08/03/04:
I had no idea what the weather was going to be like. I knew California as ‘The
Sunshine State’ (although it’s more commonly referred to as The Golden State, for
a variety of reasons) but was also aware that San Francisco is a place regularly
inundated with fog – famous for it, in fact. Regardless, it was early March so
I didn’t really know what to expect.
Meteorological
conditions were good from the off and at some juncture a taxi-driver informed us
that San Francisco was presently caught within the grasp of some unseasonably
hot weather. San Francisco is a lot milder than most of California, and in March
one wouldn’t anticipate the mercury to rise any higher than 16°C. We enjoyed daytime
temperatures almost a full 10 degrees upwards of that, the evenings were warm
and we saw no fog.
My
colleague and I hadn’t been immediately alive to this anomalous isopiestic
stability. The Astoria lay in the shadow of the Financial District, and felt relatively temperate. Only when we moved north to Fisherman’s
Wharf, or west toward Golden Gate Park, could we tell just how hot things were, and how bright the sun and still the air.
Walking
up Grant Avenue, through the heart of Chinatown, slightly hung-over after our evening
spent drinking around Broadway Street, I was picking up a positive vibe. There
was a hustle about the place, but nobody was giving us any hassle. At the top
of Grant Avenue the Chinese ambience gave way to a distinctly Latin flavour, as
the Chinese restaurants made way for their Italian counterparts.
We take
lunch at a pleasant Italian café – Café Greco – on Columbus Avenue. N and I order
beef sandwiches, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. I am aware of the
pound’s strength against the dollar and because of this I’m expecting
everything to be reasonably priced. Our sandwiches cost $8, which works out at
around £5. This does not represent the good value I’d been hoping for. We’ll be
eating out three times a day for the next fortnight and this needs to be
the cheapest meal, but when our sandwiches arrive they’re really
quite something: sizeable buns rammed with layer upon layer of thinly cut beef.
If all portions are this big then we should be able to get by on eating just twice a day.
On
to Fisherman’s Warf where we will laugh at sea lions. It’s a tourist trap, but
the time of year tempers the amount of excursionists present and it feels
quite genteel. We catch a bus to Haight-Ashbury. It is very hot on the bus and we hope
that this is because there is no air-conditioning, but debarkation brings only mild relief. Unfortunately, we need to board a second
bus to Haight so our mild relief is also brief relief. Fortunately the second
leg of journey is not a long one (and leaves me thinking we could have probably walked
it).
Haight-Ashbury
is more sedate than I expect it to be. It’s like Camden Market on a sunny day,
but without the teenagers or the drug-pushers. Indeed, it’s a cleaner place in
every way. It’s hard to imagine that this was once the epicentre of 1960s counter
culture. But that’s okay: Amoeba Records is heavily stocked with vinyl and I
make a note to return there before the journey home. We’re on a reconnaissance mission,
preparing ourselves for the week ahead and the impending arrival of our two friends, who are already firmly entrenched on their tour of the States. We
catch a bus south-east toward the district of Mission & Dolores, taking
note of a potential nightspot along the way called Delirium.
N
is hungry again. We only ate a few hours ago but he’s hungry again. There’s a
café opposite so we go there. N orders the chicken burger & fries while I
just have a coffee, although I end up feasting on his leftovers.
We
were late in getting up this morning and it’s later now than it should have been. Still weary, and intent on giving tonight a go of
it, we agree that we need to start moving in the vague direction of
our hotel. Slightly disorientated, we take an unwise turning and find ourselves
in deepest Mission. Before we’ve even walked 30 meters we register a paralytic
drunk stumbling about the place, a woman having an argument with something
imagined, and a whole host of sketchy characters collectively suggesting that we’re
heading in a bad direction. It’s not as threatening as that sounds, and nobody
gives us so much as a second glance, but it is a sharp contrast to what we’ve
seen of San Francisco so far. We retrace our steps and look for somewhere
secure to scrutinise our map, see the error of our ways and re-route
accordingly – we need to make for Market Street. On our way we will stop off in
a musical instrument emporium and army surplus/camping store, more for N’s
benefit than mine. Once home, N will take a nap while I drink coffee al fresco
in the café across the road from our hotel.
