars, people could tie themselves in the bungee cords and then jump on the trampoline to simulate bungee jumping in a safe, controlled setting. It was mostly kids who were doing this, but there was at least one overweight person about my age. Some were very good, while others had to be assisted to do anything other than bounce. I would think it would be a fun thing to do, but probably not worth $6 for just a couple of minutes of entertainment.
We took the trolley back downtown ... and then got back on the MUNI Metro streetcar and traveled to Church and Dolores Streets, in the heart of the Mission District. The neighborhood, which is home to most of San Francisco's Hispanic population, is named for the Mission of San Francisco de Asis, the most northerly of the old Spanish missions in California. The original adobe building still stands, having survived both of the big 20th Century earthquakes. The church was founded in 1776, which is not a year you normally think of in connection with the West Coast. For no reason I can figure out, it is popularly called "Mission Dolores" (in English "Dolores" would be "Our Lady of the Sorrows"), but the official name of the church is still "Iglesia de San Francisco de Asis" (St. Francis of Assisi Church). Right beside the old church is an enormous basilica that I'd guess dates to the 1950s. Both buildings house the same parish, and they use both regularly. The early morning masses (which are never well attended at any church) are held in the old mission, while Saturday night and Sunday at 11 are in the basilica. It's an active modern parish. I was amused to see the same solid-color banners they use to line the walk in front of St. Cecelia's here in Algona, as well as a big "Jubilee 2000" sign (commemorating the Catholic church's celebration of the millennium as a holy year).
The mission was probably my single favorite place in San Francisco. They have a very nice self-guided walking tour that takes you through both buildings and the grounds. It starts in a lovely little plaza between the buildings, with lovely mosaics on the walls and a pleasant fountain in the middle. The old mission itself is very simple, but quite pretty. It reminded me somewhat of the ancient church at Acoma pueblo in New Mexico. The walls are just adobe, but they've decorated with paintings and tapestries. There's altar is simple, but it's beautifully carved. Everything is dark wood, which contrasts starkly with the whitewashed walls.
The basilica is much more elaborate, and really a more beautiful church--if not nearly so historic. I didn't look at it in so much detail, because a number of people were praying devotions when we entered. I did see its lovely domed ceiling, its spectacular stained glass windows, and its ornate brass altar, though. It definitely ranks with the most beautiful churches I have seen anywhere.
The mission is also home to one of the very few cemeteries in the city of San Francisco. Back in the 1800s the city banned burials within the city limits. When that law was passed a number of the existing cemeteries were dug up, and the bones were moved out of town. Many of the big downtown office buildings are built on former cemetery space. Today most San Franciscans spend eternity in Colma, a suburb near the airport. Colma has a larger land area than the city of San Francisco, but nearly three-fourths of that area is cemetery space. I read a joke in one of the freebie newspapers that had a list of things men should not to say when they try to get to know a woman. Among those fake pick-up lines was "So you're from Colma. I hear more people are dead than alive there. Which are you?"
At any rate, the mission's small cemetery was allowed to stay--partly for its historic value and partly because the church owned the land and didn't sell out to developers. It's not especially kept up, but in some ways that's part of its charm. It looks like the sort of ratty, overgrown churchyard where a Dickens character might find himself. The graves hold the history of the city, and it was interesting to wind our way among them.
Like almost all self-guided tours, this one ended in a gift shop. The mission's gift shop was an eclectic combination of tacky religious souvenirs, well-chosen religious books, nice artwork--both religious and secular, and tacky souvenirs of San Francisco that had nothing whatsoever to do with the mission. My major purchase here was a ceramic tile showing the mission, which I'll probably use primarily as a coaster. Margaret bought a Bible in modern Spanish. .....
Here's a fact we learned from the local TV meteorologist: in the entire recorded weather history of San Francisco ... not a drop of rain ever fell in the Bay Area on June 25. In fact, it pretty much never rains in June here. Like L.A., the Bay Area's precipitation is seasonal. They can get heavy rains in winter and a few spring showers, but from May to September it's usually very dry.
I mention this because history happened when we left the mission: it started to rain. First it was just a few drops, but then it became a light, but steady downpour. The rain continued most of the afternoon, and seemed to be pretty general throughout the whole Bay Area. Even though it had been cloudy through most of our trip, Margaret and I had believed the line that it never rains in June, so we had left our umbrellas at the hotel. We proceeded to get thoroughly soaked as we continued to explore the city. It was a cold rain--the type that falls in October in Iowa--and eventually I was literally shivering.
