But all was not lost. We went to breakfast at a cafe, then took a walk down to Baker Beach. In the early afternoon, we met two friends for brunch at a delightful open air restaurant in the Mission called Foreign Cinema. The food was delicious, though my dish had a piece of brown paper towel cooked into it. I’d rather not know how it got there.

Afterward, we walked to Dolores Park and ate some chocolate cake. The Mission was sunny, and it was hard to leave.

J and I decided to go to Heath Ceramics in Sausalito to look at pottery. Traffic across the Golden Gate Bridge was backed up in both directions due to what looked like a suicide jump that had just happened. Police had blocked off the lane nearest to the city-side pedestrian walkway and were looking over the edge. J claimed to have seen a Coast Guard boat below once we pulled off the bridge.

Traffic was backed up all through Sausalito. After looking at finely-crafted ceramics, we tried waiting out the traffic. But it wasn’t getting better. Instead, we treated the scooter like a bike and rode up the shoulder the whole way, saving us time and filling the stuck car drivers with unbridled jealousy.

Edward Glove Feet.

Stuffed dog looking out.

Video Hut.

Breakfast.

Corner store sign.

Car in deep driveway.

Shipping container.

Hidden path by the beach.

Plant blocking the way.

Net on a Mission St. building.

Abandoned theater on Mission.

Snow flakes.

Chipped paint.

Interceptor for private use.

Birthday cake in Dolores Park.

Flowers.

Watch out for translucent green children in the street.

Boat repair area near the Heath ceramics factory in Sausalito.

I wish someone had warned me that this is what happens when you get engaged.

All in all, it wasn’t a bad day. But it wasn’t a perfect day either.

Happy birthday, J. I guarantee next year will be a show-stopper.

In the meantime, here are a few photos from the trenches.

Berkeley or China? Hard to know just by the photo.

Overlooking the East Bay.

Old car and flowers.

Urban garden.

Blooming artichokes.

Macaque.

Art car turtle line.

Pirate kite.

My styro plastic beach.

The fire escape by work.

Golden Gate Bridge and fog.

Gull.

Mr. Bing’s.

Cautionary colors.

Blanket in stairwell on Stockton.

This is what I’ve been asking myself all this week.

Wall.

Dragon.

Motorcyclist hauling his bike.

Colorful walls.

The view home on the one commute that involved daylight.

I’m pooped.

We were meeting friends from LA. The driving time was equal for both parties.

Traffic was surprisingly light except for a traffic jam near Pleasanton caused by two car accidents. Our route took us west over the Bay Bridge, along the 580, 205, 120, and then south on the 99. Yellow grassy hills transitioned into a fertile irrigated valley of nuts, grapes, and other crops. Subdivisions encroached on farmland, industry mixed with abandonment.

We stopped for a burger at an In-and-Out packed with an assortment of characters. The table outside offered a good view of the drive thru traffic jam, and the air smelled of charred wood.

The sun was setting as we turned onto the 198 at Visalia. It was dark as we curved along the shores of Lake Kaweah.

Off the main road, we were in the countryside. The smell of dust mixed with the sound of bullfrog croaks. Fragrant dried grasses mixed with chirping crickets along with the rushing water of numerous streams. We kept the windows rolled down and tried to soak it all in.

The directions to the cabin were as complicated as a David Foster Wallace footnote. We identified turns through a combination of distances and landmarks: turn right 100 yards after the general store, turn right again at the donkeys, go for a while along a road until it becomes a single lane and you see some mail boxes on the right. Pass a one lane bridge, orchard, and a variety of fences. Then park behind the yurt.

The friends had already arrived. We chatted with heavy eyelids, then retired to our rooms.

Saturday morning, I woke before sunrise and walked around the property. Kaweah Cottage sat on many acres of rustic valley along a roaring, snow fed stream. There were gardens, horses, and great views of the hillsides. A large variety of birds and squirrels called the place home. The squirrels took turns standing on the fence and a pile of rocks to sound the alarm when they saw a fox. We saw a fox once.

Grassy hills and hundreds of windmills at the 580 pass.

Our cottage.

Sitting area on the front porch.

The yurt.

The barn.

J examining the herb garden that was free to use.

Ladybird.

Antler collection.

Sunrise on the valley wall.

Mosses at the riverbank.