I want to
give Vesuvio another go. Before we do there’s a bar atop some tower block,
somewhere around Nob Hill, where N would like to have a drink – he’s read about
it but I’m not sure where. It’s a struggle to locate this establishment and
when we do we’re not sure we will be permitted entry: it looks swanky and we’re
not dressed for the occasion. The doorman takes pity on us and allows us to
stay for one drink, presumably because it’s early enough for it not to be
a problem. We are grateful for this because the view is impressive, although the prices would cripple us if we were in fact permitted to stay for the whole of the evening.
Vesuvio has quite a history. It’s
where many of the Beat Generation used to hang out – Ginsberg, Kerouac, Cassady
and the rest – and I like the affiliation. My colleague isn’t that bothered. He
thinks it’s a very nice bar but is desirous of a livelier environment.
After
a couple of beers we move on to Fuse around the corner, which isn’t a
particularly interesting establishment but has a more youthful clientele. This
is explained by its proximity to a hostel called the Green Tortoise across the
road. 'You want to get yourself to the Green Tortoise, just over there across
the road,' proffers one of its temporary residents. It turns out that they
charge about half the going rate at the Astoria, but for dormitories with
communal bathrooms. About this we are not concerned; N and I require the humblest of dwellings and the location here is more congenial to our needs. We take a
look and are impressed with the institution’s archaically grand, if rather
decrepit, common room. You can even smoke in there, contradicting the
no-smoking policy enforced in the bars, cafés and restaurants we’ve frequented
thus far. We make a reservation and intend on immediately retreating to the
Astoria in readiness for our morning transfer. Instead we end up checking out
the bar across the road from Vesuvio where a large jazz ensemble is readying to
play. Their performance will have my colleague so enthralled that he decides to
stay for a while longer, after I’ve announced my attention to turn in for the
night.
The
next day we compare notes on how easily we found our way home through those
quiet streets of Chinatown and wonder whether this city was always so placid.
09/03/04:
The Green Tortoise is just down the road from Café Greco so we return there for
breakfast in preparation for the day ahead of us, for today our travelling
companions will be arriving in San Francisco.
When
M had told of his idea to take a trip across America he disclosed to me his
proposed itinerary – New Orleans (for Mardi Gras), Dallas, San Francisco, Los
Angeles and New York, and anywhere else that could be slotted in along the way. He’d
already acquired a guidebook for San Francisco as proof of his commitment, and I agreed immediately to meet him there. We found a list of bars in and around Haight-Ashbury – for we shared a common
appreciation of its myth – and arranged a time and place to meet: 16:00 on
the 9th March in a bar called the Achilles Heel.
I
don’t think I saw M again after that. The last solid communique between us was
an exchange of emails leading up to his departure reaffirming that our
arrangement still stood, in spite of it being still a few months off and the
fact that I had yet to procure a ticket by which to get me there. In the
meantime, I’d opened an invitation to a few associates. I was quite prepared to
go it alone but knew a couple of people to whom the excursion might appeal. My friend
N agreed to accompany me, with the proviso that I made all the necessary
arrangements. I don’t think he appreciated at the time just how tenuous my
arrangement with M was, or if I really told him, but as our appointment neared
he started to express some concern.
We have
plenty of time to kill before our 16:00 rendezvous so we take a stroll around
San Francisco’s Financial District. I’m actually carrying quite a hangover and
demand we stop at Starbucks for coffee (not specifically Starbucks, but it’s
right in front of us). From there we turn back on ourselves and revert to
Fisherman’s Wharf. The reasons for this are twofold: first, we know that we can
catch a bus there in the direction of Haight-Ashbury; second, we’d previously
noticed car-hire businesses plying their trade in that general area. It is understood
that our two weeks in America shouldn’t be restricted to San Francisco and that
the hiring of a car will be of great benefit if we wish to imbue our venture
with the road-trip like properties that it deserves. In the two car-hire firms we
enter it is established that the designated driver of any rented vehicle will
need to make payment by way of a credit card, presumably as security. N has a
driving licence but no credit card, and I have a credit card but not the
ability to drive. I know M doesn’t drive either, but his friend C might. Satisfied
that we’ve at least begun the process of inquiry, we decide to head over to Ocean
Beach on our way to Haight-Ashbury.
The bus
journey to the Ocean Beach puts San Francisco’s size into perspective. We’ve
been doing plenty of walking – to N’s chagrin – and we’ve covered significant
ground, giving the impression that this city is of a manageable scale. Our
latest excursion asks that we reconsider. The road that runs parallel to Golden
Gate Park seems to go on forever and it takes us some time to reach the coast.
