25/03/09
Today is the day I have booked myself and Ed to go to Alcatraz and I am excited – I’ve heard so much about it and hope it isn’t going to be just another jaded tourist trap. We breakfast (there are eggs involved – the family seem to do a good line in cheesy scrambled eggs for them as wants ‘em!) and then I play trains a bit with Thomas, and Ed joins in too – apparently Thomas isn’t an engine this morning, he’s the Fat Controller. Except, Ed says and Thomas agrees, that he couldn’t possibly be the Fat Controller, being only three and not fat at all. He is the Red Controller, because of his hair. So he controls all the trains on the tracks, including the ones Ed and I are driving, until it is time for them all to go away in their shed, which Thomas oversees.
Meg is off to work today, so she has headed off earlier, but Pilar arrives too and her quiet, friendly presence watches us from the sofa, where she occasionally and shyly murmurs encouragement to Thomas in Spanish. Not that he pays much attention to anything but the trains!
Ed and I get ready for going out and congregate in the kitchen. Thomas appears too and wonders if he should get his shoes. Ed and I exchange glances. Alcatraz is even going to be a big day for us, so doing it with Thomas is something that would have required a lot more preparation.
But he wants to come too.
The poor little chap is heartbroken when we tell him he must stay with Pilar and that we will see him later and will bring him something from Alcatraz but the howls of lonely disappointment still rend the air. I release Ed from any obligations and say I won’t mind if he stays behind as I will be less disappointed than Thomas if I am left to toddle around on my own!
I think it is rather touching that he is so attached to Ed, who has been spending a lot of time with him in his holidays. There are so many dads out there who barely get a second glance from their offspring when they leave the house. Though I suspect it may be something to do with the fact that there is something afoot to which he isn’t party!
Still, he needs to learn that he can’t always have the people he wants, unfortunately, and we, very reluctantly (I can see it tearing at the doting dad’s heartstrings, and mine too), leave him wailing at poor Pilar.
We make our way, by car (Meg has taken the MG so we can use the Merc and leave that at the station instead of Ed’s pride and joy!) to the station, in a somewhat sober frame of mind. I have a treat, though, as we drive along.
A condor!
Riding the wind, motionless in the high sun, hanging above the road like some harbinger of retribution.
It’s impressive…
We also pass various other interesting things, one of which Ed points out to me with a wry chuckle: ‘In N Out Burger’.
Apparently the burgers are very good, not too like MacDonald’s, but I can’t help thinking that it is an incredibly unfortunate name for anywhere that serves food, with such connotations as it has! Mind you, if the chain has survived with a moniker like that, it must be pretty good!
We arrive at Millbrae station and pay various machines for parking and travel. The ‘bart ba’ trains are rather like tube trains in appearance and the tickets are similar too.
As I pay, I come to the conclusion that money (£) here [sorry, "money ($)"] is rather daft. There are so many little bits – you can have a massive handful of gold and silver change and a roll of notes and both handfuls will still probably not come to more than about £5… Ditch the $1 note, it’s ridiculous!
It’s as ridiculous as having a 50p note, and is worth only marginally more!
To be fair, retailers rarely give them out if they can help it, preferring to issue the coins as change, which I can understand.
Unlike the tube trains, which this one resembles, it is fast, airy and mostly clean. However, it does make a host of all sorts of bizarre tweeting, piping noises. It is almost tuneful and decidedly eerie at some points. Ed suggests that perhaps it is some publicity by the local ‘tinnitus awareness group’!
We arrive in San Francisco and make our way to the ferry pick-up at Pier 33. We pass through the back of an office compound, which is green with fresh grass and budding trees, to the waterfront. The backs of the wharves are clearly still very industrial, though the enormous cream hangars they each sport are all clean and neat, glowing in the sun, bearing their numbers on the sides. It feels like rather a long way, and we clock-watch as we stride through the warm sun along the road behind the piers. It doesn’t take us too long to walk though and it is infinitely cheaper than hailing a cab – apparently, they are even more pricey than London ones, and more prone to unscrupulosityness. ;)
While we are walking, we are passed the other way by a lad on a skateboard, he skims down the pavement, off the edges of things and darts past us, clearly in control, though I am nervous at his proximity, despite his apparent skill.
We arrive at Pier 33 and immediately see that we are in the right place – there is a long, snaking queue, evidently a tourist trap from the foreign bleating and shell suits. I heave a sigh and we join the back of it – not that I expected this part to be easy or fun, but at least spaces are limited to what the ferries can carry over there! I haven’t yet needed my spare jumper I brought in case the ferry was cold and the balmy breeze coming in from the sea reassures me that maybe it won’t be as hideously chilly as I was anticipating – we shall see…
We have our tickets scanned and passports inspected (you have to show ID to go with the tickets) and we toodle on board. It is a spacious vessel, with snacks and drinks if you happen to have a spare arm and leg in your wallet. I decide I can spare a couple of fingers since neither of us has had lunch yet and acquire a couple of Danish pastry/Eccles cake things – we eat them at the back of the ferry, dropping the crumbs into the water for the fish (I thoroughly enjoy my raisins – I needed that!) We decided to stand at the back of the ferry so we can see SF as it recedes into the blue-hazy distance. The Golden Gate bridge sails and sweeps delicately over the Bay, tightroping from city to alternate shore. Our ferry’s sister ship follows us along, slipping over the glittering grey water in the spume behind.
I admire the waves falling behind us and the little white crests that form in an animated vee as we pass. It is still quite warm and we keep our patch by the rail upstairs, where we have a good view of the receding city of San Francisco, growing murky with distance. We don’t really see the ferry pull into Alcatraz, though we slink around the rail a little to catch glimpses and the ferry turns slightly as we arrive to side up to the pier.
Alcatraz looms.
There is no other word for it, rising huge, solid and forbidding over the tiny island it has engulfed. I am awed as we disembark and gaze up at the tall, slick walls with barely arrow-slit windows. We join the back of the crowd on the flat apron of concrete in front of the gates (I think that should probably read ‘Gates-dah-dah-DAHH) and listen to the lady in front without much enthusiasm.
Baaaaeh!
The guide lady is very much of the Mr Motivator school of tour guiding (remember him, the friendly black chap in the all-too-revealing, loud, skin-tight lycra jumpsuit on morning TV who bounced about being all healthy at you from inside your screen – she’s just like that, but squeaky) and leaps around in front of the crowd, loving her microphone and the crowd and apparently her job too. It’s rather frightening, being faced with quite so much squeaky, hysterical joy somewhere so daunting. Anyway, we tolerate her amiable madness and pick up one or two useful and interesting facts from our little miss motivator.
There is a free audio guide – I don’t usually think much of them, but if it’s free I can always ignore it.
The first thing we hit is going to be the shop – sigh.
Al Capone was here and whilst he served his time, he played the banjo.
The loo is behind us and to our left.
Little Miss Motivator begins to wind up her speech and we trot off to beat the rest of the crowd to number four…
Mission accomplished, and with the rest of the crowd largely dissipated, we head for the entrance. We pass a vintage fire engine on the way, which Ed and I stop to admire – it’s very shiny and clearly well-loved by someone.
Maybe it was used here in the early days, maybe it was a particularly well-behaved inmate’s project… We enter through a large gatehouse; all it lacks is a portcullis! The broad entrance has a high roof and various quirks and staircases. The thick walls and narrow windows betray the origins of Alcatraz; it was originally built as a military post to protect San Francisco and this can be seen from the stray heavy military equipment and in its very design.
We head out into daylight the other side. There is a good view over the Bay from here and a large cluster of seagulls all around.
I am hit by the smell of gum trees! Ah, gum trees… How I’ve missed that spicy scent that heralds warmth…
Speaking of which, I seem to have guaranteed glorious sunshine by bringing more jumpers than I can carry! Next, we are funnelled into the shop, where Ed acquires a tiny tee-shirt for Thomas and I a pin badge to prove I’ve been here. Next stop is a large, grey ante-chamber where we are issued with audio-guides. There is a distinct encouragement to have them and I sigh inwardly as I put it on, expecting the usual tourist-led, anodyne drivel.
I am extremely pleasantly surprised and the guide remains clamped to my head for the majority of the tour. Everyone files around in silence, listening intently; the guide is almost exclusively narrated by genuine ex-officers and ex-inmates. Their voices immerse us completely in the life of the prison and bring it to life as we walk around. You feel the chill in the air when they speak of the basics, the fear, the loneliness, the isolation… Alcatraz was very cut off from SF, despite being so close. The narrators begin their immortalised tales of horror with Broadway:
Broadway was the main entrance to Alcatraz and this chilly walk was carried out in your birthday suit to ensure no smuggling was taking place. Once locked in, the cell which the inmates called home was 5x9x7 with a toilet and bars. There was thus no privacy at all, so they felt like cockroaches in a matchbox, with hundreds of rules. There was a standard issue book of the things which the prisoners kept with their meagre items. Everything they owned had to be kept on their tiny shelf. Not that it needed to be a large shelf since they were not allowed their own belongings. Next to see were the ranks and ranks of high-rise rooms. Times Square was the nickname given to one section of corridor, there are many others, all nicknamed. The Recreation Yard is at the end of this corridor, and is very chilly, peering out of the high door down the steps to the yard below. Sometimes the inmates played games of bridge outside. The time outside was by no means a right though; it was a privilege. The rules and the obedience to them, were a choice made by an inmate. Time outside, books and other such amusements were treats to be earned by good behaviour and adherence to the rules. For those who were allowed outside, it was still cold and lonely – you can see the buzzing city of San Francisco from here, just out of reach…
Misbehaviour, on the other hand, was severely punished in the dreaded D Block. D Block was the ‘Treatment Unit’. An empty room with no human contact. This would be the inmates’ lot twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, except for washing and exercise, for as long as the management deemed it necessary to punish them. Robert Stroud, ‘The Bird Man’ pretty much lived here. He missed the birds and irritated everyone. He was alternately suicidal and homicidal; he was not safe to be among the others.
But for those who had been particularly badly-behaved there was an even worse punishment: ‘The Hole’. Some isolation here meant near-total sensory deprivation. There were only two of these cells. Ed and I trot carefully into one of the rooms when invited by a loitering ‘guard’. The door clangs heavily shut on about six of us, we hear the key turn in the lock and we are plunged into pitch black silence. A nervous half-scream escapes from a young teenage girl and we all begin to feel the chill dark creep into the space behind our eyes… I am relieved when the door is opened after only a matter of seconds, though it feels like hours. Time and mind make no sense in such blackness.
One inmate who spent regular time in ‘The Hole’ developed an interesting way of coping. He would drop a button in the bare, empty, black cell and hunt for it, just to keep himself from going crazy. These men must have been exceptionally strong of will and sturdy of mind to survive in there without becoming at least a little cracked. The light must have been so bright when they emerged. Even the tiniest hint of sunshine or sea air must have been as heady as wine, as rich as a chocolate truffle, as precious as life.
Not an experience to do more than once!
There were various well-known inmates, and their pictures are displayed proudly on one of the walls, most of them famous for their crimes or their time here. Mayer Cohen, Ellsworth Johnson, Robert Stroud (the Bird Man of Alcatraz), Alvin Karpavicz, George Kelly and Al Capone, who went insane whilst an inmate here because of syphilis.
After the photographs, we walk through the tall, bare corridor to the Library. After the stark sterility and bars of the rest of the building, this place seems like an oasis of sanity and peace. There are no books left here now Alcatraz has been decommissioned, but the smell of them lingers amongst the clean wooden shelves and my imagination provides a librarian and a few earnest criminals reading such magazines as they were allowed (they had to be approved by the management). The better-behaved inmates were allowed to do correspondence courses should they so wish and many of them did. The shelves were filled with serious literature; books of philosophy, classical novels, sturdy tomes which would educate and pass the time. I can’t imagine any of today’s prison yobs attempting such volumes as ‘War and Peace’ or ‘Wuthering Heights’! Mind you, I suppose Alcatraz was home to men who had managed to think their way to crimes of such magnitude that your average current prison yob wouldn’t have featured even as a fleetingly-hired hit man in one of their schemes.
The next stop is ‘Seedy Street’, so called because it is the junction of C Block and D Block. This is where the 1946 riot began. Started by Bernie Coy, it was quite an event. At this time, every convict was under a gun – there were enough guns and officers that every inmate could be shot at should the need arise. The officers in charge of these guns walked in a small-barred gallery above the prison floors, the Gun Gallery, which was also where the guns were kept.
The Keys were kept here too…
Coy had given some serious thought to this riot, escape attempt, whatever it was intended to be, and had made a home-made bar spreader. He managed to use this on the bars of the Gun Gallery before anyone noticed and, being rather slight of frame, managed to make a gap big enough to squeeze through. He threw guns and keys to his accomplices. Between them they knocked out several guards but no keys fitted. Officers were locked in cells.
However, the frustration of the escapees led to shootings and officers were shot at. The siren was sounded and mayhem ensued. One brave officer hid the master key by getting into a cell and dropping it down the loo. His heroic action in the face of the mob of prisoners, foiled their escape but led to his death; he was shot.
This last part of the riot became known as the Battle of Alcatraz. The Marines were called in and such was the situation that they took one look at the mayhem and decided to drop grenades into the section known as the Cutoff. The floor was packed and three prisoners and two officers died that day. The floor and walls in that section still bear deep pock-marked scars and cracks from where the grenades were dropped.
A sobering thought.
For those who were not plotting escape, this cell block was home for now. Seedy Street was the ‘des res’ of Alcatraz because it was south-facing and caught the sunlight. Each of the men had their own hobbies to keep them occupied. Al Capone’s escape was his watercolour painting, some of which he was allowed to display in his cell, and a few of them remain. Crochet was apparently also a very popular activity! In the 1950s radios were installed – each room had a brown Bakelite-style headset firmly attached to the wall. 18:30 to 19:30 was music hour – the inmates played harmonicas and other instruments, there was even a trombone. But even this could not have cheered the inmates on certain nights. Nights when the setting sun shone in the windows and tickled feelings of freedom and longing. Nights when the wind blew the sound of yacht club parties out over the bay. Night such as New Year’s Eve when the noises drifting over the cold sea to Alcatraz reminded the inmates of their isolation from the rest of humanity…
I spare a thought for the cold, lonely inmates, wasting their days on this God-forsaken rock, and we head on around the corner to the visitation and administrative areas. Visitations were allowed once a month and happened in an area known as the ‘Peekin’ Place’. This area was so called because it consisted of a tall, steel-blue wall with slits in it – just big enough to see someone’s face. It was clearly heavily locked down and must have been heartbreaking for the visitors to see their loved ones so caged. There were phones on each side too so that they could talk more easily.