Another view of the riverbank.

Long exposure of the rushing river.

Another for good measure.

Moss.

Wild figs.

Rocky hillside.

The owner of the property gave us a tour before lunch, explaining the better swimming holes, the history of the place, and how to deal with ticks and rattle snakes. Figs seemed to be growing everywhere.

Our first day was leisurely. We hung around the house, cooked some meals, pulled ticks off a dog, played Settlers of Catan, and hung out on the rocky river banks. J and M were brave enough to get into the numbingly cold water. JK and I were not.

The owner’s dog leads the way on the tour of the property.

Rushing water.

Berries.

Trail in the grass.

Horses.

A view of the cottage from the horse field.

Lizard.

Squirrel on the lookout for foxes.

Burrs.

Whale rock.

Algae infested pond.

Lake Kaweah.

The road to what used to be a parking lot before they raised the water level.

Submerged tree.

J.

Me.

M and JK.

Sunset over smelly waters.

Junk.

The abandoned BBQ stand shaped like a cow.

Sunset.

On Sunday, we drove into Sequoia National Park. Past the gate, the curving road took us up a valley and into a land of trees. As expected, the sequoias were massive. Many had charred areas from forest fires. The park was crowded and parking was difficult. Around General Sherman, the pathways were thick with people speaking Chinese or Spanish. But off the main paths, the forest became solitary and quiet.

We took a hike from General Sherman to the visitor’s museum. Along the way, we spotted two groups of black bears! We were both amazed and terrified, as mothers with cubs are a dangerous combination. The first group popped out of some plants in a clearing and walked along a fallen log. One of the cubs stopped to rest in a shadow, then nuzzled his mom. We watched from maybe 50 yards away, hoping that we wouldn’t become bear food. At the moment, I think we all forgot what to do in case of a bear attack anyway. Make a lot of noise? Climb a tree? Play dead? Stab it in the duodenum with a key tied to a stick? Instead, we cautiously walked away.

Farther down the trail, we spotted another mother and her cubs trying to blend into the charred base of a giant tree. She studied us for a moment, then led her cub away from us.

The view leading up to the sequoias.

Moro rock.

Giant tree and visitor museum.

Flowers.

Visitors taking a photo.

Massive fallen tree. Use the people hidden on the path on the right for scale. Use them!

Trees.

Brown bear and cubs!

Off flowers sprouting in the sunlight.

A bear cub!

The trail.

Fern gully.

Stump.

Hiking up Moro Rock.

The view from the top of Moro Rock.

Another view looking down the valley.

My photos of these bear encounters suck like a bear sucking out honey from a sucky bucket.

The bears must have messed up my bowels on a primitive level. I had to go. And I had to go bad. I told my empty-colon companions to go on ahead, then I wandered into the bear-filled woods alone and did my business.

The woodpecker that flew away must have lost respect for me. I know I did.

We ended our time in the park with a hike to the top of Moro Rock. The rocky pathways were crowded and steep, but the view from the top was beautiful and vertiginous.

That evening, we ate and played Catan again. I won. Afterward we pulled some blankets and chairs into the front lawn and turned off all the lights. Above, a vast field of stars twinkled. We were lost in them.

Standing on the porch, stargazing.

Breakfast in the morning light of the back porch.

On Monday, we ate breakfast on the back porch while watching birds and horses. Another two games of Catan later, and it was already the afternoon. J and I needed to get going. We packed up and said goodbye. We were sad to leave the little cottage in the middle of nowhere.

We made good time on the way back. There was a horrible accident that somehow involved both an overturned SUV and a motorcycle. An emergency helicopter was airlifting someone on a stretcher.

The sun was setting as we passed through the hundreds of wind turbines lining the yellow rolling hills. It was a beautiful sight.

Fog and cool breezes greeted us when we opened our doors. While I have no preference for hot and dry over cold and wet, it was a clear reminder that the weekend was over.

Or was it?

Yes.

But this sweet desk was temporary. Its rightful owner came back from holiday, and since yesterday I was relocated to a dark room off a hallway of glass-walled creatives. In another two weeks, I’ll be moving again to a “permanent” desk, though this building is so packed with people that the seating arrangement feels like a Ponzi scheme.