Partly because of the rain, we cut our sightseeing somewhat short. We went just one other place this afternoon: the famous corner of Haight and Ashbury Streets, "Hippie Central" in the '60s. Today Haight Ashbury looks like any college town in America. What's odd is that there isn't a college particularly nearby. The people here are a more eclectic group than we saw most other places in the city (the exception being the gay parade), but it's certainly no different than you'd find on any street in downtown Iowa City. "Hippies", of course, are Margaret's age today. (They were her age 35 years ago, too.) There's still a few of them roaming around, looking as if they've been stoned since 1967. Those that are left mostly look older than Margaret; I've no doubt most of them are offered senior discounts with some frequency. We also saw a disproportionate number of homeless people in Haight Ashbury, some of whom may have been here since the Summer of Love. Mostly, though, we saw twenty-ish leather-clad kids with piercings in unusual parts of their bodies. It was as if the Rocky Horror convention had come north with us.
I read a review in the free paper San Francisco Weekly about the best and worst of the city. One of their more dubious awards honored "the worst assault on our cultural heritage". That assault is found right at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, where you'll find the Gap, the same mass-market clothier you'd see in every mall in America. Equally commercial, but somewhat more respectful of the neighborhood's "cultural heritage" is the Ben & Jerry's ice cream parlor across the street. We went in there to get out of the rain and have a little treat.
There are lots of old Victorian rowhouses in Haight Ashbury. Unfortunately, here too it's like a college town. They've all been subdivided by the local slum-lords, who rent them out to drunken kids who in turn sublet them to other drunken kids--none of whom really care about keeping things up. ... Some of the houses had graffiti on them, and litter was everywhere. It's sad, since I'd think many of these homes could be lovely if restored.
We made our way back downtown and then took BART back to Oakland. On our way back I gawked at our fellow passengers and pondered what the people of the Bay Area is like. They are very different than those who live in Los Angeles. San Francisco was much closer to my stereotypes of California--even if it wasn't exactly sun-drenched. The bulk of both the city and the whole Bay Area appears to be wealthy, young, and white. Despite its reputation for glamour, L.A. is very much a blue-collar city, while San Francisco comes across as "Yuppie Heaven".
While the Yuppies are rather obviously the biggest force in the city, there is a substantial minority of older people, most of whom have a very weathered look about them. They just had the look of leading very hard lives. Many of the students I teach use the unflattering term "raisins" when referring to the elderly (playing on their withered, wrinkled appearance). Usually that term refers to those of nursing home age, but here in San Francisco there were people my age whose appearance would easily qualify them as "raisins". I remember once reading a book about Australia that implied that everyone there was either young or old; there was no such thing as "middle aged". I got that feeling in California, too--and especially in San Francisco.
While we waited for BART I was amused to overhear a group of college-aged girls. What was most amusing was hearing them use another colloquial expression that my high school students use (or perhaps I should say "abuse") all the time. The train we were waiting for had been delayed, and the kids expressed their displeasure through the phrase "that's so gay". Iowa teens use that phrase constantly, and having adults act annoyed only makes them use it more. It amused me, though, that in the center of gay liberation and the most "politically correct" place in the country, the phrase was thrown out freely. My bet is that these kids, like the ones I teach, really don't associate any meaning to the phrase other than "that's annoying". I don't think most of them think of any sexual connotations to the phrase, any more than people in my day did with an equivalent vulgar phrase--"that sucks". I would also bet that this new usage of "gay" (pretty much the opposite of the word's original definition) has a lot to do with the homosexual community's recent preference for "queer" in describing themselves. All this doesn't mean "that's gay" is a nice phrase (I don't care for "that sucks" either); it merely confirms that most people never really think about what slang actually means.
* * * * *
It was still raining, and we got soaked once again walking from the station back to the hotel. I didn't hold out too much hope for our evening plans, which were to see a San Francisco Giants game at the new Pacific Bell Park. I read through some papers and watched a bit of TV news. ... Eventually the showers were reduced to sprinkles, though, and in the west there were even a few glimmers of sun. By 6pm we decided it probably was worth the trouble of going back to the city to see if the game was going to be on.
