10/03/04:
I would rather have woken up at the Astoria. Instead, I find myself in an
eight-man dormitory, hot, bothered and hungover. Then I remember where my camera is, and that the means by which I can retrieve my Lomo LC-A has been facilitated by me being here.
I
don’t mind hostels and have generally found the standard of
cleanliness in them to be of a reasonably high standard, which is true of the Tortoise. This is just as well because I feel in desperate need of a shower. I notify N of my intentions
and we agree to reconvene in the common room.
When
we booked into the Green Tortoise just yesterday I suppose we’d anticipated spending
more time here than we did – I assumed we’d return from Haight-Ashbury, kick
back for a bit, freshen up, and then go out again. This didn’t happen so now’s
my chance to have a proper look around. Yes, I think I like it here: people
sitting around reading, making their breakfast, drinking coffee, smoking – it’s
all very civilised.
Despite
last night’s roistering we had the presence of mind to arrange a time and
meeting place with our Mission based buddies: 12:00 at the bottom end of
Chinatown. N and I are a little late, but nobody minds. We all look frightful,
and feel it too. In this respect, the shade of the Financial District is
a good place to be; although it would be nice to feel the warmth of the sun,
its glare is too severe right now. I pick up a free local paper from one of
those archetypally American street dispensaries in an attempt to follow up on
the seaside dispute N and I witnessed yesterday. It makes for grim reading.
C has with him a handheld digital camera, and our bad state does not stop us from making use of it, albeit in a frivolous and very random manner. Bored with the tall buildings and the lack of anywhere appealing to eat, we decide to walk up to Fisherman’s Wharf. My hangover’s a stubborn little malady, so I buy myself some grilled prawns while the others indulge in the greasiest fare they can find.
After
pondering over the sea lions and a possible trip to Alcatraz, we concur that
it’s probably time to go and pick up my camera. The thought of catching a bus doesn't bare thinking about, so instead we grab a cab. The taxi driver is a friendly kind of guy, really
talkative. We tell him how pleasantly surprised we are by the weather and he
tells us it’s real unusual for it to be so hot at this time of year. ;It’s real
unusual for it to be hot like this at this time of the year,' he tells us. 'Any
of you guys play golf?' The taxi driver has been to Scotland, like many
golf-loving Americans are want do, and he loved it there.
We
collect my camera and get a couple of rounds in, out of politeness as much as
anything, but also to put a stop to our hangovers (never a good sign). On the
walk back N and I stop off in a thrift store, then for another quick drink in a
place called Harrington’s – a faux-Irish bar in the Financial district – and
finally for something to eat, in McDonalds of all places, which will do for our
dinner.
The
ensuing night is a relatively quiet one. M and C come to meet us in the Italian
Quarter, we take them to Vesuvio and then Fuse before acquainting ourselves
with a few other bars along the strip. They don’t seem to offer much in the way
of entertainment, these other bars, but maybe that’s because it’s the middle of
the week. The highlight of the evening is being gate-crashed by some large
fellow whose opening gambit is: 'It’s 1972 and I’m with John Lennon,' in a
cinema apparently, although he doesn’t really expand on this. Next he asks M if
he’s related to Keith Moon, while simultaneously handing me a business card
for some restaurant called La Flange.
Shortly after, he’s ejected from the establishment by the door staff and then falls
over comically on the sidewalk.
Outside Vesuvio
11/03/04:
M and C stopped by the Green Tortoise on their way home last night to see if
they might be better off joining me and N there. They decided that they were,
if only out of practical necessity, although I think they dug the vibe too. The
plan from the outset had been to try and orchestrate some sort of road-trip and
such plans would be easier to formulate if we were all
staying at the same location.