Work has been pretty good so far, as far as work goes. I’ve been “learning the ropes” as they say. I’ve been climbing ladders, synergizing, thinking around the box, smoking cigars, slapping asses, shaking hands, burning the midnight oil, basically just taking care of business in a can-do attitude sort of leadership role.

Since I’m right at the edge of Chinatown, I’ve been taking breaks by walking around. For all the complaints of inauthenticity and touristy feelings, Chinatown feels foreign. Off of Grant, everyone is speaking Chinese. Old ladies are shuffling up steep hills with the patience of a tortoise. Cheap produce is picked through by crowds of chattering people. The smells of Asia are everywhere: incense, garbage, dried fish, oil, chili, sewer, sour, sweet. Old men and women play heated games in the park, hanging out all day in the sun.

If not China, the neighborhood at least feels foreign. And while my wandering ways are on hold, I can trick my mind into thinking otherwise by just going for a walk.

The windowsill at work.

The view of laundry drying on Chinatown rooftops.

Park with lady on phone.

Cabbages.

Two cooks eating in an alley.

Truck with boxes.

Unloading garlic.

Banksy mural protected with plexi.

Emblem.

Konami Code.

The weirdest cookbook I’ve ever seen. Two words: cash in.

A takeout lunch from a Korean cart.

The AT&T building.

Stoplights.

Desert naan stuffed with dried fruit.

Last weekend was sunny. The whole town was in a gay mood, in part because of a gay/lesbian bike parade that ended in concerts. One involved the Backstreet Boys, minus one member (not Lance Bass). Dolores Park was swarming with characters over the weekend, and it made for amazing people watching.

J and I went scootering to eat, see the scenery, and enjoy the weather. We also acquired a fancy-pants futon and frame, at great expense to me.

Police horse in the Presidio.

Abandoned house on Dolores.

Chairmain Bao, a delicious mobile food cart serving high-end buns.

Our bao.

Abandoned used car dealership in the Mission.

Metal walls and deck garden.

Buddhist center.

Colorful alley.

Man with tattoos and cruiser bike.

Another alley.

Dolores Park walkway.

Stairs.

Fog spilling over Twin Peaks.

A big pink cloth for what is either the terminus of a breast cancer marathon or Christo sculpture.

Greenery.

Line of fog seen over the water from our apartment.

A big rainbow flag in the Castro.

Steeples.

Entering Stern Grove to go to a free Hawaiian concert.

The performers.

Grasses by the lake.

Massive koi in the pond.

Now when I sleep, it is on the layered fibers of cotton rather than a mattress filled with vinyl-smelling air!

But I went. The 24th annual Scooter Rage started on Thursday. Saturday’s activities began at the clubhouse of San Francisco Motorcycle Club. The turnout was decent.

Most of the scooterists are older than I remember, but so am I.

The day began with the actual racers leaving in two groups: the vintage and the modern. Afterwards, the casual riders took off along the same course. Our route looped around thirty miles, though it avoided downtown. The mass of over a hundred bikes sputtered and spewed exhaust. We honked and laughed and looked ridiculous. We were an unofficial parade: riders would block of intersections and everyone would go through together. We breezed through red lights, stop signs, we were above the law.

Most people seemed happy to see us, except at one intersection where our left turn cause chaos in the intersection and some near crashes. I though someone had crunched into the back of me when I stopped short, but there is no physical evidence.

I loved being part of the ride again, though my clothes smell of exhaust.

Dolores Park overlooking the city.

Tracks, a scooter’s best friend.

Holy blooming cactus, Cactman!

The winged logo of the San Francisco Motorcycle Club, hosts of Scooter Rage 24.

The actual racers starting their engines.

The rally racers at the lineup.

Talking over gas.

Sidewalk.

Labretta.

This scooter is identical to the 100 Super I used to own, only in worse shape.

Hilariously ugly turn signals and mirrors.

Half of the pack.

One of the few stop signs we stopped for.

More pack.

Through the neighborhood.

A Black Sheep.

Along the coast.

Little kid and dangling feet.

Sea foam green.

Riders and the ocean.

Platter of J-made cookies at home.

I dropped off my scooter this morning for its first scheduled service. In about a month, I’ve driven seven hundred miles. I ascended the steep hills of California St. wondering why there were not two wheels beneath me.