We decided to take the ferry to the game. Pac Bell Park is right on the water, with a ferry dock right beside the outfield gate. Special ferries leave Oakland about an hour before each night and weekend game, with direct service to the ballpark. The return ferry leaves from the beside right field half an hour after the last out. The park is south of the downtown area; and we had a different, more residential view of the city on this ferry ride.
It was clear when we got to the dock that the game was on. Almost everyone in line was clad in Giants caps, shirts, jackets, etc. For East Bay fans, taking the ferry is actually cheaper than driving to San Francisco and parking. You can park for free in the ramps at Jack London Square, and the $4.75 ferry ride compares favorably with a minimum of $10 for game parking (and that price would mean a 5-block walk, compared with straight to the gate service on the boat). Other people had different reasons for taking the boat. One motorcyclist, for instance, parked his bike beside the dock and packed his helmet in a briefcase. He said he would have ridden his motorcycle to the ballpark, but he knew the eight-mile Bay Bridge would be slippery after the rain, and he didn't trust it on his bike.
Apparently they normally use a smaller boat (the size of those day cruise ships like the "Golden Bear") for the Pac Bell sailing. For some reason the normal boat was unavailable, though, so we had the full-size commuter ferry. Unfortunately there's only one dock at Pac Bell Park that can accommodate the big boats, and when we arrived it was occupied by a ship bringing fans from the wealthy suburbs of Marin County. We pretty much treaded water waiting for them to get off, like an airplane circling O'Hare before landing. The more raucous fans were getting downright testy as it became evident they would miss the first pitch, but we really didn't have much choice in the matter.
You can tell you're in High Techland the moment you enter Pac Bell Park. At every other ballgame I've ever been to, you hand your ticket to an usher at the entrance, who rips it and returns the stub to you. Then you go through a turnstile and into the park. There were ushers at all the entrances here, but their job seemed mostly to search for contraband. The turnstiles were all electronic. To gain entrance, you scanned your ticket in a barcode reader. When it popped out, the turnstile unlocked. It's similar to the turnstiles on the Chicago el (except those use magnetic, rather than barcode readers), but it seems needlessly complex for a ballpark--particularly when they haven't cut their human payroll by putting them in.
* * * * *
Finding (our) seats was ... a major problem. The ferry docks lead to the outfield gate. Unfortunately the outfield seating is almost totally detached from the rest of the park. It's not quite as bad as the bleachers at Wrigley Field--from which you literally can't get to the main stadium bowl--but it's close. We were in Section 328, and there were no signs anywhere leading to the 300s or even to field-level seats in the 120s. I checked the map in the program, and it confirmed that we were in the wrong part of the park. What it didn't really do was tell us how to get from where we were to where we wanted to be.
There was a janitor nearby, and I asked him if he could tell us how to get to Section 328. The man was very hesitant, but he really didn't seem to know. He asked another custodian, however. Both men spoke primarily Spanish, and when I heard the first janitor ask about "ciento treinta y ocho" (138--which would have been an outfield section), I knew he had things screwed up. I corrected him by pointing out that we were in "trescientos veinte y ocho" (328). Once I spoke Spanish the men instantly became our friends. They gave directions, which I mostly got and Margaret confirmed by repeating in Spanish. Then they gestured vaguely behind us. We clarified the directions again, thanked them in Spanish, and then set off on a long walk to our seats.
As you might deduce, Section 328 was a "view level" seat. Pac Bell Park is very popular, and by the time I booked things in April, "ocean view" was all that was available. We actually didn't have all that bad a view of the field, though. We could see plays and get a fairly good idea of the position of pitches. We also had a nice view of the scoreboard and the whole park. It's a pleasant place for a ballgame, one of those brand new parks that's built to look old. Of that style of park, I really like Camden Yards in Baltimore and the Ballpark at Arlington (Texas Rangers) better. Both of them really seem older--Baltimore because it is surrounded by an old neighborhood, and Texas because they completely enclosed the park with an artificial "downtown" of fake brick buildings. I also like the fact that neither of those parks succumbed to naming itself after a corporate sponsor. The best thing about Pac Bell Park is its waterfront setting, right down to the "splash landing" counter for waterlogged home runs.