The next section is Administration. There was quite a lot of this area, though the office is the section we see first. It is full of yellowing cards tucked into slots on walls; a typewriter with huge round keys lurks on a desk next to a Bakelite phone; a vertical Rolodex-style filing system lists every inmate, typewritten and stuck in with glue. I peer at it, trying to see around the corner of the pages hidden by the glass to any names that might look familiar – of friends or relatives. I suppose I should be glad I can’t spot any! I note with faintly remembered disgust that the smell in this area is familiar. It smells of socks, of stale alcohol, of old coffe and cabbages, of cleaning fluid, of half-scrubbed corners; just like the BASE hostel in Melbourne actually! The dark magnolia walls do nothing to lift its gloom and I feel a pang of pity for the officers who worked here. Some of them even called Alcatraz home for relatively long periods themselves. Others, particularly those with families, lived across the Bay in San Francisco itself. They came across on the early ferry every day. However, the community in Alcatraz did include wives and families too, to my surprise. There was a whole section, sealed off from the prisoners, where the officers lived – there were shops, homes, even a bowling alley. This was for the hand-picked officers who were good-enough and reliable enough to be on hand 24/7. On passing through to the officers’ section, I can see that it is lighter, airier, cleaner and altogether friendlier than the prisoners’ area. In fact, the head warden’s house, though basic and old-fashioned, is rather nice and we are told that the house had seen wardens play host to various stars of the day, including some famous Hollywood names. The last warden here had a daughter too, who, though rarely, if ever, seen by the prisoners, was well-considered by them.
In the 29 years that Alcatraz functioned as a prison, there were four wardens, beginning in 1934 with Johnstone, then Swope, then Madigan and finally Blackwell. They all seemed to be sober and thoughtful men, firm and fair but powerful enough of mind and spirit that they could manage a prison full of terrifying criminals. Not a job for a weak man. Each of them brought their family too, which must have been a worry, despite the heightened security. The Warden’s home overlooked the Bay, the view which showed the prisoners all that they’d lost. Today it is rather pretty. It is not cold and the sea is calm and steely-blue. Gulls wheel in the sun, their white wings slicing gracefully through the warming air. A strong breeze whips at my hair and I admire the clean blueness of it all. It does highlight the distance to freedom though, helpless on this barren rock…
During the 29 years Alcatraz was open, there were a fair number of escape attempts; it would not have been good for the reputation of the Warden when one was successful. However, in 1962, one was.
The ‘Dummy Head Escape’ must have taken absolutely ages to plan and carry out, little bit by little bit. There were two men who managed to secrete enough stuff in their rooms that they had made the beds look slept in whilst they crept away – they had made papier maché heads the same size, shape, colour and looks as their own, with which they had topped off the apparently slumbering bundle. These were good enough to fool the guard, sleepily doing his rounds to check that all were slumbering peacefully. While this fooled the guard, they had snuck out in dead of night through the vents below the sinks! These were small – too small for a man’s head – but they had enlarged them with spoons! Steel spoons though, which they had fashioned into solid drills. They escaped, the two of them, into the vent pipes and onto the roof. Even that must have been a moment of chilly, triumphant freedom. You can see how small the vent pipes were a little further around the tour; these men must have been so very slim and supple to even think of attempting this crazy escape. However, they attained their freedom and have never been seen since. This desperate attempt actually paid off!
History is silent on their actual net success though – since they have never been found then the chances are that they either deliberately leapt into the Bay as their only means of permanent freedom, or tried to swim home and died in the freezing waters in the attempt. I prefer to think, myself, that maybe they were washed ashore, teeth chattering and soaked to the bone, or picked up by a lost Mexican fisherman and are now living out their days in graceful and splendid dignity somewhere in South America.
Maybe.
9:30, which is when the Dummy Head Escape began, was lights-out time. This was a scary time for the convicts and the officers both as neither could really see the other. The convicts felt vulnerable in their little cages, and the officers felt vulnerable because, if anyone had made a mistake, just one mistake…
Alcatraz had its share of administrative disasters too. It was segregated, which I was unsurprised but mildly disgusted to discover, until the guide told us why. The management had tried it and had to stop it again as soon as it had begun because the hostile rednecks didn’t like the poor black guys and repeatedly tried to beat them to a pulp. For this same reason there were few black officers.
The last place we see before we are shuffled to the exit, is the dining hall. It is terrifyingly similar to the dining hall at my secondary school! I suppose all institutions are similar but the resemblance is uncanny, even down to the lingering smell of stale cabbage. Dinner was only twenty minutes long as cutlery was perceived as dangerous! The voice on the audio guide tells us, to my astonishment, that the things in the ceiling which look remarkably like fire extinguisher outlets are actually gas outlets. There are tear gas canisters tucked away in the roof with outlets to the canteen in case of a mass riot! The paranoia knows no bounds, though I suspect this may be a case of it only being paranoia if they aren’t all out to get you/kill you/escape/riot/mob the world… Every knife in the kitchen knife rack (which you can see if you crane over the counter or peer around a corner through a door) is outlined, as in a workshop, just to keep track of the sharp blades!
However, despite these security measures, it appeared that the institutional appearance stopped at the food. It was apparently very good. This may have been because of the potential outcome had it been distasteful. When you have a large room full of hungry men who are more than capable of turning over tables and rioting, it’s probably best to keep them well fed and watered if at all possible… On one occasion (presumably before they remembered that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach) the noodles which were served up were not to the liking of most of the diners, either because of their Italian roots or purely because they were just not very nice. A small riot broke out and tables were overturned. Mayhem ensued and control was only regained when an enterprising officer in the dining hall blew out three of the windows with a shotgun and silence reigned…
However, the grand and terrifying institution that was Alcatraz began its decline to obscurity in the 1960s with the rise of rehab, which was cheaper, simpler and allowed the criminals to remain in society rather than becoming institutionalised. So, in the 1960s Robert F Kennedy closed Alcatraz. The prisoners on the audio guide reminisce about the last day. Many of the inmates were ‘scared to death’ on leaving simply because they had no idea how to move with the world; they had become so used to the high security, rules and routine of the prison that the freedom was almost too much.
I am sober with the many things I have learnt through Alcatraz and Ed and I chat about what we have heard and seen as we leave this grand old rock. The edifice is even more terrifying when you see it with the knowledge of its old usage, the high stone walls seem all the more forbidding, the isolation more acute. But the sun is shining still, we have acquired souvenirs from a little shop on the way out and the freedom of the open sea and San Francisco beckons. The journey back across the Bay is uneventful but pretty, with the sun sparkling off the waves, the seagulls flying above and a few white sailing boats keeping pace with the big ferry like porpoises. We pull into the Pier back in SF and herd along with the others towards the exit.
The Windows shut-down noise suddenly twinkles from the many speakers on board as we exit and Ed and I stare at each other in startled disbelief and accelerate onto the jetty…
We meander back towards the station, Ed kindly letting me lead him a merry little dance down back streets where he knows things may interest me. A car passes us with one of California’s number plates. California is known as the Flower State and this number plate bears the legend, ‘The Earth Laughs in Flowers’ which I think is really rather nice. I ponder this for a moment and like the idea that every rosebud is a little chuckle, every daisy the whisper of a giggle...
(I wonder what the Earth was thinking when it popped out that enormous carnivorous meat-scented flower in the rainforest jungles – maybe a huge, full-throated belly laugh at some dirty joke we mere mortals haven’t seen yet…?)
As we meander through the backs of the Piers I realise that San Francisco has very few bad smells; it doesn’t pong as London does.
But I still love London’s great, big, grubby, ancient heart that beats with the vitality of thousand thousand lives.
I realise, on the way back, that I have drunk nothing since breakfast and am absolutely gasping. We keep our eyes peeled for anywhere which sells drinks, which is tricky down here. Eventually Ed spots a little snack shop, little more than a kiosk, and we wander in. I decide that, since I am in the USA, I should probably try Gatorade, since it seems to be so popular, and isotonic, which is supposed to be good for rehydrating. I take one sip and am profoundly unimpressed with the flavour. It’s revolting – kinda like washed-out Lucozade with half a Diareze sachet dropped in it.
Yuk.
And it’s really thick and sticky.
And yellow.
BRIGHT yellow.
I wonder what colour the output will be if I glug the lot…
:S
We trot, drinks in hand, back to the train stop and get the BART train back to Millbrae. My feet are happy to be sitting, as are my knees! I suspect Ed’s joints are equally thankful not to be walking any more. This would have been a very long day indeed for little Thomas…
There are a few neat commuters on this train. But I have fallen through into a different world whilst here, during my globe trot in general. I am in the world of the traveller, the visitor, the tourist. A specially-created, happy little bubble of things to do and see, squirreling away experiences and memories for the cold grey days, or just a cheering up… or to share and have fun with. J
There is a smart lady opposite us with huge hands and a St Christopher about her neck. She is dark-haired and slightly Latin-looking, reading a book by Dan Brown. A lady in a pink coat who looks as if she’s sucking a plum sits down next to her. Her lips match her coat.
My scrutiny of my fellow passengers ceases when we reach Millbrae and retrieve the car. We head off in the afternoon sunshine along largely empty highways through the pretty landscape. On our way I notice things:
1. A fat bloke with a big muscle motorcycle, possibly vintage, with what Ed refers to as ‘ape hanger’ handlebars. I chuckle and can see why.
2. A bus shelter smothered in plants – not grass but low-growing bedding plants with tiny white flowers.
3. A Hummer. A real one, not like the daft but fun stretch Hummers you get round our way, but a proper Hummer, driven for its Hum. It’s orange and looks a tad ridiculous, particularly as it is getting two flat tyres – doesn’t matter what you’re driving if it’s gone flat! Grr… Pillock. Ed shares my sentiment and we potter past, disapprovingly British. The Hummer reminds me of the chav mums back home who own big pink 4x4s or poorly-equipped but showy Suzukis and think they own the road – why can’t little Tiger-Apple Twinkle walk to school? They only live three minutes away and she’s practically spherical anyway and- Pleasedon’topenyourcardoorinfrontofmymovingcar!! THANK you!
;)
We arrive back to Portola Valley without incident. Thomas likes his t-shirt (Alcatraz by night, with a large picture of the Rock, with its forbidding building and twinkling lights) and I tuck my prizes away carefully in a rustling paper bag and my souvenirs box. Later on we have a spot of supper, including Thomas and the Alphabetas, which I’m picking up, slowly. I lip-read Granpa Ken each time just to keep up with the ones I haven’t managed to memorise. I think he might have noticed, but clearly doesn’t mind!
We are all rather too tired for stars tonight and it is beginning to cloud over, so bed calls instead…
‘Night!
Monday 15 February 2010
Peace, peas, sun and beaches
24/03/09
Today I emerge dopey, but no longer really jetlagged, which is nice. They say that it takes the same number of days to recover as you are hours out, so I’m doing well! I am enjoying it so much here that I scramble about, using Flight Centre’s wonderful malleable system, trying to change my flights to a couple of days later. I check with Ti and examine the calendar to check when Easter is due… I have a few days to play with, as I had planned in case I wanted to change anything a little. :D
In an unexpected quirk of luck, everyone says yes, including the airline responsible for carrying me the last external leg of my trip. I am here for two more days – yippee!
I do some more scribbling too, writing up ideas and thoughts. I also spend a while pondering birthday presents for Thomas. I want to get him a little wooden turtle that trundles along with shell and feet turning in opposite directions when you pull it forwards, but they seem to be in scant supply in this barren land where tat is born. Still, there are a few toyshops in the San Francisco area which seem to have nice, similar, wooden toys. Unfortunately, the day we went to SF, we were unable to look for them (they are a way out). However, on googling for a while, I turn up a lovely little stripey wooden elephant, shipped from the USA, which does the same thing, except the ball on his back is enclosed so it cannot be lost… Perfect!
I buy him online and hope like crazy he will arrive for Thomas’ birthday, the day after I leave. Having spent the little morning I had on the computer (all of us are still in snuggly pyjamas or comfy outfits – I feel very decadent!), we decide to walk to the local shop for fudge ingredients, so I can make some later. We put slightly more sensible clothes on and pop on our shoes. It’s a lovely walk, here in Portola Valley, and Ed shows me where Thomas’ pre-school is, on the way. It is not far and Thomas isn’t even slightly tired by the time we get to the shop. It feels very local and it stocked with all manner of interesting things, particularly a large bunny holding eggs for Easter! We chat to Thomas about that for a while and I toodle onwards, hunting for ingredients. I find sugar and acquire more vanilla, since I left my last lot in Sydney, I think… Condensed milk proves a little more difficult, not being with the ingredients I would have expected, like it is usually in the shops I frequent, but a handy assistant proves helpful and I examine the shop’s offerings – they are not exactly the same as the Nestle’s I am used to, but I think I can adjust the other proportions accordingly so I get one.
I poke a tin of Cranberry Jelly suspiciously and, to my amusement and sympathy, spark a small rant from Ed…
Apparently, here at Thanksgiving and Christmas if they have turkey, the height of culinary desirability is the cranberry jelly. Fine, I think, what’s wrong with that? Then I take a closer look at the packaging and listen to more of Ed’s rant.
You basically slide this blob out of the TIN, and slice it to serve like that – gooey round slices of red yuk to make your Thanksgiving turkey perfectly inedible.
I find it rather amazing that, given that America actually PRODUCES native cranberries and ships perfectly delicious cranberry conserve to the UK, decent cranberry sauce/conserve/jam, call it what you will, cannot be had for love nor money in this country. And Meg agrees, so it’s not just a peculiar English thing. It’s like having shredless marmalade – what’s the point? I resolve to somehow get decent (American-made!?) English cranberry jam to them by Christmas!
We acquire the goods and head for home. We take a little side-route I’d missed before through a small green park. There is a gigantic metal statue of a deer here, and we take some photos in front of it. Thomas finds some shredded paper on the ground and picks it up. Ed examines it critically when presented to him and concludes that it is the contents of a party popper. We piece together the raucous party that must have concluded in quite a lot of these all over the small park and Thomas happily pootles around collecting bits of them. He wanders back proudly with his small, soggy and colourful collection and Ed advises him to put them in the bin. We watch him toddle to the bin, then look back at us in slight dismay as a cyclist has just that moment stopped to have a drink and put his map away, right by the bin. Ed calls reassurance and Thomas pops the stuff in the bin, receives a smile from the cyclist and chirps his way back to us.
It is soon time for lunch…
There is left-over pizza from last night and we divide it fairly between us, Thomas too. He makes surprisingly little mess for someone who is only three and therefore practically designed to be sticky! I look happily out at the glorious sunshine and we get ready to go out again, just myself and Ed this time. Thomas doesn’t mind too much as he knows there is only really room for two in the MG and wants me to see it too! He seems to have caught his dad’s pride over it and knows all about it, ‘Are you going out in ther Em Gee?’ – he smiles approvingly and trots off to find Pilar, babbling chirpily in Spanish. He is clearly bilingual; I begin to see the huge benefits having a foreign au pair might bring…
I am taken outside, around the house and into the gloomy shadows beneath where the MG lives. A present from Meg a couple of years ago, Ed has lavished loving attention and a keen understanding of mechanics and logic onto it. It shows. The sleek green beast which lurks down here is truly a thing of beauty. Proper racing green, it was rescued by Meg for a song from a chap who had had it outside, with its roof off, with its poor little insides exposed to all weathers.
Ed has rescued the majority of the walnut panelling, Lord knows how, had the seats reupholstered, and polished, painted, restored, tinkered, tweaked, sewed (he researched and hand sewed the seatbelt webbing so that they were right).
It shows.
The 1967 MG is the picture of health, sleek, elegant, beautifully restored, it purrs when Ed turns the engine, first time.
It is a healthy, happy, slightly arrogant purr and I listen gleefully.
Ed has a talent for such things, clearly!
We ride, in Bondesque style, away from Palo Alto and head for Highway 1.
We pass, on the way, green fields, some bedecked, even flooded, with yellow and pink flowers – there is an almost Swiss tint to this landscape here – chill mountains overlooking briefly sweeping meadows.
I relax into the right hand seat as the landscape flashes by, feeling the purr of the MG rumble gently through my bones and seeing the bright blue sky above.
This is a perfect day.
We get onto Highway 1 and Ed lets the MG have its head – it storms along, making quick work of the smooth, grey gray tarmac.
We pass San Gregorio.
On the other side of the road, we both perk excitedly to see a small flotilla of vintage cars sail past. Among their number there is even an old fire engine and a single vintage hotrod! It is a strange grey creature…
We zoom further, and I begin to wonder where we are headed, before I remember that everywhere here, much like Australia, is considerably further away than its English equivalent. I relax and enjoy the ride. There are clouds drifting and snagging atop the mountains here, though the mountains themselves are less rugged than those in New Zealand.
We leave the highway and continue along smaller roads, nearer to the coast. Suddenly, we round a corner and see the pale ochre cliffs of two headlands, jutting out to sea. They are surrounded by green waters tipped with white crests. This is Half Moon Bay. We are heading for Moss Beach, where I have been promised rock pools. The sea here is almost the same colour as my eyes. We pass a little roadside stall selling, not flowers or greasy burgers, but fresh fruit. Apparently they are common, and a very good source of fruit and veg, coming straight from the growers, who take a great pride in the quality of their goods. They are healthy and tasty, and Ed says he has been told to get some for dinner from a specific vendor, whom we shall see later. We head onwards, past De Hoff Canyon (which makes me giggle and is only small) and Bear Gulch, out of bears for the moment though, and also not very big. We also spot a place called ‘Cameron’s Pub’ which is supposed to be (Ed’s expression says he doesn’t think much of it!) a ‘British’ pub. It has a wall of kegs out the front though, which is fun, but has the same jaded air as the Irish pubs do in England!
To my amusement, we pass a Ford garage. Wisps of grey cloud cling to blunt mountains. Half Moon Marina is pretty and small and loomed over by the early warning globe, perched on the headland. The MG goes ‘vrooom’ very nicely when waiting to turn or change gear. It idles nicely too… J We head towards more residential streets and orange and red passion flowers drop decadently and luxuriously from a telegraph pole and the wires where is has languorously draped itself.
We are nearly there and begin to look for somewhere to park.
Ed drives along a little twisty, coastal, residential street and we take a couple of wrong turnings (Ed knows there is somewhere here for which he is aiming, but can’t quite remember how he did it last time). Soon, though, we pass a little wooded area near a pub called The Distillery and we park and get out. We park next to an Austin-Healey Sprite, red, with big froggy eyes. Clearly the people here have an eye for vintage automobiles! I work out how to lock my door, with a little help from Ed, and, after a peep down over the sunny cliffs at Moss Beach, we head around into the sun-slanted, sandy woodland. It is only short and sparse, but gives an ethereal feel to this place. It’s beautiful, particularly with the sparkling, crashing promise of the grey sea and the silvery beach beyond under a clear blue sky. We head down some steps and into the pale dunes below.
We are the only ones here – I can see why Meg and Ed both wanted me to see how lovely this place is. The sky is blue and it is warm, even by Californian Spring standards. Ed and I look at each other and, having stepped a little way onto the beach, both take off our shoes and socks! It isn’t quite a sandy beach, but the gravel is so tiny that it doesn’t hurt and is really rather pretty.
Trouserlegs are rolled up and adulthood, though not dignity, forgotten. I dip toes in the chilly water and splosh happily in rock pools. Ed doesn’t know what the local flora and fauna are, but has a good guess and comes to peer over my shoulder at my excited announcement that I have found a small blenny, peeping at me between some weeds. He peers into the next pool along and finds an urchin, I an anemone. I admire the clean, uncomplicated ripples twisting and undulating over the impressionist pebbles beneath the saltwater. I try, with a certain degree of success, to photograph them, but even though the pictures are pretty I don’t think I have captured it at all well! The movement is graceful and crisp, the calming peacefulness of the gentle passing of the waves not visible in a still. I paddle a little further in, toes chilling and wrinkling slightly, and give a squeak of delight. Ed is too far up the beach, towards some interesting-looking boulders, so he doesn’t hear my squeak.
I have found a familiar face.
A hermit crab!
I peep at him curiously for a moment and then want a closer look which, as I am without a snorkel, will have to be on my terms. I tug gently at his shell to pry him out of the water but he holds on tenaciously. I let go for a moment and ponder him, while he shifts his grip and eyes me warily, mostly all enclosed by his borrowed winkle shell. I put my hand back in the water and he jinks inwards, understandably nervous. I tug a little harder this time, and to my mortified surprise, tug him completely out of his shell by accident.
He just sits there, pale and astonished, for a few brief moments, before grabbing his shell that I hand him and jamming it back on, like an affronted spinster who has had her dress torn off… I feel slightly guilty, but chuckle afterwards – after all, I wasn’t about to eat him, and I saw him safe into the weeds afterwards!
I catch Ed up near the larger boulders, which fade into large cliffs and beautiful rock formations, and we chat about things in general.
If you are looking for inspiration for anything form art to engineering, you can probably find it, here on the beach.
I chuckle to think of the story our trail will tell:
Two sets of shoeprints going out
Two sets of footprints coming back!
J
They tell their own story!
We sit on the edge of the dunes to brush the sand off our toes and put our shoes back on.
Then we head for the pub which overlooks the beach. I offer to get drinks, since Ed drove and we both go for soft drinks. Ed wants an OJ and I tell the barman about St Clements. I think the idea largely leaves him cold, but he makes one up for me anyway, a little interested at least. Unfortunately, I don’t realise that the majority of lemonade on tap in pubs here is pink lemonade, which could leave me with a migraine the following day – which, as we have tickets booked to go to Alcatraz, would be most unhelpful. I apologise for my allergy (such an English thing to do!) and tell him why I am eying the drink so suspiciously. He is clearly going to have a mild grumble behind the scenes about the crazy Englishwoman he’s just served, but obligingly makes me up a concoction of OJ, soda water and freshly squeezed lemons anyway. It’s very nice and he deserves his tip!
Ed is waiting for me on the patio out the back. I believe this is one of his and Meg’s favourite places to come; it would certainly have the potential to be very romantic, or just cozy. The patio is scattered liberally with lovely driftwood benches and tables and there are two or three raised fire pits too. Each bench is strewn with warm, woollen rugs (the real thing). I realise as I sit down, to my consternation and I think Ed’s mild amusement, that some of the benches are actually, rather delightfully, on small rockers! Ed catches his drink and manages to stop mine flying off anywhere too disastrous and we sit and talk about life, seabirds, Meg, Andrew, the sea and, of course, little Thomas, while I creak back and forth softly, huddled on a rug, and sip my American St Clements.
We realise that the sky is changing, it is growing colder, and that it will soon be time for tea back at home so we finish our drinks and head back for the MG.
Sadly, the Austin Healy Sprite has gone; I wanted to photograph it but should have done it earlier. Still, I sit back once again in the passenger seat of the MG and thoroughly enjoy the ride!
On our way back, we stop at a roadside fruit stall for Meg’s fruit and veg order. Ed focuses mainly on some manly-looking root vegetables and some asparagus while my eye is drawn more to the fruit. There are little citruses, glossy and orange, shiny tomatoes and, best of all, strawberries: small warm and pink in the sun, glistening plumply and faintly scented, drawing me in with promises of mouth-watering goodness. You can’t beat sun-warm fruit… I buy a punnet for us to share for tea…
Back in the MG again, groceries squeezed onto the back seat, such as it is, we head out onto the roads. We pass over a reservoir on our return. Crystal Springs Reservoir. It is very pretty and is framed by big, broad hills.
On America’s freeways you have to be very careful how you move between lanes – there is the unnerving rule that you may pass either on the left OR on the right. Ed manoeuvres the MG carefully and slickly between traffic, taking care to check all possible spaces before he makes his move – with so much loving care poured into the machine, it would be a tragedy were it damaged!
I ponder as we fly along: America is full of people just like us. The ones who didn’t vote for Bush, the ones who think some situations are as idiotic as we do, the ones who have broadened their horizons and travelled.
We arrive home, happy with tales of the beach, brandishing vegetables, and help with supper. I have a mountain of potatoes to peel and set to willingly. The fresh vegetables are excellent and dinner is very tasty – Meg is a good cook. J
After supper, I make good on my promise of fudge and spend a while pottering in the kitchen, having been supplied with all I need from various cupboards (some of which Ed has to reach ‘cause I am too short – but he’s used to that!). I measure out and happily stir and boil, and test and taste, and add and stir and test again. Occasionally Ed pops in to see how I am doing, but he and Meg have decided to largely leave me to it and snuggle up on their own… Aww…
Eventually it seems to reach exactly the right consistency and I whip it off the stove, stir it frantically to get the right texture and pour it, glooping glossily, into the foil-covered tray I have ready. I score it and scrape out the pan… :P
Within minutes, a hot piece of fudge has made its way over appreciative taste buds and I let it cool a little and cover it further, mainly to discourage possible tiny prying fingers from getting burnt, but I’m sure a little foil won’t deter really investigative older tasters! I have had a lovely day, and it seems that my creation goes down well too, which I also enjoy.
I sink into bed, snoozy and happy and Andrew’s story reads me to sleep…
Today I emerge dopey, but no longer really jetlagged, which is nice. They say that it takes the same number of days to recover as you are hours out, so I’m doing well! I am enjoying it so much here that I scramble about, using Flight Centre’s wonderful malleable system, trying to change my flights to a couple of days later. I check with Ti and examine the calendar to check when Easter is due… I have a few days to play with, as I had planned in case I wanted to change anything a little. :D
In an unexpected quirk of luck, everyone says yes, including the airline responsible for carrying me the last external leg of my trip. I am here for two more days – yippee!
I do some more scribbling too, writing up ideas and thoughts. I also spend a while pondering birthday presents for Thomas. I want to get him a little wooden turtle that trundles along with shell and feet turning in opposite directions when you pull it forwards, but they seem to be in scant supply in this barren land where tat is born. Still, there are a few toyshops in the San Francisco area which seem to have nice, similar, wooden toys. Unfortunately, the day we went to SF, we were unable to look for them (they are a way out). However, on googling for a while, I turn up a lovely little stripey wooden elephant, shipped from the USA, which does the same thing, except the ball on his back is enclosed so it cannot be lost… Perfect!
I buy him online and hope like crazy he will arrive for Thomas’ birthday, the day after I leave. Having spent the little morning I had on the computer (all of us are still in snuggly pyjamas or comfy outfits – I feel very decadent!), we decide to walk to the local shop for fudge ingredients, so I can make some later. We put slightly more sensible clothes on and pop on our shoes. It’s a lovely walk, here in Portola Valley, and Ed shows me where Thomas’ pre-school is, on the way. It is not far and Thomas isn’t even slightly tired by the time we get to the shop. It feels very local and it stocked with all manner of interesting things, particularly a large bunny holding eggs for Easter! We chat to Thomas about that for a while and I toodle onwards, hunting for ingredients. I find sugar and acquire more vanilla, since I left my last lot in Sydney, I think… Condensed milk proves a little more difficult, not being with the ingredients I would have expected, like it is usually in the shops I frequent, but a handy assistant proves helpful and I examine the shop’s offerings – they are not exactly the same as the Nestle’s I am used to, but I think I can adjust the other proportions accordingly so I get one.
I poke a tin of Cranberry Jelly suspiciously and, to my amusement and sympathy, spark a small rant from Ed…
Apparently, here at Thanksgiving and Christmas if they have turkey, the height of culinary desirability is the cranberry jelly. Fine, I think, what’s wrong with that? Then I take a closer look at the packaging and listen to more of Ed’s rant.
You basically slide this blob out of the TIN, and slice it to serve like that – gooey round slices of red yuk to make your Thanksgiving turkey perfectly inedible.
I find it rather amazing that, given that America actually PRODUCES native cranberries and ships perfectly delicious cranberry conserve to the UK, decent cranberry sauce/conserve/jam, call it what you will, cannot be had for love nor money in this country. And Meg agrees, so it’s not just a peculiar English thing. It’s like having shredless marmalade – what’s the point? I resolve to somehow get decent (American-made!?) English cranberry jam to them by Christmas!
We acquire the goods and head for home. We take a little side-route I’d missed before through a small green park. There is a gigantic metal statue of a deer here, and we take some photos in front of it. Thomas finds some shredded paper on the ground and picks it up. Ed examines it critically when presented to him and concludes that it is the contents of a party popper. We piece together the raucous party that must have concluded in quite a lot of these all over the small park and Thomas happily pootles around collecting bits of them. He wanders back proudly with his small, soggy and colourful collection and Ed advises him to put them in the bin. We watch him toddle to the bin, then look back at us in slight dismay as a cyclist has just that moment stopped to have a drink and put his map away, right by the bin. Ed calls reassurance and Thomas pops the stuff in the bin, receives a smile from the cyclist and chirps his way back to us.
It is soon time for lunch…
There is left-over pizza from last night and we divide it fairly between us, Thomas too. He makes surprisingly little mess for someone who is only three and therefore practically designed to be sticky! I look happily out at the glorious sunshine and we get ready to go out again, just myself and Ed this time. Thomas doesn’t mind too much as he knows there is only really room for two in the MG and wants me to see it too! He seems to have caught his dad’s pride over it and knows all about it, ‘Are you going out in ther Em Gee?’ – he smiles approvingly and trots off to find Pilar, babbling chirpily in Spanish. He is clearly bilingual; I begin to see the huge benefits having a foreign au pair might bring…
I am taken outside, around the house and into the gloomy shadows beneath where the MG lives. A present from Meg a couple of years ago, Ed has lavished loving attention and a keen understanding of mechanics and logic onto it. It shows. The sleek green beast which lurks down here is truly a thing of beauty. Proper racing green, it was rescued by Meg for a song from a chap who had had it outside, with its roof off, with its poor little insides exposed to all weathers.