One week into work, and all is well. There will be a long period of adjusting to the atmospheric conditions of the salt mine, but my pick is trusty and the payoff will be salty.

But the wine country was beautiful. Yellow, rolling hills were speckled with dark olive colored trees. The vineyards spread across valleys and up hillsides in chaotic plots of perfectly linear rows. Everything seemed sickeningly quaint and romantic, from fake chateaus, crafts stores, fruit stands, wine tastings, to the small town feel of Sonoma’s square.

On a weekday, the region was the stomping ground of casually dressed, grey haired people.

We went in a loop. First, up through Sonoma Valley, then across the hills and back down to Napa. We had come mostly to look around, but late in the afternoon we decided to stop for a tasting before all of the wineries closed. Our pick was a massive stone-coated building, empty except for an older host with a massive smile and slightly crazy eyes.

“Two merlots, on the rocks,” I cooly asked, leaning against the bar. She could clearly see I was a connoisseur. Unfortunately it was not of wine.

We tasted a few wines on a list, pretending to be delighted by “nutty afterbirths” and “cherry finishes with tints of cinnamon and sulfur.” The woman did her best to guide us. She was causal and friendly. But personally, I can only tell the difference between a wine that sucks and one that doesn’t. My taste duotone has no room for flavors of grey.

We left with a bottle of wine.

Field, farmer, and hills.

Landscape painter.

Beached boat.

Rows of grapes.

More grapes under yellow hills.

Hill top with trees.

The coolest dog in Sonoma.

Some type of plus sign on a hillside.

Oh dear!

The dump.

Freshly planted grapes.

Full grown grapes.

Field and windmill.

More field.

Rocks amongst yellow grass.

Cables on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Bunker.

Since the wine tasting, we have not been drinking wine. Instead, we have been “getting our kicks” out in the sunny weather.

Switch in yucca.

FOR RENT…BEDROOM.

Large fish caught at Crissy Field.

Me and my destiny.

Home made biscuits.

Home made chicken enchiladas.

A few days ago, we hiked the massive sandy stairs to the beach at Fort Funston and discovered a playground of sea foam. On the north side of the beach, a mass of it was getting churned up and deposited on the shore. The wind would send it mashing against rocks and flying into the air like snow. Larger wads of foam would escape and tumble along the ground. It was fascinating to watch, and a little like getting sneezed on.

Sea foam! Bam!

A foamy snow.

The hatch.

Sign on a moving truck.

Making a break for it.

One of the many old ladies wandering the streets of our neighborhood.

Missing locks.

Three doorbells.

Color matched flowers.

Today, we went for a walk to Sutro Park. Fog hugged the coast. At the edge of the park, I discovered a creepy encampment in the backyards of two abandoned homes. Through a knocked down section of the wooden fence was a variety of trails and little sleeping areas in the underbrush. None of it seemed occupied, except for one especially hidden area along a fence that I was too fearful to explore. The whole area felt slightly foreboding. Bright orange and green fungus coated the trees.

The front of one of the abandoned looking houses. The two cars were moldy and over grown. It’s almost like the family went on a trip and never came back.

Weird message written on the side of the house.

The side of the house, and the massive ineffective fence.

Three kinds of wild flowers.

The staircase on the back of the abandoned property. The entrance to the secret encampment is to the left.

Inside the backyard.

The haunting world of homeless.

Two beds, a top hat and a handbag.

Ocean view.

The old pond for the house was now a makeshift seating area.

Not the most comforting fence to crawl through.

Behind it was an even more hidden lair. Far to the back of this, I think there actually was an active camp.

Above me, orange fungus.

Fallen fence.

On the way to lunch, I spotted this dead baby possum.

My first day of full-time work starts tomorrow. I feel like I’ve made the most of my free time out here, but I’m nervous about what the future brings. Until I get into the groove of commuting and working it’s going to feel pretty shocking. I’ve gotten pretty good about goofing off. Now I need to get good about working again.

In moments of uncertainty whether I’m doing the right thing for a living, I just have to look at all of the good moments work has brought me. Since my first job in 2002, I’ve been almost able to take 3 years off and explore. That seems like a fair balance to me. As long as I keep moving forward, I’ll still be able to meet my maker with few regrets.*

Too see J’s take on these pre-work moments, look no further than this.

*That have’t been proven in a court of law.