EVERYTHING at Pac Bell Park has a corporate sponsor. In addition to having named the park, they've named everything in it. The "splash landing" counter, for instance, is sponsored by Old Navy, the scoreboard is sponsored by Sega video games, and the place we entered was the Coca Cola outfield. We could have avoided walking up the ramps to the view level by taking a fake cable car sponsored by the Yahoo! internet search engine. There's also an "official" everything in the ballpark--the official beer, the official hotdog, the official gourmet coffee, the official sushi--you name it. Almost every stadium has these, things, but they seem more up front about it here.
They also really push all the high tech gadgets. For instance, you can follow the game on your palm pilot. I've never really seen much point to those "personal digital assistants" like the palm pilot, and I still don't. Why would you need a handheld LED screen to tell you the same information that's on the scoreboard and that the announcer said, too?
That announcer was something unique at Pac Bell Park. When I think back on it, I've actually been to a surprising number of Major League parks--New York, Baltimore, two in Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Texas, Denver, and now San Francisco--as well as minor league parks in Burlington, Davenport, Sioux City, Des Moines, Jackson, and Thunder Bay. Out of all those places, though, Pac Bell Park was the only one with a female P.A. announcer. She was really very good.
I had heard that Californians were quite casual about ballgames, arriving late and leaving early. I certainly didn't expect the extremes to which they carried that, though. Technically the game was an sell-out, but you sure wouldn't know it looking at all the empty seats. People were still arriving as late as the bottom of the 6th inning. Margaret and I left before the last out, we were far from the first to the exits. Many people were sitting in seats that were not theirs, something you wouldn't dream of doing in Chicago or St. Louis. Some people were deeply involved in the game, but many more seemed as if they were really just there because it was the thing to do. It was definitely a different crowd than at, say, Yankee Stadium.
This seemed all the more strange since the Giants were playing the Dodgers. The two teams were big rivals back when they were the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers. and the rivalry doesn't seem to have faded much with forty-five years in California. The most boisterous fans in Section 328 were Dodger fans. They cheered loudly every time the visitors made a good play and didn't join in when the outfield fans stomped on the bleachers to accompany their shouts of "BEAT L.A.!"
The player everybody was watching was Giants outfielder Barry Bonds, who had already hit 39 home runs this season and was on pace to break Mark McGwire's all-time record. Bonds walked and popped out tonight; in fact, I'm writing this during the MLB All-Star Game (two weeks later), and Bonds is still stuck on 39 homers. That's not really all that surprising. There is a reason Roger Maris' record stood for nearly 40 years before McGwire broke it and Babe Ruth's stood for over 30 years before that. I wish Bonds well, but it's definitely an uphill battle.
Jeff Kent did homer, but Margaret and I were out at the concession stand at that point. That was pretty much how the game went for us; I really thought it was pretty dull. I don't care a lot about either the Giants or the Dodgers, and we'd missed just about the only exciting play. Oddly, I think Margaret may have enjoyed the game more than I did. However when I suggested we leave not long after the seventh inning stretch, she didn't put up any argument.
We were handed another survey as we exited. This one asked us to rate every conceivable aspect of our ballpark experience. By returning it, I could win free tickets to a future game--hardly an attractive prize when I had to travel 2,000 miles to get to this one.
Since we had left before the end of the game, we couldn't take the ferry back. The MUNI streetcars stop right outside the ballpark at a real station 2nd and King Streets, so we made our way there. The whole station entrance was a maze of police tape, and officers were guarding the entrance. Apparently you're supposed to buy a round-trip ticket before coming to the game. Then you just show your return ticket to the cops after the game. Margaret and I had left our passes back in Oakland, and we didn't know about this system. When one of the cops was distracted, we just walked on past. We were scrupulously honest, though, and bought tickets from the machine on the platform. (We needn't have, though; again nobody checked on the train.) We made our way back to Embarcadero Station, transferred to BART, and then returned to Oakland. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the walk back from the BART station at night, but it was surprisingly uneventful.
I bought some chips from a very strange manually-operated vending machine at the hotel and settled in to watch the TV sports to see how the game turned out. The Giants ended up winning, and absolutely nothing of note happened after we left.
(We were scheduled to take a bus tour to the wine country today.) The Gray Line people had told us to be at the Transbay Terminal at 8:30 this morning, so we were up early to make sure we were there on time. .....