Ed has rescued the majority of the walnut panelling, Lord knows how, had the seats reupholstered, and polished, painted, restored, tinkered, tweaked, sewed (he researched and hand sewed the seatbelt webbing so that they were right).
It shows.
The 1967 MG is the picture of health, sleek, elegant, beautifully restored, it purrs when Ed turns the engine, first time.
It is a healthy, happy, slightly arrogant purr and I listen gleefully.
Ed has a talent for such things, clearly!
We ride, in Bondesque style, away from Palo Alto and head for Highway 1.
We pass, on the way, green fields, some bedecked, even flooded, with yellow and pink flowers – there is an almost Swiss tint to this landscape here – chill mountains overlooking briefly sweeping meadows.
I relax into the right hand seat as the landscape flashes by, feeling the purr of the MG rumble gently through my bones and seeing the bright blue sky above.
This is a perfect day.
We get onto Highway 1 and Ed lets the MG have its head – it storms along, making quick work of the smooth, grey gray tarmac.
We pass San Gregorio.
On the other side of the road, we both perk excitedly to see a small flotilla of vintage cars sail past. Among their number there is even an old fire engine and a single vintage hotrod! It is a strange grey creature…
We zoom further, and I begin to wonder where we are headed, before I remember that everywhere here, much like Australia, is considerably further away than its English equivalent. I relax and enjoy the ride. There are clouds drifting and snagging atop the mountains here, though the mountains themselves are less rugged than those in New Zealand.
We leave the highway and continue along smaller roads, nearer to the coast. Suddenly, we round a corner and see the pale ochre cliffs of two headlands, jutting out to sea. They are surrounded by green waters tipped with white crests. This is Half Moon Bay. We are heading for Moss Beach, where I have been promised rock pools. The sea here is almost the same colour as my eyes. We pass a little roadside stall selling, not flowers or greasy burgers, but fresh fruit. Apparently they are common, and a very good source of fruit and veg, coming straight from the growers, who take a great pride in the quality of their goods. They are healthy and tasty, and Ed says he has been told to get some for dinner from a specific vendor, whom we shall see later. We head onwards, past De Hoff Canyon (which makes me giggle and is only small) and Bear Gulch, out of bears for the moment though, and also not very big. We also spot a place called ‘Cameron’s Pub’ which is supposed to be (Ed’s expression says he doesn’t think much of it!) a ‘British’ pub. It has a wall of kegs out the front though, which is fun, but has the same jaded air as the Irish pubs do in England!
To my amusement, we pass a Ford garage. Wisps of grey cloud cling to blunt mountains. Half Moon Marina is pretty and small and loomed over by the early warning globe, perched on the headland. The MG goes ‘vrooom’ very nicely when waiting to turn or change gear. It idles nicely too… J We head towards more residential streets and orange and red passion flowers drop decadently and luxuriously from a telegraph pole and the wires where is has languorously draped itself.
We are nearly there and begin to look for somewhere to park.
Ed drives along a little twisty, coastal, residential street and we take a couple of wrong turnings (Ed knows there is somewhere here for which he is aiming, but can’t quite remember how he did it last time). Soon, though, we pass a little wooded area near a pub called The Distillery and we park and get out. We park next to an Austin-Healey Sprite, red, with big froggy eyes. Clearly the people here have an eye for vintage automobiles! I work out how to lock my door, with a little help from Ed, and, after a peep down over the sunny cliffs at Moss Beach, we head around into the sun-slanted, sandy woodland. It is only short and sparse, but gives an ethereal feel to this place. It’s beautiful, particularly with the sparkling, crashing promise of the grey sea and the silvery beach beyond under a clear blue sky. We head down some steps and into the pale dunes below.
We are the only ones here – I can see why Meg and Ed both wanted me to see how lovely this place is. The sky is blue and it is warm, even by Californian Spring standards. Ed and I look at each other and, having stepped a little way onto the beach, both take off our shoes and socks! It isn’t quite a sandy beach, but the gravel is so tiny that it doesn’t hurt and is really rather pretty.
Trouserlegs are rolled up and adulthood, though not dignity, forgotten. I dip toes in the chilly water and splosh happily in rock pools. Ed doesn’t know what the local flora and fauna are, but has a good guess and comes to peer over my shoulder at my excited announcement that I have found a small blenny, peeping at me between some weeds. He peers into the next pool along and finds an urchin, I an anemone. I admire the clean, uncomplicated ripples twisting and undulating over the impressionist pebbles beneath the saltwater. I try, with a certain degree of success, to photograph them, but even though the pictures are pretty I don’t think I have captured it at all well! The movement is graceful and crisp, the calming peacefulness of the gentle passing of the waves not visible in a still. I paddle a little further in, toes chilling and wrinkling slightly, and give a squeak of delight. Ed is too far up the beach, towards some interesting-looking boulders, so he doesn’t hear my squeak.
I have found a familiar face.
A hermit crab!
I peep at him curiously for a moment and then want a closer look which, as I am without a snorkel, will have to be on my terms. I tug gently at his shell to pry him out of the water but he holds on tenaciously. I let go for a moment and ponder him, while he shifts his grip and eyes me warily, mostly all enclosed by his borrowed winkle shell. I put my hand back in the water and he jinks inwards, understandably nervous. I tug a little harder this time, and to my mortified surprise, tug him completely out of his shell by accident.
He just sits there, pale and astonished, for a few brief moments, before grabbing his shell that I hand him and jamming it back on, like an affronted spinster who has had her dress torn off… I feel slightly guilty, but chuckle afterwards – after all, I wasn’t about to eat him, and I saw him safe into the weeds afterwards!
I catch Ed up near the larger boulders, which fade into large cliffs and beautiful rock formations, and we chat about things in general.
If you are looking for inspiration for anything form art to engineering, you can probably find it, here on the beach.
I chuckle to think of the story our trail will tell:
Two sets of shoeprints going out
Two sets of footprints coming back!
J
They tell their own story!
We sit on the edge of the dunes to brush the sand off our toes and put our shoes back on.
Then we head for the pub which overlooks the beach. I offer to get drinks, since Ed drove and we both go for soft drinks. Ed wants an OJ and I tell the barman about St Clements. I think the idea largely leaves him cold, but he makes one up for me anyway, a little interested at least. Unfortunately, I don’t realise that the majority of lemonade on tap in pubs here is pink lemonade, which could leave me with a migraine the following day – which, as we have tickets booked to go to Alcatraz, would be most unhelpful. I apologise for my allergy (such an English thing to do!) and tell him why I am eying the drink so suspiciously. He is clearly going to have a mild grumble behind the scenes about the crazy Englishwoman he’s just served, but obligingly makes me up a concoction of OJ, soda water and freshly squeezed lemons anyway. It’s very nice and he deserves his tip!
Ed is waiting for me on the patio out the back. I believe this is one of his and Meg’s favourite places to come; it would certainly have the potential to be very romantic, or just cozy. The patio is scattered liberally with lovely driftwood benches and tables and there are two or three raised fire pits too. Each bench is strewn with warm, woollen rugs (the real thing). I realise as I sit down, to my consternation and I think Ed’s mild amusement, that some of the benches are actually, rather delightfully, on small rockers! Ed catches his drink and manages to stop mine flying off anywhere too disastrous and we sit and talk about life, seabirds, Meg, Andrew, the sea and, of course, little Thomas, while I creak back and forth softly, huddled on a rug, and sip my American St Clements.
We realise that the sky is changing, it is growing colder, and that it will soon be time for tea back at home so we finish our drinks and head back for the MG.
Sadly, the Austin Healy Sprite has gone; I wanted to photograph it but should have done it earlier. Still, I sit back once again in the passenger seat of the MG and thoroughly enjoy the ride!
On our way back, we stop at a roadside fruit stall for Meg’s fruit and veg order. Ed focuses mainly on some manly-looking root vegetables and some asparagus while my eye is drawn more to the fruit. There are little citruses, glossy and orange, shiny tomatoes and, best of all, strawberries: small warm and pink in the sun, glistening plumply and faintly scented, drawing me in with promises of mouth-watering goodness. You can’t beat sun-warm fruit… I buy a punnet for us to share for tea…
Back in the MG again, groceries squeezed onto the back seat, such as it is, we head out onto the roads. We pass over a reservoir on our return. Crystal Springs Reservoir. It is very pretty and is framed by big, broad hills.
On America’s freeways you have to be very careful how you move between lanes – there is the unnerving rule that you may pass either on the left OR on the right. Ed manoeuvres the MG carefully and slickly between traffic, taking care to check all possible spaces before he makes his move – with so much loving care poured into the machine, it would be a tragedy were it damaged!
I ponder as we fly along: America is full of people just like us. The ones who didn’t vote for Bush, the ones who think some situations are as idiotic as we do, the ones who have broadened their horizons and travelled.
We arrive home, happy with tales of the beach, brandishing vegetables, and help with supper. I have a mountain of potatoes to peel and set to willingly. The fresh vegetables are excellent and dinner is very tasty – Meg is a good cook. J
After supper, I make good on my promise of fudge and spend a while pottering in the kitchen, having been supplied with all I need from various cupboards (some of which Ed has to reach ‘cause I am too short – but he’s used to that!). I measure out and happily stir and boil, and test and taste, and add and stir and test again. Occasionally Ed pops in to see how I am doing, but he and Meg have decided to largely leave me to it and snuggle up on their own… Aww…
Eventually it seems to reach exactly the right consistency and I whip it off the stove, stir it frantically to get the right texture and pour it, glooping glossily, into the foil-covered tray I have ready. I score it and scrape out the pan… :P
Within minutes, a hot piece of fudge has made its way over appreciative taste buds and I let it cool a little and cover it further, mainly to discourage possible tiny prying fingers from getting burnt, but I’m sure a little foil won’t deter really investigative older tasters! I have had a lovely day, and it seems that my creation goes down well too, which I also enjoy.
I sink into bed, snoozy and happy and Andrew’s story reads me to sleep…
Thursday 19 November 2009
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...
23/03/09
Cereal for breakfast this morning. Granpa Ken is humorously told off by Meg for eating ‘my’ cereal from New Zealand and I pipe up to say that there was still far too much for one person to eat and I left it in the kitchen so that anyone who fancied it could have some… Ed draws me a picture of the unusual house because I am puzzled by the layout – it makes more sense with a floor plan; it is a lovely nest. We hurry this morning; I have what my Grandma used to refer to as ‘a lick and a promise’ in the shower before we are all ready to go out, Meg to work and Ed and I to San Francisco – I suppose I should be wearing flowers in my hair! I’ve had that song stuck in my head a lot this week… ;) We pile in the car (I manage to avoid aiming for the driver’s side this time!) and little Thomas is left happily molesting his lovely placid nanny, Pilar and chatting in Spanish.
A flutter of wings on the feeder outside the window arrests my attention. There are a cluster of bluejays around it, flapping frantically to get at the nuts and other goodies therein. They are noisy, happy things, rather like a small, happy but electric-blue dip-dyed crow. It feels like Spring today. There is a chill in the air but the sun is warm and blossoms are coming out on the little bushes and trees everywhere. A tall, elegant, white egret stands by the side of the road and surveys it disdainfully as we sweep past. There are many wildflowers just coming into bloom, of many pastel hues, peeping delicately out from fields and verges amongst the grass. In one damp field there are even flags, blooming tall, sturdy and indigo. The goats, Meg explains, have not yet been allowed into this field, or there would be nothing at all left of any note!
We chat as we drive along, in the milky morning sun, and I learn that Silicon Valley began in Palo Alto, so I am staying at the heart of the internet revolution – how exciting! (I am aware that the non-geeks amongst you may not understand the glee with which I greet this piece of information… ;) ). We head up California Avenue, which is near to
Meg’s university work, in the black Merc. Meg kindly drops me and Ed off at Palo Alto station where we hop out of the Merc, I feeling rather like a small child who ought to have a brown paper bag lunch clutched firmly in her sticky paw…
I follow Ed in to the station, which is basically just two sets of platforms.
That’s it.
The tickets are purchased on the platforms (I LIKE that idea, it’s so much simpler than faffing around, metres below ground and half a world away from the train that’s just pulled in which you are inevitably going to miss however fast you scamper with a ticket in hand…) from large blue and grey vending machines. Ed kindly pays for mine out a massive handful of change he has lurking in his pocket – I think he wants to get rid of it to be honest! I feel less guilty when I realize that the huge number of coins he has just sent rattling into the bowels of the ticket machine comes to approximately three pounds… Bargain!
Travellers to the UK must be profoundly disappointed by the state and elevated cost of our public transport system… :P
Learn, Britain, learn!
We stand in the chill of the open platform in the crystal sunshine. The platforms are very low and open. I feel quite exposed and in fact a little frightened when the train slides into view in the distance…
It’s huge.
I mean enormous. This thing wouldn’t need a cow-catcher, any cow unlucky enough to be in its path would be barely a fly on the windscreen of this great beast. Emile Zola eat your heart out – THIS brute is surely ‘La Bete Humaine’! The double-decker, triple-glowing-eyed, corrugated, gleaming monster pulls level with the low platform.
I feel its hot breath on my ankles.
I climb the steep stairs in.
Cereal for breakfast this morning. Granpa Ken is humorously told off by Meg for eating ‘my’ cereal from New Zealand and I pipe up to say that there was still far too much for one person to eat and I left it in the kitchen so that anyone who fancied it could have some… Ed draws me a picture of the unusual house because I am puzzled by the layout – it makes more sense with a floor plan; it is a lovely nest. We hurry this morning; I have what my Grandma used to refer to as ‘a lick and a promise’ in the shower before we are all ready to go out, Meg to work and Ed and I to San Francisco – I suppose I should be wearing flowers in my hair! I’ve had that song stuck in my head a lot this week… ;) We pile in the car (I manage to avoid aiming for the driver’s side this time!) and little Thomas is left happily molesting his lovely placid nanny, Pilar and chatting in Spanish.
A flutter of wings on the feeder outside the window arrests my attention. There are a cluster of bluejays around it, flapping frantically to get at the nuts and other goodies therein. They are noisy, happy things, rather like a small, happy but electric-blue dip-dyed crow. It feels like Spring today. There is a chill in the air but the sun is warm and blossoms are coming out on the little bushes and trees everywhere. A tall, elegant, white egret stands by the side of the road and surveys it disdainfully as we sweep past. There are many wildflowers just coming into bloom, of many pastel hues, peeping delicately out from fields and verges amongst the grass. In one damp field there are even flags, blooming tall, sturdy and indigo. The goats, Meg explains, have not yet been allowed into this field, or there would be nothing at all left of any note!