J and I decided to go on a scooter ride through the fog up to Muir Woods National Monument. The park is 12 miles (19 km) north of San Francisco and part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. It protects 240 acres of old growth Coast Redwood. These aren’t giant redwoods like down south, but they are still pretty massive.

The Golden Gate Bridge was in the clouds, and the winds buffeted the scooter mercilessly. We exited and drove through Sausalito. The fog hadn’t made it over the hill yet, so the weather was nice. We stopped and looked at a huge colony of houseboats resting on the smelly mud of low tide. We decided to come back and take a better look after the woods.

Fog rolling in across the bay.

The view of Mt. Tam and the 101 Highway from the house boats across from Marin City.

After another quick jog on the 101, we exited and took the Shoreline Highway 1 across the hills to the coast. The road gets really pretty after the junction for Muir Beach and Muir Woods, though for us it was mostly in fog along Panoramic Highway and Muir Woods Road.

At the park, we snuck my scooter into the shadows of a tree next to a chopper so we wouldn’t take up a parking space.

Entry tickets were purchased for $5 each near a family of chipmunks playing on a wooden fence.

The entry to Muir Woods.

Rustic fence and flora.

The boardwalk was patched with pieces of metal.

Coast Redwoods.

Muir Woods is full of wood: the trees, the fences, the boardwalk. Unless it’s early morning, the central park is full of people. But the side trails are fairly empty. J and I went on a few mile side trail that promised an ocean view on a clear day. There was no view. Instead, we saw redwoods, snails, slugs, ferns, moss, and a variety of underbrush. At the top of the hill, we had an illegal snack of cheese and crackers and carrots. Numerous seeds fell of the crackers, likely causing a BP-grade environmental ruin in a few years.

Climbing a trail.

Passing through a trunk.

It’s hard to get a sense of scale of this clearing, but it was big.

J.

More trail with little wooden bridge.

Crushed snail.

New needles.

Sign for the Lost Trail.

Moldy bark.

My walking shoes during our snack break.

Fugus.

Ground cover.

Path along the stream.

Looking up at clear skies and glowing, new needles.

I was overdressed for the hike, wearing two shirts, a wool sweater, and a coat. But all of those layers soaked up the buckets of sweat like a Tempur-Pedic mattress in a Texas summer.

We left the woods, and drove up the partially foggy coast. The Highway was perched on the edge of cliffs, dipping into tight wooded curves. We stopped for iceream sandwiches in Stinson Beach, then began the trip home.

Fog rolling in over Highway 1. In the distance is Twin Peaks radio tower.

My scooter.

Brown grass on the rolling hillsides.

Stinson Beach was windy but sunny.

Steep Ravine State Park cabins seen from the road. They look like a place where the Others would live.

Before leaving Sausalito, we took a better look at the massive colony of “houseboats”. The term is used loosely, as none of the homes could move under their own power. And some of the dwellings were really basic and dilapidated. “Shack barges” would be a better term for many of the buildings. The whole compound was visually chaotic: every building in a different color and style, crap lying everywhere, wires jumbled and strung in the Thai style.

One home was isolated from others. The wooden shingled, drooping building was built on a base that floated in a pool of water, except this water was landlocked and stagnant. It had been cut off from the bay, and was now a moat. As I studied this confusing structure, an elderly woman carrying a paper grocery bag walked onto the porch and let herself in. This was her home.

This houseboat is more of a shack barge.

Crafty porch.

Creepy, rundown residence with folksy cutouts on the wall.

The old lady’s drooping house with stagnant moat.

Thai-style wiring.

The Memorial Shoe Pit of Danny Joe.

Houseboat mailboxes.

I need one more scooter adventure before work starts. I don’t know where.

Memorial Day weekend was celebrated outdoors, mostly going on walks and humiliating myself on the nearby frisbee golf course. Additionally, feathers were kicked, balls were thrown into hoops, food made and consumed.

On Friday, J and I went on a walk along the cliffs in Lands End. This is one of my favorite places in the city, and I’m glad we live so close to it. After hiking on the trail, we stopped and rested on the remains of a gun mount from WWII-era defenses. I nearly took a nap to the sounds of the ocean and fog horn. A group of sail boats left the safety of the bay for what looked like a race.

The sign to Lands End in Lincoln Park.

Shaded trail.