Today was the one and only time we took BART right at rush hour. It was an interesting mix of people, quite the opposite of the crowd headed to the gay parade on Sunday. Most of San Francisco's big jobs are in "financial services", and these people were certainly looked like the sort who would spend their day playing with imaginary money.
It was just after 8:00 when we arrived at Embarcadero station, so we killed a bit of time by having coffee and rolls at a place called Happy Donut. Then we made our way to the Transbay Terminal and waited.
... And waited ... and waited ... and waited ... and waited. The Gray Line outdid BART and the L.A. buses in its lack of prompt service. We were told to arrive by 8:30, but the bus didn't show up until 9:05--and we didn't actually leave until 9:15. While it was nicer than the pathetic old stations I remember from when I took the bus in college, about all I can do with the Transbay Terminal is damn it with faint praise. There is absolutely nothing of interest about the place, and I was very angry with the Gray Line for lying to us about the departure time.
We "entertained" ourselves by watching bus after bus after bus from A.C. Transit. "A.C." stands for Alameda County. These are the city buses from Oakland, and many lines connect across the Bay Bridge. Every couple of minutes another bus arrived from the East Bay. If we had wanted to, we could have caught the bus directly in front of the Best Western and gone straight over here. It would have been cheaper, too, but at the time I didn't know what the routes were. That's the problem with buses; you really need to live in a city to know where they go.
The A.C. Transit buses have signs on them saying they are "low emission vehicles", and I can testify to that having been in an enclosed building with dozens of them. I don't know what their fuel is or how they've modified the engines, but you really notice almost no exhaust. I wish all buses were that way.
We were mostly waiting for Gray Line shuttles to bring people from the expensive downtown hotels. Many of those hotels were no farther than we had walked from the BART station, but I'm sure that most of the people on this tour would never consider walking an option for going anywhere. At first just two other people were waiting for the wine country tour, but by the time we left there were more than sixty. It took two separate buses to accommodate us all.
I had never taken a Gray Line tour before, and from this experience I don't know that I'll be rushing to take another. The bus was very crowded, with the seats jammed more closely together than airplane seats. That would be fine for a quick introduction to the city, but it got increasingly annoying as nine hours dragged on. Many of our fellow passengers were quite rude. The bulk of them were older, and I felt I had to be deferential to them, even if they were acting less than polite to me.
Then there was the driver/guide. I think Margaret liked him better than me, and I will say that he provided an adequate amount of information. The problem was that he was forever making stupid jokes about everything. Often he made the same stupid jokes over and over and over-even when nobody laughed the first time. To make things worse, he thought he was funny. He knew where every joke was, and he kept laughing at his own unfunny remarks. I had recently listened to the audio version of Carroll O'Conner's autobiography (which was sort of appropriate, given his passing while we were on this trip). In it he quoted a line from one of his theatre professors at Trinity College: "In a comedy, the funniest actor is the most serious man on the stage". Somebody should have passed that advice along to our driver. No one is ever less funny than a comedian who laughs at his own jokes.
There was one line the driver said that I actually got a chuckle out of. One of the passengers was discussing politics with him, and the subject of the rolling blackouts came up. At that point I overheard the driver saying that the initials P.G. & E. (the common name of Pacific Gas and Electric, the Bay Area power company that recently went bankrupt) stood for "Public Graft and Extortion". I don't know the California political climate well enough to comment on that, but I was amused to hear it.
When we boarded a video was playing on the on-board television sets describing the wine-tasting process. A variety of videos (on grape growing, wine production, and the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge) played each time we stopped, basically just as time fillers. I wish they would have shown us the videos in their entirety, or even had them for sale somewhere. They were very informative, and I always regretted missing parts of them when we got off the bus.
We started our tour by heading across the Bay Bridge to Oakland. All eastbound traffic goes on the lower level of the bridge. It's quite claustrophobic, and I couldn't help but think back to when the top level collapsed during the earthquake. As we drove past the port of Oakland the driver made some unfortunate remarks about Jerry Brown, who is now the city's mayor. I mostly know Brown as the man who dated Linda Ronstadt back when I was a junior high boy who thought she was the hottest thing around. At the time he was the governor of California and was known for his liberal politics. The driver's cracks implied that Brown hadn't changed since 1975. He is still liberal, but so are the bulk of his constituents--even many who call themselves "moderate" or "centrist".
CONTINUED IN PART 9
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