We chat as we drive along, in the milky morning sun, and I learn that Silicon Valley began in Palo Alto, so I am staying at the heart of the internet revolution – how exciting! (I am aware that the non-geeks amongst you may not understand the glee with which I greet this piece of information… ;) ). We head up California Avenue, which is near to
Meg’s university work, in the black Merc. Meg kindly drops me and Ed off at Palo Alto station where we hop out of the Merc, I feeling rather like a small child who ought to have a brown paper bag lunch clutched firmly in her sticky paw…
I follow Ed in to the station, which is basically just two sets of platforms.
That’s it.
The tickets are purchased on the platforms (I LIKE that idea, it’s so much simpler than faffing around, metres below ground and half a world away from the train that’s just pulled in which you are inevitably going to miss however fast you scamper with a ticket in hand…) from large blue and grey vending machines. Ed kindly pays for mine out a massive handful of change he has lurking in his pocket – I think he wants to get rid of it to be honest! I feel less guilty when I realize that the huge number of coins he has just sent rattling into the bowels of the ticket machine comes to approximately three pounds… Bargain!
Travellers to the UK must be profoundly disappointed by the state and elevated cost of our public transport system… :P
Learn, Britain, learn!
We stand in the chill of the open platform in the crystal sunshine. The platforms are very low and open. I feel quite exposed and in fact a little frightened when the train slides into view in the distance…
It’s huge.
I mean enormous. This thing wouldn’t need a cow-catcher, any cow unlucky enough to be in its path would be barely a fly on the windscreen of this great beast. Emile Zola eat your heart out – THIS brute is surely ‘La Bete Humaine’! The double-decker, triple-glowing-eyed, corrugated, gleaming monster pulls level with the low platform.
I feel its hot breath on my ankles.
I climb the steep stairs in.
Inside, it is narrow, and set out rather like the Sydney public trains – although the upper deck has a hole in the middle so the conductor can come and check tickets by reaching up instead of searching both floors for fare dodgers. I sit next to the window and Ed squeezes in beside me, he seems rather too large for these seats and I wonder if we should have stayed on the lower deck; but being upstairs is much more fun and we watch the scenery and chat as we fly through it. We wonder what would happen in the event of an earthquake… After all Palo Alto is RIGHT on the San Andreas fault.Eek.
I also learn that Alto means high; Palo Alto means ‘the high Palo’. I wonder how it is that the lower female voice has earned the moniker ‘high’… Then Ed and I realise that this is because, when the nomenclature was in more common use, particularly in monasteries, most women would have sung soprano (or more likely, not sung at all) and the highest natural male voice would have been the Alto. Interesting… We talk about the other names locally, how San means Saint and where the other names are from, while we zip past the sun-twinkled fields. The scenery is evident beyond the city in both directions that I can see. The massive jagged hills rise up above the city outskirts here, some snow-capped still, overshadowing the industrial lands that nestle at their feet.
I notice how the scenery around the world changes, as do the flora and fauna, they change dramatically, but the people remain the same – the same faces, jaded, tired, happy, excited, sad, smiling… Always the same. The types of people bleed into one another as I travel; there are no individuals amongst the masses of faces, just people who fit into boxes. There are the happy shop assistants, the morose shop assistants, the rude city boys, the polite elderly gentlemen, the quiet, middle-aged secretaries, the arrogant young career women, the travellers, the locals, the mothers, the fathers, the revolting children, the sweet children… Of course there are shades in between each of these, but ultimately, you can’t change human nature, whether it be in sunny Australia or chill America. The atmospheres change of course, but the people who create them still remain the same…
The last little bit is quite bumpy. On the way in I notice the water. There are shags, seagulls and a large, elegant raptor with a russet tail. Everything is clearly beginning to grow and get ready for Spring here. When we pull in, San Francisco station is not of such terrifying hugeness as I expected it to be. I was anticipating something of the magnitude of St Pancras. In fact, it is considerably smaller than Euston and has the continental feel of Brussels or the local Parisian platforms, though without quite so much charm – the trains are monsters rather than sweet little slam-doors after all. We are nearly lost in the morning bustle, but Ed steers us deftly towards the exit among the gentle throng. He tells me about the cable cars and I am intrigued. We head towards the nearest cable car stop, which is a terminus.
San Francisco is so colourful, so free and alive. The sun appears to have brought many things out into the open – bright colours, interesting people, tourists… We walk through the busy streets and pass by the world as it we watch it pass by us. There is a guy driving down the street in an old car, beeping like crazy and waving a Bible out of the window with instructions to Believe! and Repent! and Accept Jesus as Your Saviour! He catches our eyes and I cringe inwardly, wanting simultaneously to affirm my faith to this strange man and remain unnoticed.
Ed murmurs something non committal and we cross on green. I haven’t yet J-walked but am beginning to see why it might be more of a problem here than in the UK. The ‘streets’ are far wider and, even in SF, are quite a bit faster and more hectic than your average London road. We pass the subway stop from which we would have emerged had we taken it and I am glad we didn’t miss the overground interest on foot, particularly as we just pass a very interesting chap: an elegant black guy with a white trilby and white shoes and a long green felt coat, singing under his breath, almost as if the tune couldn’t wait to be allowed out, so came out here. He is kinda like Huggy Bear. There is also a high shoeshine platform near here, with a guy sitting in state in the sun having his shoes polished by a dainty black guy. Some echoes of apartheid are more pronounced here than in the UK, though the blacks appear, in SF at least, to have embraced them.
We reach the cable car stop and look at the burgeoning queue. It goes from the entry point all around the bulb of the terminus and we join the other end. Not that I mind waiting here of course, it is fascinating. I am mildly mortified when a passing local walker is heard to comment to his mate, ‘are those tourists?’, to which his mate replies, ‘yup!’. Hmph. Ed I’m sure counts as a local boy now and I’m a traveller, not a tourist… :P
Still, I guess we are both fairly European in appearance, Ed particularly, with his striking Viking looks. I think Kiwi intently and indignantly until the walkers have gone…
I then turn my attention to the terminus – it is a large, flat, circular bulb at the end of the tracks. I ponder it for a moment and then realise what it’s for – the cable cars have no way of turning the dog leg to take them up the next street so this mechanism is for turning them. As we are fairly near the back of the queue I have a couple of cars’ time to inspect the method:
Driver pulls carefully onto turning circle and tries to stop before cable car bongs off the internal stops, with varying degrees of success.
Driver puts on brakes.
Driver somehow disengages clamps from the cable beneath the street.
Driver leaps out of cable car, followed by his conductor.
They pick an end each and shove, with all their might.
The car begins to grind around on the circle, gaining momentum.
The whole ‘Lazy Susan’ assembly clangs to a halt as it engages with the other street.
Driver scampers around to correct end of cable car and reengages clamps onto the new cable.
Conductor climbs back in too
The whole process is refreshingly old-fashioned and entirely mechanical, which I find strangely reassuring. We are near the front of the queue now, at Market Street and Powell, apparently, which is written on the side of the cable car we are about to board.
It is neatly painted, with a few unobtrusive adverts pasted to the side, and the interior is almost entirely wooden, carefully varnished and feels like an old tram. Ed and I squeeze inside at the front end of the long wooden benches, one on each side. I grin and Ed smiles wryly: I am thinner than he is! Although I do have a friendly fat lady sitting next to me and some of SF is very hilly…
We could have stood on the outside of course. Unlike the Nannyish behaviour in the UK which led to the sad and untimely demise of London’s wonderful Routemaster. Here you can stand, entirely external to the car, clinging on and standing on what, to all intents and purposes, is a running board with poles. You wouldn’t want to drop anything…
We head up towards Union Square; there are heart sculptures decorating it at the moment. The cable car hauls itself up some very steep hills now, we slide sideways…
I cling to the seat with my legs to avoid, in a very British way, sliding into the green duffel-coated, pink chubby lady next to me. She chuckles and clearly doesn’t mind; we exchange pleasantries about the journey.
I inspect, through the grille at the front of the passenger section of the car, the driver’s activities. At the front, it’s all clamps, gears and levers, plus one socking big brake that the (not inconsiderably-sized) driver has to bounce on with both feet… I want to know which bit is which!
It looks like a hugely physical and demanding job, not like a modern tube train where you can just push buttons and let the train respond – here you have to grind the mechanisms into the places you want them, against the power of the car itself.
I smell hot metal and watch the driver intently. One lever appears to latch on and off the cables; I guess that one is quite significant!
The three levers the driver controls are all set into a massive hole in the floor, over which the driver dances like a demon, pulling more or less on one or another depending on speed, ascent and location. Up one hill (Jackson) he dings his bell ferociously too… Bingle bingle cling clang!
The hills remind me rather of a lovely animation at the end of one of the Pixar animated short films of some small and grumpy sparrows on a wire who are joined by a large crane-type creature which honks happily and lands amongst them, causing them all to slide towards the middle, bouncing against each other and eventually all squashing up together.
Everyone slides to the back of the carriage and my knees give out – I slide too and land gently on the lady with the thick parka… Fortunately she doesn’t seem to mind! You get real friendly on these hills!
I feel for the smaller lady on whom broad-shouldered Ed is trying not to land…
*snigger*
San Francisco is all hills!
I like it already…
We reach Fisherman’s Wharf, having traversed the twistiest street in San Francisco. It is quite long, prettily paved in russet stones and is all dog-leg turns, neatly and tidily accented with perfectly manicured hedges, white edges and neat little flower beds. While we watch, several cars attempt (successfully) to glide down this odd little street. They creak down the hill, making the four awkward turns with the practised ease of locals. I certainly wouldn’t fancy even getting my tiny Corsa down here, yet a chap with a large van manages it with grace and speed! Apparently it would be even harder without the turns; the risk of hurtling off down the hill and killing people at the busy intersection below is all too great!
Fisherman’s Wharf is quite a large area, and widely held to be the tourist and bohemian capital of San Francisco. There are so many things to see and do here. It is bewildering and I am lucky I have Ed with me, plus a little map of the local area. There is a guy on a marimba here.
We head into the chirpy throng and wander past several interesting looking places. We are both hungry, so we start looking for lunchables… We pass a tourist shop, which seems to have San Francisco pin badges – they have been few and far between so far here, so a shop with more than one is quite a prize! The shop also boasts a large wooden pirate keeping an eye on the door… I persuade Ed that coming back after lunch would be a good idea; though he seems quite happy to be persuaded (very forbearing of him!). Just along here, there is a seafood restaurant called Cappurio’s which Ed recommends.
We go in.
It is relatively quiet, but I suppose it isn’t particularly late and it is a weekday. The seats are simple, typical wooden diner-style benches in little low cubicles, but all in seaman style, with odd lobster pots and bits of rope here and there, along with jolly pictures of sailors and fishermen. The menu all looks rather inviting, but as I am not starving and there is promise of dinner later of some tasty description, I decide to go for the Child’s Fish and Chips. Ed has a Red Chowder.
I remain fundamentally mistrustful of the majority of shellfish and anything that can wave at you, look at you, or bounce back when you chew it, so I have stuck to proper fish. However, when the Chowder arrived, is smells lovely and is beautifully served, Eastern-European-style, in an enormous bun, a bread-bowl. My kids’ fish and chips is very good indeed, the perfect size for me not to waste any and still be full up. The waiter is friendly and attentive and brings bread to nibble and pours us water periodically. Water and occasionally nibbles seem to be a given in restaurants here – you never have to ask for them and they are invariably free, unlike Prague where bottled water and nibbles are placed tantalisingly in front of you prior to your food arriving, without prompting, but you lose a large chunk of a week’s wages, should you so much as consider touching them!
Cappurio’s certainly seems like considerably better value than I am paying for (it seems only fair that I get lunch!) and we leave well-fed, watered and contented.
Ed tolerates me dragging him around the tourist shop I found with good grace. I find what I am looking for eventually, after asking at the counter and being presented with a motley selection of pin badges in a little basket from all over San Francisco. I pick a generic one, since I’ve not been to any of the other places yet, and buy some postcards to send home too. There is a rather lovely one of the Golden Gate Bridge, taken on a misty, frosty, peach-tinted dawn, which I particularly like.
Ed and I wander vaguely, the pull of old mechanics and the gentler days of travel leads us both onto a small pier, almost a museum, which tethers several beautiful antique ships. The most notable of these is the Balclutha, which has had several incarnations both as a trading or carrying vessel, and as a passenger vessel. It is currently painted largely shiny black and the rigging is pale wood. There are also several little tugs here, nestling amongst the larger steam ships. We admire each and every one, walking slowly down the wooden pier to the very end. You can understand how sailors become so superstitious, standing here, listening to the living ships, creaking and cracking. There is an eerie grinding noise as the boats ride gently on the water and a whistling and slapping as the wind slips through the rigging. The sun gleams brightly off polished, varnished surfaces, and flicks cleanly off seagulls’ wings as they ride the wind over the rigging of the vintage ships. I look out over the glistening water and see Alcatraz gleaming solidly ivory in the distance, so close, yet so far away. I look the other way and see the Golden Gate Bridge bravely spanning the water, there is a tint of red in its hazy silhouette.
We wend onwards, up the Wharf.
There is a steel band, which I peer at for a while, I do like the undiluted cheerfulness that pours from these bands, who have probably made and tuned their own instruments. There must be a lot of interesting heritage in that music that the mere sound does nothing to reveal…
We arrive, in short order, at Pier 39. It is bewilderingly busy but friendly and fun. It is a mass of colours and activities and is considerably larger than I had imagined it, encompassing not only about 50 shops, but also a mezzanine level and a merry-go-round. I am entranced and bewildered and decide to enjoy it! The merry go round twirls with a horde of happy children on board, a few watching stickily from the sidelines with sugary treats clasped in their hands.
The Hard Rock Café is the main reason I am here and I head in carefully. There are the usual racks of neatly packed t-shirts and interesting vests laid out for casual delectation. But I am after another t-shirt for Andrew and a pin badge for me. I find a suitably funky one, exclusive to SF, and head towards the counter. The chap serving is lovely and talks me into joining the Hard Rock Café club for $20. I think this sounds like a lot, but when I do the math(s) in my head, it turns out to be pretty good value for me. I pay $20 to join, which entitles me to permanent slightly preferential treatment in any HRC in the world, plus $20 off my next HRC purchase, and another free pin badge and a HRC bag… So given that my next stop is NYC and I KNOW I’ll go to the HRC there and spend at least $20, a free bag and preferential treatment sound like a bit of a bargain! I trot out of the Café, happy that I have got what I came for and eager to drag poor Ed into a couple of other shops I spotted…
On the way we see, on his own little podium a bit further along, quirky Captain Jack Sparrow, dreads flying everywhere, fingers all akimbo as he chatters away to an intent crowd. This artist is really rather good and we pause a moment to watch him.