Looking north to the Marin Headlands from Lands End.

The Golden Gate Bridge from a cliffside meadow.

Ships passing by the fog horn.

The Thinker in the arch of the Legion of Honor.

Brand new VW with a nice big scar.

On Saturday, V came over with two frisbees. Our destination was the Golden Gate Park Disc Golf Course, a well maintained and sprawling setup only three blocks from my apartment. I had never played before, and I was surprised to see how official the course was. Eighteen “holes” were spread out in the woods in a variety of interesting configurations. The holes were actually elevated baskets made from metal and chains. Groups of dudes were taking the game really seriously. They had their duffels with different types of frisbees. They talked about shots. They praised each other and groaned at their mis-throws between sips of beer.

V and I had one regular frisbee apiece. We were amateurs. Luckily, we shot around one over par for most of the holes. Not to bad for the first time.

Warning sign.

The course.

The fairway.

Course marker at the tee box.

A hole.

J searching for a lost disc.

A hole.

On Sunday, J and I woke to fresh cinnamon rolls we had made the night before. Then we played some frisbee golf. J did well for her first time; I did marginally better. For lunch: sandwiches at the packed picnicking area near the Warming Hut in Crissy Field.

Monday, cold fog and cloudy skies set in. But such weather was not enough to dampen the mood for basketball, feather kicking, Pixel Junk Monsters, Indian food, and the movie version of Fantastic Mr. Fox over in V’s neighborhood.

Tuesday: cheap fruit and feather kicking. I continued to work on my special moves including the “Super Kick” and the “Nantucket Back-Whack.”

Today, we went for a walk through the Botanical Garden and stuffed ourselves with large hamburgers.

Cinnamon rolls!

Chinese style dry-fried green beans.

Girl and dog.

Sea lion eating bait from the fishing lines at Crissy Field.

Sunset at the beach.

The redwood forest in Golden Gate Park.

A redwood.

Clovers.

Paper-like flower.

Grizzly succulents.

One of many gophers that was poking its head out of burrows to drag plants inside.

A lonely looking squirrel.

J made me a case for my iPad that matches the one for my abandoned iPod Touch.

June Gloom has gotten to me. But if the weather permits, to Muir Woods I go!

See J’s take on the past couple days here.

Oops, gotta jet. It’s time for me to eat clam chowder in a bread bowl while riding a cable car and discussing liberal politics with gay people carrying iPhones.

Signed,
Frisco Kid

After visiting with J’s uncle’s family in Hillsborough, we picked up the 17 foot U-Haul truck on Thursday morning. In two hours, it was loaded. For lunch, we went downtown and tried out Thai boiled chicken and ginger sauce from one of the numerous food carts. I think it is the only place in America were you can buy this delicious dish.

Portland was sunny and beautiful for the first moments of our visit, but soon rained and hailed for the rest.

Despite our short time up there, we had a fun time visiting family and friends. The city was beautiful and green, though a lot smaller feeling than we remembered.

On Friday morning, we began our journey to San Francisco. For all of Oregon, it rained on us. The truck struggled up the hills, appearing even more underpowered than a fully loaded 18-wheeler. Our gas mileage was a cringeworthy 10mpg, and I was tempted to measure distance not in miles but $25 increments.

We reached the California border in the early afternoon. The sun came out. We laughed.

By early evening, we were only 200 miles from San Francisco. Endless flooded rice fields and orchards surrounded us for miles. We decided to see how close we could get before we got tired.

At 10:30PM, we were a bridge away. But instead of struggling to park the truck in town and unload the air mattress, we found a motel in Mill Valley. Our room was massive, as was our exhaustion. We slept soundly.

Within an hour of waking up, we had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge and had begun unloading the truck. In two hours, despite having to haul everything up two flights of stairs, we had finished moving. And boy were our arms tired.

Golden Gate Bridge from the roof.

The moon.

Sun sets over the Marin Headlands outside our window.

Sunset.

We are missing key pieces of furniture, but already our new apartment is feeling comfortable. Unpacking everything yesterday and today made me nostalgic for the past and optimistic for the future. These limited artifacts from my life don’t really mean much on their own, but they were worth keeping. After two years living either in a guesthouse, beach bungalow, hotel, furnished apartment, or family home, I forgot what it was like to have a place that feels my own.