M
and C’s American Odyssey was to last nine weeks, culminating in a
trip to New York, from where they would fly home. They had already been to New
Orleans, for Mardi Gras – where M was briefly incarcerated for unspecified
drunken behaviour – and had spent time in Dallas and Houston. Now they
were in San Francisco with us, as had been arranged, and there was the distinct
possibility of them hooking up with more friends in L.A. in a couple of weeks’
time. It was inconceivable spending the whole fortnight in San Francisco, and we
had vague ideas of driving to Las Vegas anyhow. Besides all of that, the Green
Tortoise was cheaper than their Mission digs. M and C were already facing financial
difficulties, so it made sense.
Our
friends arrive and we gather in the common room to devise plans. Everything is
dependent on us being able to hire a vehicle. If we can then we’d like to be on
the road before Sunday. We contrive a number of possible routes, scribbled down on the back pages of whatever book it is N’s been reading (something old and
with a nautical theme). The most logical outcome that presents itself is to finish up in Las Vegas, from whence C and M can catch a bus to Los
Angeles and N and I can do the same back to San Francisco, or maybe even fly.
In between, we can make a stop in Yosemite National Park and maybe Bakersfield
or Barstow. All this is dependent on us finding somewhere that allows us to
hire a car where the driver doesn’t have to be signatory, for it has
materialised that C doesn’t drive either. To this end we exploit the free
internet facilities at the Green Tortoise and make a speculative online booking
at an establishment fairly near to us. The next step is for two of us – M and N
volunteer – to follow up on our booking and see if it reaps any reward.
In
the meantime C’s feeling a bit weary and I’m feeling very hungry. I welcome the
return of my appetite because it’s been stifled of late on account of the excessive
drinking we’ve been doing. I decide to tag along with N and M for a while, take some pictures of them hanging around Chinatown, and then I’ll find somewhere
to eat. It doesn’t take long to find a Subway and it does the job. I then wander
aimlessly about before returning to the Green Tortoise with nothing particular
in mind. C’s up and about and feels rejuvenated, so much so that he’s up for a
drink. There’s no sign of M or N so I take him to Café Greco, although I opt
for coffee rather than beer.
Back at
the Green Tortoise and N and M have cautious cause for optimism. Not only do
they think they’ve found somewhere that will take cash but they suspect there’s
been some sort of financial confusion that could well work in our favour. As
British subjects, we declared ourselves as such when making our online
reservation. Because of this, when M and N had shown up at the car-hire
establishment and quoted the online booking reference, the notional cost was listed
in pounds, rather than dollars. But this wasn’t realised by whoever it was who
dealt with my colleagues, probably on account of them turning up in person. So
as it stands, not only have we secured a vehicle but it is to be charged for at
just over half the amount it’s supposed to. Nothing has been signed or paid for
yet, so we will need to wait and see if this guy’s credulity can be relied upon.
Whatever the outcome, we have procured a vehicle, and it’s a weight off all our
shoulders.
N is
convinced that there must be some sort of classier scene than the one found on
Broadway and Mission, so we decide to walk down to the Financial District and mix
it up with the city folk. We try Harrington’s, which showed potential when
Nathan and I stopped by there yesterday, but it’s not really happening. We order
some food – a couple of plates of putrefied chicken wings to share –
and then hail a cab to take us someplace else. We’d picked up a flyer in Delirium
for a club that is supposed to play sixties tunes, but when we get there the
place is dead. We command our taxi to proceed
to SoMa (South of Market) instead. I don’t know how or why, but I think we end
up in the Tenderloin (the two districts border each other). Wherever we are
exactly, it feels much more ‘downtown’ than Dolores or Haight-Ashbury, although
this could purely be down to the time of day. Certainly, there’s a rough and
readiness to the surrounding infrastructure, although the bar we end up
drinking in seems sophisticated enough: exposed concrete walls, red lighting, many cocktail options. But it’s still not really happening for us and we end up
retreating early to the Green Tortoise’s common room, listening to music,
interacting with the guests and the people who work there, and drinking
take-outs from the local liquor store until late.
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