When we arrive it’s a little bit of a let-down. I was expecting something like
Coney Island, or the seafront at Brighton. Instead, this endless vista of sand
and sea is overlooked by a main road, random car parks and the western boundary
of the park. There is nothing wrong with this but I’m not someone who likes
beaches for their own sake. I require a degree of amenity about such places and
prefer them to be quite lively (by day at least).
I
judge too soon. Police cars and ambulances scream past us suddenly, and almost
out of nowhere a police officer starts cordoning off the pavement directly in
front of us. There has been some sort of fracas in the parking lot to our left
(we’ve been strolling along the esplanade) and a man lies recumbent on the hot
tarmac. And now a film crew. They must be affiliated in some way. A crowd is
slowly gathering, although their general demeanour doesn’t suggest that they
think it’s much of a big deal – the paramedic now furiously pumping away at
that recumbent guy’s chest might beg to differ. My colleague and I consider walking
down to the shore’s edge but, given the violent episode we’ve just been privy
to, decide that maybe we’ll be on our way.
It’s
a long walk to Haight-Ashbury. I thought we’d be able to pick up a bus sooner
but instead we’ve have to walk almost the full length of Golden Gate Park’s
southern side, which takes us through an area typified with pimped rides, ripped
dogs and sullen looking young men. I’m not sure tourists should have a presence
here; either that or the events back at Ocean Beach have spooked me a little.
When we finally arrive in Haight we start asking
around for the Achilles Heel. Nobody seems to have heard of the place. We pause
for a drink in some faux-Irish hostelry and ponder our next move when suddenly
I think I spot our cadres entering the drinking establishment opposite. This
sounds surprising but given that my friend M is involved it somehow isn’t: the
guy’s wired for strange coincidences. N and I down our beers before crossing
the road to and join M and his accomplice, who by this time have settled down
with some bonkers local in the beer garden out back. It’s a surreal moment but
a triumphant one.
The
chap who M and C are chatting with is called Phil, and he claims to be able to
commune with animals. Apparently, he possesses strange powers which he divulges
to us via anecdotes involving exploding priests, hordes of Italian cats and
other bizarre goings-on. Caught up in the excitement of it all we get quite
tipsy.
M
and C, we discover, have already booked into some squalid hostel somewhere in
Mission. They didn’t really have the time to properly bed in as they had an
appointment in Haight-Ashbury with myself and N. As such, they will need to
return there to freshen up for the evening’s revelry that inevitably awaits. So
as not to delay proceedings any further, N and I elect to go with them. This
makes good sense: that bar we spotted yesterday is in Mission-Delores so
there’s little point us heading all the way back to the Green Tortoise, even if
I would like to shower and a change of clothes. After a quick turnaround back
at M and C’s dimly lit hostel, we find an independently run café somewhere off
Market Street. We all order the steak and more beers are
consumed.
‘Service
for the Sick’ is Delirium’s Tuesday night thing and it all happens in a
windowless room at the back of the building. It’s still early so we start off
drinking in the front-bar. Only when we become aware that smoking is permitted
in the back do we make our way there. It is a sparsely attended event, which
encourages us to make requests. The DJ indulges this for some while but loses
patience about half way through the instrumental coda of Can’t You Hear Me Knocking by the Stones.
We
proceed to get properly lashed. At some point N reappears, from an excursion we
weren’t even aware he’d taken, with some blond boy called Eric. It materialises
that N had taken leave to buy cigarettes and stumbled upon this guy who looked
like he knew his way around. As Service for the Sick reaches fruition, we ask Eric
to take us somewhere we can continue drinking. We
find a bar still serving, but only just, and order a round of vodka and
oranges. A disturbing political dialogue with the staff, who are busy clearing
up, culminates in us incanting the name ‘Nixon’ over and over again – like a rabble
of English football supporters – towards our Democratic hosts who were generous
enough to serve us after-hours.
I have no
recollection of the journey back to the Green Tortoise but I do remember
getting out of the taxi and realising I’d left my camera somewhere. Suddenly
sober, I pleaded with the Canadian manning reception to call Delirium to see if they had it. They did, and he arranged for them to put it aside so I
might return the next day and collect it.
No comments:
Post a Comment