The lure, however, of a fudge shop up on the mezzanine level is too great.
We head up and wander in and are presented with a bewildering and tantalising array of hundreds of different flavoured sweet things! We are also allowed to taste them. I try a maple and pecan, as the pretty, plump girl in a stripey apron behind the counter recommends it. The flavour is excellent, thought the fudge less crumbly than I like. I acquire a slice to share with the guys back in Palo Alto and decide to buy (with Ed’s approval) Thomas a sugar-coated chocolate ladybug ladybird on a stick… It’s rather cute.
Ed also tells me, to my surprise, about the sea lions. I wonder if he is having me on about there being sea lions HERE among the tourist crowds and bohemian tat at the heart of SF, but he takes me up to the back of the mezzanine level and we peer over the balustrade. There they are in droves, snoozing like elderly gentlemen after dinner at a private members’ club, all over the little floating platforms that presumably were put there by someone wanting to encourage their presence. The float, lazily and luxuriously, velvet brown in the chill Spring sun. I almost envy them their lifestyle, adulated by all comers, protected celebrities, pampered guests… But it’s cold too and I shiver; Ed suggests we continue…
I drag the poor man into one last shop, a shop exclusively dedicated to charms. This is unusual; charms have been so hard to find along my journey, yet here they are, laid out in many ranks, of all shapes, colours, sizes and styles. I pick a dainty silver cable car with SF on it for little Alex’s birthday back in England.
Then, we begin to head for home. I had hoped to see Chinatown on the way, so Ed kindly indulges my whim and we walk back towards the station instead of getting public transport. This route takes us through the edge of Chinatown.
There are interesting vegetables.
There are interesting people.
I like it…
Here, between Pier 39 and Chinatown, it feels safe and pleasant, rather like Kensington. There is clearly money here, but also the Bohemian lifestyle that people value so much about SF. The houses are tall, pale and unsullied and people pass pleasantly by, leaving no sense of threat. Just on the edge of Chinatown, a man pauses at a busy intersection with his large Alsatian. It looks worriedly to him for reassurance with liquid brown eyes, and he looks down into its face and places his hand briefly and kindly on its head.
A true moment of trust.
We head further into Chinatown. It is like a different city.
This place even smells like Soho! It throngs with people, mainly Chinese. An elderly, bent, Chinese man, shuffling with slippers and stick, bowed beneath the weight of his years, toddles before us, clutching a plastic bag of groceries. Interesting smells waft out of grocery stores and we inspect oddly shaped fruit, stroke silks and peer with interest at the fish in one shop front. They are clearly extremely fresh.
Some of them are still gasping for air and the crustaceans wriggle and look at you.
A vegetarian’s nightmare, but to me, merely exceedingly fresh and good. Not that we buy any of course, we just wander on, safe in the knowledge that, should we ever want to make sushi, this would be a good place to come!.
Chinatown fades into domestic streets, slightly grubbier than those further down the hill, but still with a genteel London elegance – tall white buildings and wide front steps onto the street where the odd tree grows here and there.
Our route wends past some larger buildings, one of which is a science museum and we are clearly heading back into a different tourist centre. This area is clearly for the city boys and spending fiends. Macy’s rises, high and visible, over Union Square and slick besuited guys walk past. Much to Ed’s relief, I exhibit no shopaholic symptoms and we wend on. This area feels rather like the Piccadilly Circus and Regent’s Street areas. An interesting sculpture/fountain/thing arrests my attention as we are trotting for the station. It sits on the steps of some wealthy office block, gloomy and intricate. It appears to be just a large, rough-hewn blob, but it draws me closer to inspect it. A little fountain plays in the centre, above my head, and I look at the blob’s carved sides. It turns out to be an intricate cityscape – almost an affectionate caricature – detailing the significant points of San Francisco. It is a fascinating thing of beauty and I drink it in, wondering to whom the cleverly-hidden, bas relief initials, ‘HH’, belong.
San Francisco is a nice city, well worth exploring. It doesn’t feel big and there are a variety of interesting people: locals, Bohemians, artists, musicians, interesting minority groups, tourists, visitors… I have thoroughly enjoyed looking at this little slice of city life here. I have also come to the conclusion that an American accent, or at least a San Francisco one, is considerably less repulsive in situ and in fact, on ordinary people, can lilt and sound quite pleasant. I wonder if the people in SF are less rambunctious and quieter and that maybe it is only Tourists who are loud and obnoxious whilst being American. I begin to feel that I have not been fair in my long-term pre-judgement of normal, domestic America – bits of it seem lovely and California is definitely worming its way into my affections quite nicely.
Ed and I reach SF station, gleaming and sterile and toodle onto the platform, happily tired, to wait for out next train. It soon arrives, a ‘caltrain’, vast, tall, corrugated and huffing mightily, and we clamber in. It takes very little time to get back to Palo Alto station and as we pull in, I admire it; it is neatly and subtly art deco in style and very well-kept, like so many things here.
Ed calls Meg as she has kindly agreed to pick us up and we head out of the station to wait for her. There is a moment of unaware and unintentional but manly superiority from Ed as we watch Meg sail past us, clearly heading for something geographically similar but not identical to our location… LOL
We stay put, call her and wave madly next time we see the car and Meg comes around and stops for us. We hop in, me into the front, which feels very weird, being on the driver’s side but without pedals or steering wheel! It is sunny and Meg is in sunglasses, hair bouncing around her face as she talks to us and we tell her about our day. I notice, as we drive along, a quiet atmosphere of absolute contentment, and sense the peaceful, silent, solid affection here. I am so glad that my cousin has found a person and place where he appears to be perfectly happy…
Meg is a local girl and points things out to me as we drive back towards the house. There is a windmill, which she points out, is part of a house – cool house! She also points at something I only glimpse as it flits past, fleet of foot, a big grey local deer. It is rather exciting to see the natural fauna in situ, and to be able to recognise the basic genus at least; it all seems less outlandish that the Antipodean creatures, which all seem rather alien, and excessively powerful or poisonous…
I also learn that many places here are pre- or suffixed with ‘Yerba Buena’. I had wondered why this was, having seen it dotted on street signs and posters. This is the old, Spanish name for San Francisco, and it trips rather neatly off the tongue...
We are soon home, in the late Spring sun and we are mobbed by Thomas who wants to know where we have been. Dinner isn’t long in coming, with a little help from everyone, and we eat, chatting about our day, and do ‘our Alphabetas’ with Granpa Ken and Thomas. Once the clearing up is done, and twilight has descended softly over Palo Alto, we sit, Thomas on the sofa with me and Ed and Meg perched comfortably on chairs nearby. We chat for a while, then Thomas asks if I can read to him. Meg gently corrects him, suggesting that he ask me nicely and take me to fetch a book or two.
He does so. I am pulled carefully to Thomas’ room, where there is already a sizeable bookshelf of books he has both read and books to read. He selects an alarmingly hefty tome for a three-year-old and passes it to me. He also selects a book about London, at Ed’s suggestion. J
The large tome is introduced by Meg as something she had when she was a child and apologises for its peculiarity. However, Thomas picks that one first and snuggles next to me, all ears. I open ‘The Big Green Book’ (which I believe is actually its title) and see a story, similar in oddness to James and the Giant peach, but illustrated more like Little Mi from the Moomins. I am intrigued by this old story and begin to read aloud – putting voices and accents in for Thomas’ benefit. He listens intently and watches me as I read and turn the pages. It is simultaneously rewarding and slightly disquieting to have such rapt attention from someone barely a tenth my age… Still, the interaction is immensely satisfying and I thoroughly enjoy myself. Ed and Meg listen too…
The London book is read differently. I start at the beginning, but am interrupted by interested questions from the little chap. He thinks as I read, and turns back pages to ask questions. I am quizzed about London – fortunately I can answer the questions with interesting local answers and anecdotes and we all thoroughly enjoy ourselves!
I head bedwards. No need of tea tonight, I am sure I will sleep well…
Mothering Sunday
22/03/09
Mothering Sunday
I remember this morning, just in time, that I need to send my mum some flowers for Mothering Sunday… I have had two Saturdays’ worth of time to remember after all! I scamper about on the internet and find that Interflora are alive and well and willing, so I make my online request and hope that it is in sufficient time… I also check out what else is around to do in and around San Francisco and I make vague plans for things to see, like Alcatraz and Pier 39.
But for today, there are existing plans, in which I am very much included…
It begins with a good breakfast following a lie in – Cheesy eggs and bacon, with us all in slouchy clothes and pyjamas. Perfect! The eggs are very good and I begin to look forward to a nice day with the family. We potter about. Edward fixes some things, including a Perth phone charm of mine which has parted company with itself and a little wooden car of Thomas’. Meg takes the opportunity to chill out after a busy week. I look out into the bright airy world that is Portola Valley out of the window, and I can see why Ed likes it here. It is clear and clean and the sun shines down on its spring buds, crystal-bright. I play with Thomas for a while in the sun, around the decking which surrounds the house and he is fun and interested, and asks intelligent questions. Unusually for a three year old, he also listens intently to the answers…
We are going to have lunch in Palo Alto with some of Ed and Meg’s friends and Meg’s sister. We all tidy ourselves up, and get ready to go out.
Thomas is clearly ready to go too; Ed says, ‘Do you want to go and put your shoes on?’ and he trots off happily to fetch them and tries to put them on, with some degree of success.
We all scramble into Meg’s big black Mercedes and we head off for lunch. I sit in the front and chat to Meg while Thomas happily molests Ed in the back seat and flings shoes about, giggling. He counts his fingers and toes (correctly) and we talk about the time and our names, among other things. Meg finds us somewhere to park and we head into the restaurant we are aiming for. It is laid out a little like a Steak house but the food is very good. I have a large portion of thick, creamy, mushroom soup and a big glass of juice. There is a platter of garlic bread shared between us, which is also very nice. Thomas sits opposite me next to Ed and Meg, who look after his plate and waters down his soda (I must remember that – restaurants and machines always make it too strong even for my taste!). He has a small pizza, which gets almost everywhere (though I have to say I’ve seen far stickier three-year-olds!). After a lovely leisurely lunch with Meg and Ed’s friends, we pay (I try, unsuccessfully, to insist I pay my share) and toddle off to have a wander around Palo Alto, maybe via a coffee shop or two.
We have a lovely relaxed mooch this afternoon…
We leave the restaurant in the afternoon sun. It is crystal clear and, though the sun is still a little watery, Spring’s power is beginning to toast through. To my amusement and delight, we walk past the Facebook headquarters, an unassuming office building like all the others in Silicon Valley. I pose for a picture – well, it’s got to be done! Sadly, as it is Sunday, there is no one there to wave at. What a pity – perhaps I could have begged a job! ;)
We continue on, heading vaguely for Starbucks and pass a lovely mock-Georgian house, with a perfectly American porch. The street at the front is covered in the oddest things. They look like hedgehog eggs.
I pick one up and inspect it, turning to Edward to identify it for me. He has no idea, but we come to the conclusion that it is some kind of tree seed-pod. It is small and reminiscent of a plane tree’s pod, but is prickly like a conker with small curved spines, presumably designed to hitch a lift with a passing sheep. Back in the days when San Francisco HAD sheep of course… If it ever did.
There are lots of them and Edward assures me, after my enquiry that ‘did he think it was okay if I snaffled one off their front garden’ that the owners were more than likely to be delighted that I had removed at least one of the pesky things! I tuck it carefully inside my pashmina in my bag, so that all its hooks are covered and it can’t escape. I wonder what it is… Being a parent clearly suits Ed… He has gained gravitas and confidence, and a delightful family…
Soon, we are at Starbucks and we each grab something to take out. I, bewildered as ever by the enormous selection, plump for a hot chocolate, simple and tasty, though Starbucks still don’t really do marshmallows… We sit around outside the café and watch the world go by. Thomas bounces around each of us in turn, and pauses every so often for a slurp of juice. He is into everything and his father is clearly itching to pull him out of puddles and grubby patches but restrains himself. His mother, however, draws the line at the bin, and Thomas is plonked firmly but cheerfully in Dad’s arms on one of the seats, where he turns around to watch the world go by on the ‘street’. We all join in when a red MG purrs up to the intersection behind us. Ed is immediately riveted and holds a brief but enthusiastic and detailed conversation with the driver of the sleek little open topped car until the lights change. We hear it purr away and I gaze after it hungrily.
I often do this to nice cars, usually the little sporty numbers with the sleek bodies and sexy lines, particularly the functional but graceful curves of the Lotuses (Loti?). I sometimes catch the man behind the wheel looking back at me and I wonder if he thinks I am thinking ‘Ooh, he’s got a nice car, wonder if he’d like to take me for a spin and then maybe…?’, when what I am actually thinking is, ‘Ooh, nice car, shiny, pretty, powerful car, wanna dump your driver and come play with me?’ I rarely notice the drivers to be honest… ;)
Ed and I quit drooling and we all chat amiably in the pale afternoon sun until we all grow chilly. It is still Spring after all, and the leaves are not yet really back on the trees. We get up, throw away our rubbish and explore Palo Alto some more. I have been promised a bead shop, and am bouncing with anticipation but it has sadly been closed down and now remains merely online. Still, there are some other interesting things which catch my eye.
Shops.
(Well, der, just ‘cause I like fast cars doesn’t mean I don’t like shopping – I AM female!)
We meander down a road, a rather Bohemian-looking road, and see a shop that’s clearly catering for vintage people with rather too much money and nowhere near enough taste and see the most peculiar apparition.
It’s shiny.
Very shiny.
It emerges from the ‘posh’ shop, holding a bag stiffly by its side. The shop has no labels on its goods and I can’t decide whether this is because the owners think that if you’re asking, you can’t afford it, or if they’re just so ashamed of their wares that they’ll be grateful for any offers!
The apparition pauses in the doorway to finish her conversation. There is still a large part of me that thinks that silver lamé should really have stayed in the eighties, preferably on people below a certain age who were trying to make a particularly loud and arrogant statement… On ladies of a ‘certain age’ it’s just wrong. As are the quilted, silver shoulder-pads and the tight white trousers. Has she not realized she’s a blinding, blinging vision of glaring tastelessness?!
Clearly not.
She stalks from the shop, clearly ignoring we oiks who are beneath her and sweeps down the street. Meg and I look at each other and I stifle a giggle. Neither of us is dressed in the heights of couture at the moment, but I think tidy t-shirts, warm jumpers, comfy jeans and trainers are fine for a Sunday afternoon out in a quiet town…
Next door is a shop where I am much happier. Very Bohemian, incense-scented, run by Indians and bearing all sorts of little delights in boxes, pots and on tables. All of which are under the magical female-charming sign, ‘all stock 20% off today’ The lads lose their ladies for a good twenty minutes as we dive in and admire pretty things – bangles, bracelets, strings of elephants; scarves, jumpers and dainty slippers; cushions, boxes and incense… I acquire a lovely pale, silvery-purple scarf, all silk and very long for a mere $15, plus discount – even allowing for recession prices back home that’s still pretty good… I snaffle my purchase and join the others outside. Meg has bought a scarf too, for Ed’s mum and he examines it briefly and pronounces it perfect. I suspect Meg could have brought him a puce and orange one and the response would have been similar. ;) But this one is very pretty and very appropriate, lilac, pink and grey in a fetching not-quite-Paisley pattern.
There are a couple of other things we see in Palo Alto before we head home again.
Meg has excitedly dragged us into a sporting memorabilia shop. It’s more like a museum to be honest, and the owner is clearly unphased by people coming in merely to look at his wares – I suppose it at least spreads the word that they are there! Meg waves proudly at an exhibit in a glass case and announces that it is one of the most exciting things to see in Palo Alto, ‘Shaq’s Shoe!’.
I was prepared to be unimpressed before I walked into the shop.
It’s just a shoe, after all.
Not this one.
Shaq’s shoe is huge!
You could happily kayak a family of four up a river in it and still have room for luggage!
It is, I kid you not, probably considerably larger than my head…
Meg is sufficiently gratified by my awed reaction and we wave at the owner and wend on.
We are nearly back at the car now but I scamper off briefly to admire something in a little square just off the street.
It encapsulates the spirit of Palo Alto perfectly: The heart of Silicon Valley in the middle of artistic Bohemian culture. It’s a carefully crafted egg about eight feet tall and green and blotchy, as one might expect from an egg.
However, this gigantic egg is not verdigrised bronze, as I thought from a distance, but fashioned entirely from used circuit boards. It’s really rather fun, and very pretty. Ed, Thomas and I do photographs and a passing lady with a large camera very kindly offers to take one of the three of us with mine.
Photos done, we head back to the car and clamber in, happily and pleasantly tired. Thomas is strapped in and we head for home admiring the light and the countryside along the freeway.
We arrive back in the pretty late afternoon sun and head indoors, past various bushes with little buds that look familiar, but that I can’t quite identify. On the way, Ed shows me Thomas’ little mechanical car, under a tarpaulin, that he has fixed up for him and waves vaguely in the direction of his own car, also under a tarp beneath the house and Thomas very clearly and proudly declaims it to be an ‘Emm Gee’.
Cool…
I am promised a ride in it one day this week…
Even more cool!
We head inwards and I offer to help – I am given spuds to do and set about them willingly, chatting about potatoes, peelers, and cooking in general, while Meg sorts out the fish. Some of the vegetables are from little roadside stalls and the stocks will need to be replenished. Sounds interesting, maybe I’ll get to see those too… J I like Portola Valley. Maybe it’s just because Meg and Ed have made it such a family place, but it certainly feels like a home. Never expected to find THAT in America! Perhaps California is different… Or maybe I was just wrong… ;)
The fish is excellent and well-accompanied, thanks to Coco’s salad efforts once again. Thomas joins in with the Alphabetas tonight and Ed helps him with his supper. I chat to Granpa Ken and Coco; Andrew’s love of musicals is pounced upon and dissected. ;) I have a feeling that I am going to be called upon to chat about musicals later in the week…
More juice, a cup of tea and a bit of a play with Thomas later
(Thomas: ‘Can Cousin Clare come and play now?
Meg: ‘You’ll have to ask her, she might not have finished her dinner?’
Thomas: ‘Cousin Clare?’
Me: ‘Yes, Thomas?’
Thomas: ‘Have you had sufficient?’
Me: ‘I think so thank you Thomas’
*triumphant look from Thomas*
Thomas: ‘Can you come and play now?’
Meg: ‘Politely?’
Thomas: ‘Cousin Clare, will you come and play with me please?’
Me: ‘If I’m allowed’
Thomas: *puzzled look turning to understanding*
Me: ‘May I get down now please?’
Meg: *big grin* ‘Of course’
*Thomas drags new playmate off to wooden train set*)
and we are sitting having a chat, Meg in her favourite new swivel chair, I on the sofa and Ed balanced awkwardly but apparently comfortably on a dining chair. We put the world right after Thomas has gone to bed, and talk about so many things while the night draws her dark wings about the odd, round house. There is mention of seeing stars one night if it’s clear, that’ll be exciting!
So many things to think about tonight…
I head bedwards and scribble thoughts before listening to Andrew read me Terry Pratchett and having some tea to help me sleep…
‘Night ‘night!
Mothering Sunday
I remember this morning, just in time, that I need to send my mum some flowers for Mothering Sunday… I have had two Saturdays’ worth of time to remember after all! I scamper about on the internet and find that Interflora are alive and well and willing, so I make my online request and hope that it is in sufficient time… I also check out what else is around to do in and around San Francisco and I make vague plans for things to see, like Alcatraz and Pier 39.
But for today, there are existing plans, in which I am very much included…
It begins with a good breakfast following a lie in – Cheesy eggs and bacon, with us all in slouchy clothes and pyjamas. Perfect! The eggs are very good and I begin to look forward to a nice day with the family. We potter about. Edward fixes some things, including a Perth phone charm of mine which has parted company with itself and a little wooden car of Thomas’. Meg takes the opportunity to chill out after a busy week. I look out into the bright airy world that is Portola Valley out of the window, and I can see why Ed likes it here. It is clear and clean and the sun shines down on its spring buds, crystal-bright. I play with Thomas for a while in the sun, around the decking which surrounds the house and he is fun and interested, and asks intelligent questions. Unusually for a three year old, he also listens intently to the answers…
We are going to have lunch in Palo Alto with some of Ed and Meg’s friends and Meg’s sister. We all tidy ourselves up, and get ready to go out.
Thomas is clearly ready to go too; Ed says, ‘Do you want to go and put your shoes on?’ and he trots off happily to fetch them and tries to put them on, with some degree of success.
We all scramble into Meg’s big black Mercedes and we head off for lunch. I sit in the front and chat to Meg while Thomas happily molests Ed in the back seat and flings shoes about, giggling. He counts his fingers and toes (correctly) and we talk about the time and our names, among other things. Meg finds us somewhere to park and we head into the restaurant we are aiming for. It is laid out a little like a Steak house but the food is very good. I have a large portion of thick, creamy, mushroom soup and a big glass of juice. There is a platter of garlic bread shared between us, which is also very nice. Thomas sits opposite me next to Ed and Meg, who look after his plate and waters down his soda (I must remember that – restaurants and machines always make it too strong even for my taste!). He has a small pizza, which gets almost everywhere (though I have to say I’ve seen far stickier three-year-olds!). After a lovely leisurely lunch with Meg and Ed’s friends, we pay (I try, unsuccessfully, to insist I pay my share) and toddle off to have a wander around Palo Alto, maybe via a coffee shop or two.
We have a lovely relaxed mooch this afternoon…
We leave the restaurant in the afternoon sun. It is crystal clear and, though the sun is still a little watery, Spring’s power is beginning to toast through. To my amusement and delight, we walk past the Facebook headquarters, an unassuming office building like all the others in Silicon Valley. I pose for a picture – well, it’s got to be done! Sadly, as it is Sunday, there is no one there to wave at. What a pity – perhaps I could have begged a job! ;)
We continue on, heading vaguely for Starbucks and pass a lovely mock-Georgian house, with a perfectly American porch. The street at the front is covered in the oddest things. They look like hedgehog eggs.
I pick one up and inspect it, turning to Edward to identify it for me. He has no idea, but we come to the conclusion that it is some kind of tree seed-pod. It is small and reminiscent of a plane tree’s pod, but is prickly like a conker with small curved spines, presumably designed to hitch a lift with a passing sheep. Back in the days when San Francisco HAD sheep of course… If it ever did.
There are lots of them and Edward assures me, after my enquiry that ‘did he think it was okay if I snaffled one off their front garden’ that the owners were more than likely to be delighted that I had removed at least one of the pesky things! I tuck it carefully inside my pashmina in my bag, so that all its hooks are covered and it can’t escape. I wonder what it is… Being a parent clearly suits Ed… He has gained gravitas and confidence, and a delightful family…
Soon, we are at Starbucks and we each grab something to take out. I, bewildered as ever by the enormous selection, plump for a hot chocolate, simple and tasty, though Starbucks still don’t really do marshmallows… We sit around outside the café and watch the world go by. Thomas bounces around each of us in turn, and pauses every so often for a slurp of juice. He is into everything and his father is clearly itching to pull him out of puddles and grubby patches but restrains himself. His mother, however, draws the line at the bin, and Thomas is plonked firmly but cheerfully in Dad’s arms on one of the seats, where he turns around to watch the world go by on the ‘street’. We all join in when a red MG purrs up to the intersection behind us. Ed is immediately riveted and holds a brief but enthusiastic and detailed conversation with the driver of the sleek little open topped car until the lights change. We hear it purr away and I gaze after it hungrily.
I often do this to nice cars, usually the little sporty numbers with the sleek bodies and sexy lines, particularly the functional but graceful curves of the Lotuses (Loti?). I sometimes catch the man behind the wheel looking back at me and I wonder if he thinks I am thinking ‘Ooh, he’s got a nice car, wonder if he’d like to take me for a spin and then maybe…?’, when what I am actually thinking is, ‘Ooh, nice car, shiny, pretty, powerful car, wanna dump your driver and come play with me?’ I rarely notice the drivers to be honest… ;)
Ed and I quit drooling and we all chat amiably in the pale afternoon sun until we all grow chilly. It is still Spring after all, and the leaves are not yet really back on the trees. We get up, throw away our rubbish and explore Palo Alto some more. I have been promised a bead shop, and am bouncing with anticipation but it has sadly been closed down and now remains merely online. Still, there are some other interesting things which catch my eye.
Shops.
(Well, der, just ‘cause I like fast cars doesn’t mean I don’t like shopping – I AM female!)
We meander down a road, a rather Bohemian-looking road, and see a shop that’s clearly catering for vintage people with rather too much money and nowhere near enough taste and see the most peculiar apparition.
It’s shiny.
Very shiny.
It emerges from the ‘posh’ shop, holding a bag stiffly by its side. The shop has no labels on its goods and I can’t decide whether this is because the owners think that if you’re asking, you can’t afford it, or if they’re just so ashamed of their wares that they’ll be grateful for any offers!
The apparition pauses in the doorway to finish her conversation. There is still a large part of me that thinks that silver lamé should really have stayed in the eighties, preferably on people below a certain age who were trying to make a particularly loud and arrogant statement… On ladies of a ‘certain age’ it’s just wrong. As are the quilted, silver shoulder-pads and the tight white trousers. Has she not realized she’s a blinding, blinging vision of glaring tastelessness?!
Clearly not.
She stalks from the shop, clearly ignoring we oiks who are beneath her and sweeps down the street. Meg and I look at each other and I stifle a giggle. Neither of us is dressed in the heights of couture at the moment, but I think tidy t-shirts, warm jumpers, comfy jeans and trainers are fine for a Sunday afternoon out in a quiet town…
Next door is a shop where I am much happier. Very Bohemian, incense-scented, run by Indians and bearing all sorts of little delights in boxes, pots and on tables. All of which are under the magical female-charming sign, ‘all stock 20% off today’ The lads lose their ladies for a good twenty minutes as we dive in and admire pretty things – bangles, bracelets, strings of elephants; scarves, jumpers and dainty slippers; cushions, boxes and incense… I acquire a lovely pale, silvery-purple scarf, all silk and very long for a mere $15, plus discount – even allowing for recession prices back home that’s still pretty good… I snaffle my purchase and join the others outside. Meg has bought a scarf too, for Ed’s mum and he examines it briefly and pronounces it perfect. I suspect Meg could have brought him a puce and orange one and the response would have been similar. ;) But this one is very pretty and very appropriate, lilac, pink and grey in a fetching not-quite-Paisley pattern.
There are a couple of other things we see in Palo Alto before we head home again.
Meg has excitedly dragged us into a sporting memorabilia shop. It’s more like a museum to be honest, and the owner is clearly unphased by people coming in merely to look at his wares – I suppose it at least spreads the word that they are there! Meg waves proudly at an exhibit in a glass case and announces that it is one of the most exciting things to see in Palo Alto, ‘Shaq’s Shoe!’.
I was prepared to be unimpressed before I walked into the shop.
It’s just a shoe, after all.
Not this one.
Shaq’s shoe is huge!
You could happily kayak a family of four up a river in it and still have room for luggage!
It is, I kid you not, probably considerably larger than my head…
Meg is sufficiently gratified by my awed reaction and we wave at the owner and wend on.
We are nearly back at the car now but I scamper off briefly to admire something in a little square just off the street.
It encapsulates the spirit of Palo Alto perfectly: The heart of Silicon Valley in the middle of artistic Bohemian culture. It’s a carefully crafted egg about eight feet tall and green and blotchy, as one might expect from an egg.
However, this gigantic egg is not verdigrised bronze, as I thought from a distance, but fashioned entirely from used circuit boards. It’s really rather fun, and very pretty. Ed, Thomas and I do photographs and a passing lady with a large camera very kindly offers to take one of the three of us with mine.
Photos done, we head back to the car and clamber in, happily and pleasantly tired. Thomas is strapped in and we head for home admiring the light and the countryside along the freeway.
We arrive back in the pretty late afternoon sun and head indoors, past various bushes with little buds that look familiar, but that I can’t quite identify. On the way, Ed shows me Thomas’ little mechanical car, under a tarpaulin, that he has fixed up for him and waves vaguely in the direction of his own car, also under a tarp beneath the house and Thomas very clearly and proudly declaims it to be an ‘Emm Gee’.
Cool…
I am promised a ride in it one day this week…
Even more cool!
We head inwards and I offer to help – I am given spuds to do and set about them willingly, chatting about potatoes, peelers, and cooking in general, while Meg sorts out the fish. Some of the vegetables are from little roadside stalls and the stocks will need to be replenished. Sounds interesting, maybe I’ll get to see those too… J I like Portola Valley. Maybe it’s just because Meg and Ed have made it such a family place, but it certainly feels like a home. Never expected to find THAT in America! Perhaps California is different… Or maybe I was just wrong… ;)
The fish is excellent and well-accompanied, thanks to Coco’s salad efforts once again. Thomas joins in with the Alphabetas tonight and Ed helps him with his supper. I chat to Granpa Ken and Coco; Andrew’s love of musicals is pounced upon and dissected. ;) I have a feeling that I am going to be called upon to chat about musicals later in the week…
More juice, a cup of tea and a bit of a play with Thomas later
(Thomas: ‘Can Cousin Clare come and play now?
Meg: ‘You’ll have to ask her, she might not have finished her dinner?’
Thomas: ‘Cousin Clare?’
Me: ‘Yes, Thomas?’
Thomas: ‘Have you had sufficient?’
Me: ‘I think so thank you Thomas’
*triumphant look from Thomas*
Thomas: ‘Can you come and play now?’
Meg: ‘Politely?’
Thomas: ‘Cousin Clare, will you come and play with me please?’
Me: ‘If I’m allowed’
Thomas: *puzzled look turning to understanding*
Me: ‘May I get down now please?’
Meg: *big grin* ‘Of course’
*Thomas drags new playmate off to wooden train set*)
and we are sitting having a chat, Meg in her favourite new swivel chair, I on the sofa and Ed balanced awkwardly but apparently comfortably on a dining chair. We put the world right after Thomas has gone to bed, and talk about so many things while the night draws her dark wings about the odd, round house. There is mention of seeing stars one night if it’s clear, that’ll be exciting!
So many things to think about tonight…
I head bedwards and scribble thoughts before listening to Andrew read me Terry Pratchett and having some tea to help me sleep…
‘Night ‘night!
Thursday 24 September 2009
Time travelling!
21/03/09 (again!)
It’s the morning of the 21st March again, yes, again.
At some point during the night we have crossed the International Date Line – how cool is that?? I am now officially in yesterday and it didn’t even tickle! (Unless it was that patch of turbulence over the Pacific…) That means that unless I fly around the world the other way at some point, I will ALWAYS be a day younger! ;) And approaching my 30th birthday that can only be a good thing. I feel as though I have stolen one golden day from Time himself!
We fly over more clouds, lots of clouds, and the shadow of the aircraft passes ephemerally over them. There is a rainbow coloured sheen where the small spot of darkness touches the fluffy grey clouds (I guess that should be gray clouds now I’m over the USA!) and I wonder why a shadow would have a halo here but nowhere else. Very pretty, very odd. Maybe there is a higher moisture content in these clouds?!
Pretty soon, I can tell we are coming down as my water bottle is flattening itself and I can hear it, every so often, clunking to itself as another squash-line buckles. It still amazes me that these forces don’t do more to our brains and bodies than just make our ears pop! Had I been a less-informed scientist, from the days when ‘planes were only just being invented, I should have cautioned the hare-brained and foolish young men who would be pilots, to be wary of their brains dribbling out of their ears, or of their internal organs combusting with the pressure! But then again, I suppose ‘we have the technology’. Fortunately.
Or I’d have been on a boat around the world and who knows where that would have led – storms, tidal waves, sea serpents, sharks, or shipwrecked on a desert island with only dowager duchesses and stuck-up but wealthy young men from the City for company. Perhaps they would have looked down upon me as a lesser mortal and I’d have been scrubbing clothes and fetching water for them. OR maybe I would have been the only young woman of marriageable age and would have to have kept close to the dowager duchess and her middle-aged daughter as chaperones, despite the airs and graces… But back to the tale in hand…
Ooh!
Land!
After the cool, green emptiness of Atoroea and the vast, dusty, red tracts of Australia, this area looks horribly busy! We circle over the monopoly houses below, watching the massive civilisation swirl around beneath us. I have nothing to hide, but I have heard Stories and I also really hope that the nameless They haven’t lost my poor little luggages. I last saw them in Christchurch and I’m half-expecting never to see them again – They are probably still cruising around on the carousel in Sydney waiting for me.
And I’ll not be coming…
*imagining luggages staring wistfully at passers by like lost puppies*
Sniff.
We are circling again.
Are we nearly there yet??
I think we might be stacking. Hmmm…
Or perhaps not…
The wings I am watching intently slowly extend further back, dipping and curving their large flaps ever downwards. They’re quite elegant in a grey and grubby way.
We sink down into grey clouds. I see the estuary below and the glint of water on rivulets. One such rivulet snakes prettily around in a perfect pre-horseshoe bend. I see tower blocks and tree-decked hills beyond.
San Francisco International is a rather forbidding building from a distance. Chunky, squat and grey, but nevertheless imposing. I suspect it is larger close to…
I peer at the wings again – so many pipes and cables this far under the flaps… Ooo…
We touchdown uneventfully and herd into the terminal. San Francisco (SF) airport is large and rather sterile. I queue in an interminable queue for customs and immigration – The first section of the running of the USA gauntlet. The queue shuffles forwards erratically and I am fortunately in front of the large group of American kids who are queuing. There is an interesting mix of people here actually, Brazilian, Black American, Maltese, English, Scottish, German…
Me.
Contrary to popular expectation and dire warnings about body cavity searches they are neither scary nor rude here in San Francisco. I do have my photograph taken (not my best side after 18 hours of travel but I think I avoid looking like a homicidal maniac and that’s the main thing!) and my fingerprints are scanned by a little green glowing box – all very X-files and futuristic. I think back to my job in the Home Office and wonder how efficient the IT systems supporting that little green box and other biometric data really are…
The young lady in the cubicle in front of which I am standing quizzes me about where I will be staying and why and what my purpose is here… She asks about my cousin’s visa and I say I don’t know but that he is married to a local lady, which seems to suffice for the girl’s records. She is clearly not being paid to be friendly but she is at least faintly cordial and allows herself a small, dry smile at my enthusiasm at meeting little Tomas for the first time. She asks me about what’s in my luggage too, and gives me a squiggle on a bit of card that I need to take to customs… I suspect I may have some naughty things with me, though I think I posted home most of the things that I was sure wouldn’t make it or sent them with Andrew to avoid the USA.
Hah!
I toddle off towards baggage reclaim much relieved and clearly not looking like a dangerous criminal, despite the sticky, harassed and sunken-eyed look!
Baggage Reclaim is a vast and intimidating hall with a cluster of tired people waiting . I stare disconsolately at the carousel, feeling cynical about ever seeing my poor baggages again.
Bags circle and are snatched.
I sigh.
But wait!
‘I see a little silhouette of a case!
Scaramouche, scaramouche, and it has a yellow strap on!’
It is indeed my very own suitcase – not shredded, not battered, possibly not even opened – if they have, they’ve done a neat job.
Hooray!
I collect my first luggage and we wait anxiously for its sister – At least now I’ll have clean socks and some of my souvenirs, even if the other one doesn’t turn u-
There it is!
Also undamaged, unopened and very much here – who said that flying into the USA was scary? It appears to have been much maligned, though I suspect that LA may be a different story!
Right, now, before I can run out of the door into the fresh San Francisco air, I have another obstacle. One which could be almost as scary as immigration.
Customs.
I clutch my little docket and head for the ‘something to declare’ aisle, just in case… All the luggage gets scanned and arched anyway, so I may as well be honest about any accidental naughties!
I don’t have long to wait in the ‘I think I might have naughty fruit and veg in my luggage’ queue as it’s pretty much just me and I watch with some trepidation as I explain that I have energy bars and my box of cereal (which is still in my hand luggage!) with me and is that ok? A monosyllabic, sullen grunt from the enormous black woman who helps me heft my cases onto the conveyor belt and I trot through the arch to wait for it to come out the other side.
A heart stopping moment when the young Latino man watching the screen says, ‘What’s that?’ and I rack my brains to think what he could be referring to…
I go cold but step up to the offending bag and look at him worriedly.
He announces that there is something in there and I twig.
My apple!
Oops.
I think the fact that I have admitted it and help them find it amuses them slightly and there are twitches of smiles as I confess and dive in to look for it – what a pity, I would have enjoyed that.
It takes us a good five minutes of ruffling amongst pockets to find it, stuffed in at the bottom, a little battered, but still glossy and bearing a Palo Alto identification sticker from some mountain or other in New Zealand.
The Latino guy cheerfully confiscates it and then notices the sticker, with a certain amazement. Palo Alto is also the name of a local town…
He waves me off, guilt and apple-free, and as I depart, still with cereal and energy bars intact, I see him waving the much-travelled apple at his mate and calling, ‘Hey, look at this sticker! I haven’t seen one of these before; you want it?’ He is joined by an older chap, who presumably collects the stickers, and they both trot off to peer at my apple.
That cheers me up no end.
Hello San Francisco!
It’s the morning of the 21st March again, yes, again.
At some point during the night we have crossed the International Date Line – how cool is that?? I am now officially in yesterday and it didn’t even tickle! (Unless it was that patch of turbulence over the Pacific…) That means that unless I fly around the world the other way at some point, I will ALWAYS be a day younger! ;) And approaching my 30th birthday that can only be a good thing. I feel as though I have stolen one golden day from Time himself!
We fly over more clouds, lots of clouds, and the shadow of the aircraft passes ephemerally over them. There is a rainbow coloured sheen where the small spot of darkness touches the fluffy grey clouds (I guess that should be gray clouds now I’m over the USA!) and I wonder why a shadow would have a halo here but nowhere else. Very pretty, very odd. Maybe there is a higher moisture content in these clouds?!
Pretty soon, I can tell we are coming down as my water bottle is flattening itself and I can hear it, every so often, clunking to itself as another squash-line buckles. It still amazes me that these forces don’t do more to our brains and bodies than just make our ears pop! Had I been a less-informed scientist, from the days when ‘planes were only just being invented, I should have cautioned the hare-brained and foolish young men who would be pilots, to be wary of their brains dribbling out of their ears, or of their internal organs combusting with the pressure! But then again, I suppose ‘we have the technology’. Fortunately.
Or I’d have been on a boat around the world and who knows where that would have led – storms, tidal waves, sea serpents, sharks, or shipwrecked on a desert island with only dowager duchesses and stuck-up but wealthy young men from the City for company. Perhaps they would have looked down upon me as a lesser mortal and I’d have been scrubbing clothes and fetching water for them. OR maybe I would have been the only young woman of marriageable age and would have to have kept close to the dowager duchess and her middle-aged daughter as chaperones, despite the airs and graces… But back to the tale in hand…
Ooh!
Land!
After the cool, green emptiness of Atoroea and the vast, dusty, red tracts of Australia, this area looks horribly busy! We circle over the monopoly houses below, watching the massive civilisation swirl around beneath us. I have nothing to hide, but I have heard Stories and I also really hope that the nameless They haven’t lost my poor little luggages. I last saw them in Christchurch and I’m half-expecting never to see them again – They are probably still cruising around on the carousel in Sydney waiting for me.
And I’ll not be coming…
*imagining luggages staring wistfully at passers by like lost puppies*
Sniff.
We are circling again.
Are we nearly there yet??
I think we might be stacking. Hmmm…
Or perhaps not…
The wings I am watching intently slowly extend further back, dipping and curving their large flaps ever downwards. They’re quite elegant in a grey and grubby way.
We sink down into grey clouds. I see the estuary below and the glint of water on rivulets. One such rivulet snakes prettily around in a perfect pre-horseshoe bend. I see tower blocks and tree-decked hills beyond.
San Francisco International is a rather forbidding building from a distance. Chunky, squat and grey, but nevertheless imposing. I suspect it is larger close to…
I peer at the wings again – so many pipes and cables this far under the flaps… Ooo…
We touchdown uneventfully and herd into the terminal. San Francisco (SF) airport is large and rather sterile. I queue in an interminable queue for customs and immigration – The first section of the running of the USA gauntlet. The queue shuffles forwards erratically and I am fortunately in front of the large group of American kids who are queuing. There is an interesting mix of people here actually, Brazilian, Black American, Maltese, English, Scottish, German…
Me.
Contrary to popular expectation and dire warnings about body cavity searches they are neither scary nor rude here in San Francisco. I do have my photograph taken (not my best side after 18 hours of travel but I think I avoid looking like a homicidal maniac and that’s the main thing!) and my fingerprints are scanned by a little green glowing box – all very X-files and futuristic. I think back to my job in the Home Office and wonder how efficient the IT systems supporting that little green box and other biometric data really are…
The young lady in the cubicle in front of which I am standing quizzes me about where I will be staying and why and what my purpose is here… She asks about my cousin’s visa and I say I don’t know but that he is married to a local lady, which seems to suffice for the girl’s records. She is clearly not being paid to be friendly but she is at least faintly cordial and allows herself a small, dry smile at my enthusiasm at meeting little Tomas for the first time. She asks me about what’s in my luggage too, and gives me a squiggle on a bit of card that I need to take to customs… I suspect I may have some naughty things with me, though I think I posted home most of the things that I was sure wouldn’t make it or sent them with Andrew to avoid the USA.
Hah!
I toddle off towards baggage reclaim much relieved and clearly not looking like a dangerous criminal, despite the sticky, harassed and sunken-eyed look!
Baggage Reclaim is a vast and intimidating hall with a cluster of tired people waiting . I stare disconsolately at the carousel, feeling cynical about ever seeing my poor baggages again.
Bags circle and are snatched.
I sigh.
But wait!
‘I see a little silhouette of a case!
Scaramouche, scaramouche, and it has a yellow strap on!’
It is indeed my very own suitcase – not shredded, not battered, possibly not even opened – if they have, they’ve done a neat job.
Hooray!
I collect my first luggage and we wait anxiously for its sister – At least now I’ll have clean socks and some of my souvenirs, even if the other one doesn’t turn u-
There it is!
Also undamaged, unopened and very much here – who said that flying into the USA was scary? It appears to have been much maligned, though I suspect that LA may be a different story!
Right, now, before I can run out of the door into the fresh San Francisco air, I have another obstacle. One which could be almost as scary as immigration.
Customs.
I clutch my little docket and head for the ‘something to declare’ aisle, just in case… All the luggage gets scanned and arched anyway, so I may as well be honest about any accidental naughties!
I don’t have long to wait in the ‘I think I might have naughty fruit and veg in my luggage’ queue as it’s pretty much just me and I watch with some trepidation as I explain that I have energy bars and my box of cereal (which is still in my hand luggage!) with me and is that ok? A monosyllabic, sullen grunt from the enormous black woman who helps me heft my cases onto the conveyor belt and I trot through the arch to wait for it to come out the other side.
A heart stopping moment when the young Latino man watching the screen says, ‘What’s that?’ and I rack my brains to think what he could be referring to…
I go cold but step up to the offending bag and look at him worriedly.
He announces that there is something in there and I twig.
My apple!
Oops.
I think the fact that I have admitted it and help them find it amuses them slightly and there are twitches of smiles as I confess and dive in to look for it – what a pity, I would have enjoyed that.
It takes us a good five minutes of ruffling amongst pockets to find it, stuffed in at the bottom, a little battered, but still glossy and bearing a Palo Alto identification sticker from some mountain or other in New Zealand.
The Latino guy cheerfully confiscates it and then notices the sticker, with a certain amazement. Palo Alto is also the name of a local town…
He waves me off, guilt and apple-free, and as I depart, still with cereal and energy bars intact, I see him waving the much-travelled apple at his mate and calling, ‘Hey, look at this sticker! I haven’t seen one of these before; you want it?’ He is joined by an older chap, who presumably collects the stickers, and they both trot off to peer at my apple.
That cheers me up no end.
Hello San Francisco!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)