Wednesday, 12 March 2014

TRAVEL: USA PART 3 - SAN FRANCISCO (MISSION AND TENDERLOIN)






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.


Chinatown

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment