Nothing to report at work. There was a mixed reaction to the Opening Ceremony; some thought it was boring, others liked the first half but not the second, some enjoyed it, others didn’t get it. I get the feeling that there were a few in jokes or moments that you could only really appreciate of you were British.
In my solitude I’m becoming a gym regular, well compared to my London gym attendance which is never. After a run and pumping some iron I didn’t feel like sitting in the cave and it was a beautiful evening, crisp but clear as the sun was setting on a hazy horizon. I went back to Clement Street, my new favourite, and picked a Taiwanese restaurant. They had run out of Lion’s Head, a giant pork meatball, which was initially recommended, so I had sweet and sour rat fish instead. It was delicious and reminded me of take aways from the Near Chinese at Elgin Crescent, S&S must taste the same the world over (excepting possibly its origin) and it certainly tastes the same no matter what the meat is. The fish tasted of S&S sauce with just the texture to hint at what it was. The only downside of this kind of food is that if you’re eating on your own and want any kind of variety then you have to order enough for about four. I’m so used to having a bit of everything that having just one dish seems wrong. I took my leftovers with me hoping to find a bum to give them to, but like buses, when you want one there are none around, so I left it on top of a dustbin hoping that it would be found.
It was a great evening, just one of those moments when it feels good to be alive and to enjoy simple pleasures of breathing fresh air and eating food. I didn’t wish that anyone was with me, I was happy to enjoy those pleasures on my own.
My fortune cookie said ‘As one door opens another shall open”. Make what you will of that.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
29.07.12 - The Hangover
Well, the vast majority of today was spent in bed. Until 5pm to be precise as I had an absolutely cracking hangover. Not sure how I managed that as I didn’t drink that much but I guess I have been pretty sober since I got here. It was bad. Then I got to the stage where I feel hungry and sick at the same time and it’s always a gamble whether eating is going to be a remedy or a curse.
I was dreaming of noodles so I went back to my new favourite Vietnamese area, back to the same cafe in fact (it was too much effort to risk somewhere new in my fragile state) and had chicken noodle soup. A great restorative, and my new crack Vietnamese coffee. It may even have usurped the chocolate covered pretzels. The food and a short, flat bicycle ride in the fresh air made me feel much, much better. It looked as if it had been a sunny day.
Wanting to avoid the sick bay for a while longer I went to the cinema to see ‘Beasts of the Southern Wild’. which will not be in UK cinemas until October. When I get back there won’t be anything to see at the cinema because I will have seen it all already. It is a story based in a slightly surreal, Louisiana-esque, watery slum community. It is told through a young girl, Hushpuppy, and is a combination of her story and imaginings. It’s the kind of film that if you like and believe in the characters within the first five minutes then you’ll love it but if you don’t then it would seem over the top and a bit cheesy. But I loved it; the mixture of great performances with fantastical creations and powerful music. Another film that made me cry. The central theme for me was the incredible tie of ‘home’, even if that is a dirty shack in a water logged swamp. There were nods to Katrina and people being displaced to 'better' homes. Your home, is your home, even if to everyone else it looks inhabitable. Just like your own politicians are bad but you'd rather have them than someone else's bad politicians.
The father, who is the second main character was discovered by the crew when they were filming in Louisiana. He ran a bakery where they put up adds for people to audition for parts. When they went back to ask him to try out the bakery was gone. A month later they found that he had moved to bigger premises not far away. He refused to audition, saying that he needed to concentrate on his business. So to persuade him the whole crew went to his bakery and refused to leave until he consented. He agreed on the condition that they work around his bakery hours so rehearsing was done at midnight.
One of the things that had interested me about the international reaction to the opening ceremony was the fact that it was seen as part of an ongoing struggle to find a post-colonial identity. I didn’t realise that we were in need of a new identity, I’ve never thought about it in those terms. It’s interesting to see your own country from a different perspective. I suppose most of the world thinks that we have no power whilst we like to believe that we have a subtle influence abroad, a foil to the USA’s brasher tactics. Part of an innate, understated feeling of self importance. Or maybe that’s just me.
One last observation...I have finished the George Orwell. As a plongeur (bottom of the restaurant hierarchy) he was given a daily ration of two litres of wine. Was wine much less alcoholic then, because that seems like an awful lot of wine to a) drink in one day and b) for an employer to give their employee. In the kitchen that he worked in temperatures often reached 110F.
I was dreaming of noodles so I went back to my new favourite Vietnamese area, back to the same cafe in fact (it was too much effort to risk somewhere new in my fragile state) and had chicken noodle soup. A great restorative, and my new crack Vietnamese coffee. It may even have usurped the chocolate covered pretzels. The food and a short, flat bicycle ride in the fresh air made me feel much, much better. It looked as if it had been a sunny day.
Wanting to avoid the sick bay for a while longer I went to the cinema to see ‘Beasts of the Southern Wild’. which will not be in UK cinemas until October. When I get back there won’t be anything to see at the cinema because I will have seen it all already. It is a story based in a slightly surreal, Louisiana-esque, watery slum community. It is told through a young girl, Hushpuppy, and is a combination of her story and imaginings. It’s the kind of film that if you like and believe in the characters within the first five minutes then you’ll love it but if you don’t then it would seem over the top and a bit cheesy. But I loved it; the mixture of great performances with fantastical creations and powerful music. Another film that made me cry. The central theme for me was the incredible tie of ‘home’, even if that is a dirty shack in a water logged swamp. There were nods to Katrina and people being displaced to 'better' homes. Your home, is your home, even if to everyone else it looks inhabitable. Just like your own politicians are bad but you'd rather have them than someone else's bad politicians.
The father, who is the second main character was discovered by the crew when they were filming in Louisiana. He ran a bakery where they put up adds for people to audition for parts. When they went back to ask him to try out the bakery was gone. A month later they found that he had moved to bigger premises not far away. He refused to audition, saying that he needed to concentrate on his business. So to persuade him the whole crew went to his bakery and refused to leave until he consented. He agreed on the condition that they work around his bakery hours so rehearsing was done at midnight.
One of the things that had interested me about the international reaction to the opening ceremony was the fact that it was seen as part of an ongoing struggle to find a post-colonial identity. I didn’t realise that we were in need of a new identity, I’ve never thought about it in those terms. It’s interesting to see your own country from a different perspective. I suppose most of the world thinks that we have no power whilst we like to believe that we have a subtle influence abroad, a foil to the USA’s brasher tactics. Part of an innate, understated feeling of self importance. Or maybe that’s just me.
One last observation...I have finished the George Orwell. As a plongeur (bottom of the restaurant hierarchy) he was given a daily ration of two litres of wine. Was wine much less alcoholic then, because that seems like an awful lot of wine to a) drink in one day and b) for an employer to give their employee. In the kitchen that he worked in temperatures often reached 110F.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
28.07.12 - Solo Rave
Compared to yesterday today was pretty uneventful. I spent the morning on Skype to Mum and then a bit of admin, story searching. I went out for lunch and had a huge bowl full of pasta and turkey meatballs in tomato sauce which was delicious. It came with amazing garlic bread that stayed with me the entire day. I wrote my diary, which sometimes feels like a pet that needs feeding and walking. I like to keep up to date otherwise I get further and further behind.
Bradley is back from Australia and is going to the usual bar tonight but I’ve already bought a ticket for a DJ. The toss up between sticking to what I’d planned and having a decent conversation with someone (something I’ve begun to miss a lot) was difficult but I decided to stick to Plan A. The venue didn’t open until 9pm so I went to the cinema first to see ‘The Well Digger’s Daughter’, a French film. It is based on a book by the author of ‘Jean de Florette’ and ‘Manon des Sources’. It very much feels like a film based on a book with a few chapters missing but the cinematography is so beautiful, and the characters so believable that it doesn’t matter and you’re happy to fill in the blanks. It’s set in the South of France, near the border with Spain so everyone has wonderful twangs to their accents. The colours are outstanding; lush green countryside, wind blown grasses, earthy toned, rustic houses, warm rays of sun and the interior lighting makes scenes look like Caravaggio at his finest. Another recommendation.
From there I walked down to the venue, Mezzanine on Jesse Street. The direct way was straight through the Tenderloin and I was too lazy to walk the ten block detour so I put my shoulders back and imagined that I was walking down the King’s Road. I always think you’re much more likely to get pestered if you look as though you are waiting for it to happen. I saw a group standing in front of me on the sidewalk and thought, great I’m going to get hassled, but I walked straight on, ready for some back chat. As it turned out they were a group of 5 year olds with the Mums, so that’ll teach me. At night the streets feel edgy rather than depressing, I suppose you expect certain people to be out at night, seeing those same people off their faces during the day is more intense.
I got to the venue, got a beer and wandered round. It was a nice venue with a big, clear dance floor and little bars dotted around with a mezzanine around half the room. People on their own in clubs always look really shifty and not who you want to talk to so I went up to the mezzanine and lent on the rail, watching the people below. Everyone was very casual apart from a few people who had mad hippy outfits on, tie-dye t-shirts and paisley flairs. I have no idea whether they were in fancy dress or not. Something tells me that they weren’t.
I had about two hours before the main DJ Bonobo started, which when you’re solo goes very slowly. Luckily I got chatting to a woman, also there on her own and leaning over the rail watching people dancing, who was Canadian. She was laughing because she always end up talking to the only non-American in the room. She is a yoga teacher from Vancouver and is studying agriculture in Tallahassee, Florida, so that she can go on to teaching people about growing their own vegetables, having community gardens, etc. We had a great chat about back water Americans, food, skiing, the Olympics; the time sped by as we put the world to rights. We descended into the maelstrom to dance and stayed until the end at 2.30am. Not bad having got there at 9.30pm.
Bradley is back from Australia and is going to the usual bar tonight but I’ve already bought a ticket for a DJ. The toss up between sticking to what I’d planned and having a decent conversation with someone (something I’ve begun to miss a lot) was difficult but I decided to stick to Plan A. The venue didn’t open until 9pm so I went to the cinema first to see ‘The Well Digger’s Daughter’, a French film. It is based on a book by the author of ‘Jean de Florette’ and ‘Manon des Sources’. It very much feels like a film based on a book with a few chapters missing but the cinematography is so beautiful, and the characters so believable that it doesn’t matter and you’re happy to fill in the blanks. It’s set in the South of France, near the border with Spain so everyone has wonderful twangs to their accents. The colours are outstanding; lush green countryside, wind blown grasses, earthy toned, rustic houses, warm rays of sun and the interior lighting makes scenes look like Caravaggio at his finest. Another recommendation.
From there I walked down to the venue, Mezzanine on Jesse Street. The direct way was straight through the Tenderloin and I was too lazy to walk the ten block detour so I put my shoulders back and imagined that I was walking down the King’s Road. I always think you’re much more likely to get pestered if you look as though you are waiting for it to happen. I saw a group standing in front of me on the sidewalk and thought, great I’m going to get hassled, but I walked straight on, ready for some back chat. As it turned out they were a group of 5 year olds with the Mums, so that’ll teach me. At night the streets feel edgy rather than depressing, I suppose you expect certain people to be out at night, seeing those same people off their faces during the day is more intense.
I got to the venue, got a beer and wandered round. It was a nice venue with a big, clear dance floor and little bars dotted around with a mezzanine around half the room. People on their own in clubs always look really shifty and not who you want to talk to so I went up to the mezzanine and lent on the rail, watching the people below. Everyone was very casual apart from a few people who had mad hippy outfits on, tie-dye t-shirts and paisley flairs. I have no idea whether they were in fancy dress or not. Something tells me that they weren’t.
I had about two hours before the main DJ Bonobo started, which when you’re solo goes very slowly. Luckily I got chatting to a woman, also there on her own and leaning over the rail watching people dancing, who was Canadian. She was laughing because she always end up talking to the only non-American in the room. She is a yoga teacher from Vancouver and is studying agriculture in Tallahassee, Florida, so that she can go on to teaching people about growing their own vegetables, having community gardens, etc. We had a great chat about back water Americans, food, skiing, the Olympics; the time sped by as we put the world to rights. We descended into the maelstrom to dance and stayed until the end at 2.30am. Not bad having got there at 9.30pm.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
27.07.12 - Vietnamese Flying Fish
Peter from work had suggested that I explore Clement Street, a couple of blocks north of Geary Street, it’s his neighbourhood. On my way there I passed a sign for an Estate Sale, people were just walking into this house. I thought that they were looking around as prospective buyers but it was in fact an indoor garage sale. If you want to get rid of stuff because you’re moving a company will organise an in-house sale for you. Sale items included a baby grand, rolls of fabric, pictures, crockery, furniture and then some really odd items like framed wedding photos and pottery made by their children. I suppose someone might buy it. I was tempted to buy one of their family photos just for fun but I thought it might look really weird and I didn’t particularly want it anyway. The company hostess was an amazing looking figure; Nancy Reagan on steroids. She had a helmet of blonde hair so rigid with hair spray that it looked as if you pulled it might just come off like a hat. Her make-up was thick and immaculate with huge hexagonal, slightly tinted specs and a twin set and pearls. She looked as though she should be presiding over an apartment on 5th Avenue rather than hawking rubbish in a SF suburb.
Clement Street is awash with Vietnamese shops and restaurants, just as Geary street, one block south, is full of Korean BBQs. For the first time since I’ve been here the food looked exciting, interesting and delicious. There was that excitement of being in a foreign country when you don’t know exactly
what something is but you just have that feeling that it’s going to be good. Even if it does turn out to be pig’s ear and the kitchen that it came from would never pass any kind of inspection. There’s definitely a divide in the world between countries in which horrible looking places produce horrible food and the others where the worst places serve the best food. The satisfaction of eating delicious food from somewhere that should make every sense revolt.
I ate lunch at a Vietnamese Cafe and had the most delicious Vietnamese sandwich, called banh mi. it was a robust baguette with Vietnamese coleslaw, fried tofu, sauce. Lush. Washed down with a Vietnamese Coffee, which is coffee and condensed milk. It was so good I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to drink normal coffee again.
After lunch I wandered into one of the many Vietnamese grocery shops. It quickly turned into a Hammer horror movie experience. There was a narrow corridor between a three high, stack of tanks holding numerous kinds of fish, some swimming, some just lying on top of each other looking listless, terrapins scrabbling at the glass, crabs waving their claws. I got freaked out and turned to find rows of huge pig trotters, chicken feet and slabs of meat staring at me on the other side. I beat a hasty retreat. I thought that I was quite foreign shop hardy but the terrapins pushed me over the edge. However, I decided to go into the next shop as well, a glutton for punishment. I started in the vegetable aisle where a woman was keeping the produce fresh by spraying it with water, to the back where I found blocks of pig blood jelly (I couldn’t get the assistant to explain what it was used for), past rows and rows of meat (no lamb) to the dreaded fish section. At least here there was more room between me and the gawping seafood. There were clams bigger than a fist, black chickens (called Silkie chickens, they are the ones with lots of white fluffy hair, underneath they are black - they look
like the devil’s chicken), shells with the most revolting looking thing coming out of it that look like an elephant penis (see photo). Whilst I was taking it all in one of the fish jumped out of it’s tank, a bid for freedom, the assistant nonchalantly scooped it up in a net and put it back in. No one behind the counter spoke English so I didn’t get far in my questioning.
On my way to destination number two, the Legion of Honor Museum, I thought about food and why some countries have completely different attitudes to it than others. I came to the conclusion that you cannot change the culture of food from above. You will never make a nation interested in food and eating well by getting rich people to buy organic food from Wholefoods. There has to be a sea change (a Shakespearian word from The Tempest) in the people who buy cheap food. Those Vietnamese shops aren’t for the bourgeoisie but they know that their customers won’t accept the kind of crap that we are usually presented with. And shops will sell the cheapest food that they can get away with, if people are willing to accept sub standard food that is what they will be provided with. If you think of countries that have great food they are generally places where the culinary traditions come from the bottom of the social scale. The only way to make people want to eat better food is by making that food accessible. What the answer is I don’t know, maybe Jamie Oliver can help.
The exhibition was of Lee Miller and Man Ray, it tracked their relationship through their art work
which was interesting but I didn’t feel that we were shown the best of either’s work. As usual they never have postcards of the pieces I like. There were some beautiful things in the rest of the museum; a quite cold, white, pillared structure reminiscent of a war memorial. It is a three-quarter-scale
version of the Palais de la Légion d'Honneur. They have some wonderful Ancient Greek jewellery, little gold figurines of Eros as earrings and turquoise pendants. There was C17th English Chelsea porcelain painted with comic looking cows, Rodin sculptures, Monets and Manets, alongside a number of forgettable European art works. They also had an exhibition of sketches of post-war Paris done for Vogue by Rene Bouche. They were wonderful little vignettes of every day life; the bicycles, black market profiteers, tea dances. I thought of Jeannine, maybe she was the woman at the cafe.
From there I took the bus all the way back into town and went to see the documentary “Ai Wei Wei: Never Sorry”. I had an hour to kill before it started so I went to buy some sea salt caramels from the Ferry Building and had an illegal beer on the sea front. On the way back I wandered into a clothes shop; it sold clothes for women who have reached the menopause but don’t want to admit it. I knew as soon as the shop assistant saw me that there was little chance that I could escape without buying something. I had seen a dress in the window and tried it on, a LBD with a panel of silver sequins running down the front and sheer sleeves. You should have heard the assistants; ‘Oh my God. You look amazing. It’s like a make-over. That is sensational’ on and on and on. As I was changing Yosh, whose first ruse
had been to get on first name terms, kept knocking, ‘Hannah, do you like fur?’ Not that fur should have been my answer as she showed me a knee length, black coat festooned with black, furry baubles. I exited as swiftly as possible, a bit poorer but I had probably escaped lightly. I even got a hug as I left.
The documentary follows Ai Wei Wei and his band of assistants as they make art and challenge the Chinese government, often the two are the same thing. He comes across as a very forceful personality, you could imagine him leading people into battle and in a way he does. One friend describes him as a bit of a hooligan, differentiating him from other artistic activists, a trait that makes him better at fighting the Party hooligans, he understands their tactics. When it finished I could have kept watching, it ends when he is released from prison, but the story feels unfinished. I guess it is. It is an inspiring story, not in a slushy, Hollywood way, but in an understated way, about one man probably willing to die for his belief in free speech. I recommend it to you all.
Clement Street is awash with Vietnamese shops and restaurants, just as Geary street, one block south, is full of Korean BBQs. For the first time since I’ve been here the food looked exciting, interesting and delicious. There was that excitement of being in a foreign country when you don’t know exactly
I ate lunch at a Vietnamese Cafe and had the most delicious Vietnamese sandwich, called banh mi. it was a robust baguette with Vietnamese coleslaw, fried tofu, sauce. Lush. Washed down with a Vietnamese Coffee, which is coffee and condensed milk. It was so good I’m not sure that I’ll ever be able to drink normal coffee again.
After lunch I wandered into one of the many Vietnamese grocery shops. It quickly turned into a Hammer horror movie experience. There was a narrow corridor between a three high, stack of tanks holding numerous kinds of fish, some swimming, some just lying on top of each other looking listless, terrapins scrabbling at the glass, crabs waving their claws. I got freaked out and turned to find rows of huge pig trotters, chicken feet and slabs of meat staring at me on the other side. I beat a hasty retreat. I thought that I was quite foreign shop hardy but the terrapins pushed me over the edge. However, I decided to go into the next shop as well, a glutton for punishment. I started in the vegetable aisle where a woman was keeping the produce fresh by spraying it with water, to the back where I found blocks of pig blood jelly (I couldn’t get the assistant to explain what it was used for), past rows and rows of meat (no lamb) to the dreaded fish section. At least here there was more room between me and the gawping seafood. There were clams bigger than a fist, black chickens (called Silkie chickens, they are the ones with lots of white fluffy hair, underneath they are black - they look
On my way to destination number two, the Legion of Honor Museum, I thought about food and why some countries have completely different attitudes to it than others. I came to the conclusion that you cannot change the culture of food from above. You will never make a nation interested in food and eating well by getting rich people to buy organic food from Wholefoods. There has to be a sea change (a Shakespearian word from The Tempest) in the people who buy cheap food. Those Vietnamese shops aren’t for the bourgeoisie but they know that their customers won’t accept the kind of crap that we are usually presented with. And shops will sell the cheapest food that they can get away with, if people are willing to accept sub standard food that is what they will be provided with. If you think of countries that have great food they are generally places where the culinary traditions come from the bottom of the social scale. The only way to make people want to eat better food is by making that food accessible. What the answer is I don’t know, maybe Jamie Oliver can help.
The exhibition was of Lee Miller and Man Ray, it tracked their relationship through their art work
version of the Palais de la Légion d'Honneur. They have some wonderful Ancient Greek jewellery, little gold figurines of Eros as earrings and turquoise pendants. There was C17th English Chelsea porcelain painted with comic looking cows, Rodin sculptures, Monets and Manets, alongside a number of forgettable European art works. They also had an exhibition of sketches of post-war Paris done for Vogue by Rene Bouche. They were wonderful little vignettes of every day life; the bicycles, black market profiteers, tea dances. I thought of Jeannine, maybe she was the woman at the cafe.
From there I took the bus all the way back into town and went to see the documentary “Ai Wei Wei: Never Sorry”. I had an hour to kill before it started so I went to buy some sea salt caramels from the Ferry Building and had an illegal beer on the sea front. On the way back I wandered into a clothes shop; it sold clothes for women who have reached the menopause but don’t want to admit it. I knew as soon as the shop assistant saw me that there was little chance that I could escape without buying something. I had seen a dress in the window and tried it on, a LBD with a panel of silver sequins running down the front and sheer sleeves. You should have heard the assistants; ‘Oh my God. You look amazing. It’s like a make-over. That is sensational’ on and on and on. As I was changing Yosh, whose first ruse
The documentary follows Ai Wei Wei and his band of assistants as they make art and challenge the Chinese government, often the two are the same thing. He comes across as a very forceful personality, you could imagine him leading people into battle and in a way he does. One friend describes him as a bit of a hooligan, differentiating him from other artistic activists, a trait that makes him better at fighting the Party hooligans, he understands their tactics. When it finished I could have kept watching, it ends when he is released from prison, but the story feels unfinished. I guess it is. It is an inspiring story, not in a slushy, Hollywood way, but in an understated way, about one man probably willing to die for his belief in free speech. I recommend it to you all.
26.07.12 - Naked Man
I really wanted to be able to take some pictures to express and illustrate the way that seeing so many people on the streets and in need was making me feel. I started thinking, ‘Is it just me? Why does it not seem to bother other people?’ So I thought that taking photos of some of the people that I see would be a good way of trying to explain what was bugging me. So I got on the bus with my camera to Market Street but I couldn’t make myself do it. I felt that if I was on the streets I wouldn’t want someone taking a picture of me, for whatever reason. Street photography and portraits of random people have never been my forte but this was another step on from something that I’m not naturally comfortable with or keen on. It’s especially difficult without a supposed purpose, it just feels a bit too much like indulgent voyeurism. (Antonia has suggested that I imagine I’m writing a story for The Big Issue or similar, so I will try again, hopefully). To me, it just feels such a raw side to the city, that it makes me uncomfortable.
So instead of taking pictures of homeless people I went to the Asian Art Museum. There was an exhibition about Old vs New Asian art, comparing and combining the two. I had never heard of him but there was a beautiful exhibit by Japanese artist Hiroshi Sugimoto. He is a photographer who only takes pictures of bodies of water but he is also a philosopher, writer, artist. The old Eastern European emigre man on duty told me all about him. His installation was seven, small buddha temples made out of clear glass, about six inches high. They each stood on a tall, narrow pillar at chest height about two feet apart, down the room. The room was dark apart from one wall which was lit from behind. The temples main body part was a clear ball in which a small B&W photo of a sea or ocean had been put. You could only see the picture from right up close. It was the kind of thing that could so easily have been pretentious but was actually really beautiful; beauty in simplicity and exact perfection.
One of the other exhibits was a video of a woman giving a lecture on death to two rows of cadavers lying in low basins on the floor, covered with medical sheets. It was horrible.
Upstairs I found these beautiful flower baskets, like vases but made of wicker.
I walked all the way down Market Street towards the Castro, stopping to buy ’Down and Out in Paris and London’. It was such a shoddy, cheap copy, charged at $15, that I wouldn’t have bought it in protest if I hadn’t really wanted to read it. What a scam.
Lunch at It’s Tops Coffee Shop, an old school diner playing ‘Dock of the Bay’ as I walked in. I had blueberry pancakes, they are meant to be particularly good here because of their old school griddle, and they were particularly good, especially with lots of salty butter and maple syrup.
My destination was the Castro Theatre where they were playing a documentary called The Flat as part of the Jewish Film Festival. I had time to spare so I went to a bar on the corner, with huge windows letting in lots of light which makes a change from the usual dark, dive bar. I had a vodka and lemonade which in retrospect was a weird choice at 2pm and made me want to go to sleep but they had a very limited selection, liquor and wine it seemed. I read by new book, gripping and very interesting. I wonder if Paris still has the same places or whether everything has completely changed. He gives a wonderful description of the hierarchy in a Parisian hotel; who talks to who, what each gets paid, where they work, what they take pride in.
From my seat at the window I saw the whole gambit of gay cliches walk past; men in tight, high waisted jeans, shaved head and leather jerkin, men mincing by with tiny dogs, butch lesbians, and a completely naked man wearing only a baseball cap and a smile. And what is nice about the area is that there are as many, or probably more, people who don’t look like cliches but you notice that they’re two men holding hands or two married women.
The film was in Hebrew (with subtitles) about what the film maker discovered when his grandmother’s flat in Tel Aviv was cleared after her death. Some of the film reminded me a lot of Stratford; this woman kept everything. They counted over 50 pairs of gloves and about 15 suitcases all squished into the attic. She also kept letter, bills, papers. The grandparents had fled Germany in about 1936 but had always hung on to their identity as Germans, all of their books were in German, the grandmother never really learnt Hebrew. The grandson discovered that they had been great friends with a German couple who, as it turned out, were Nazis. He was named as Eichmann’s boss and then worked with Goeballs on propaganda. They were friends before and after the war. The film maker meets the daughter of the couple and tells her about her father, she believed (or wanted to believe) that he had left the party when it started persecuting the Jews. It was a very interesting film, about how great the pull of one’s homeland is, about denial and truth, and how the first generation after the war never asked these questions. I wonder if he would have told the daughter anything it he hadn’t been making a documentary.
The evening’s activity was a run and weights. I haven’t done weights for ages but it was great fun.
So instead of taking pictures of homeless people I went to the Asian Art Museum. There was an exhibition about Old vs New Asian art, comparing and combining the two. I had never heard of him but there was a beautiful exhibit by Japanese artist Hiroshi Sugimoto. He is a photographer who only takes pictures of bodies of water but he is also a philosopher, writer, artist. The old Eastern European emigre man on duty told me all about him. His installation was seven, small buddha temples made out of clear glass, about six inches high. They each stood on a tall, narrow pillar at chest height about two feet apart, down the room. The room was dark apart from one wall which was lit from behind. The temples main body part was a clear ball in which a small B&W photo of a sea or ocean had been put. You could only see the picture from right up close. It was the kind of thing that could so easily have been pretentious but was actually really beautiful; beauty in simplicity and exact perfection.
One of the other exhibits was a video of a woman giving a lecture on death to two rows of cadavers lying in low basins on the floor, covered with medical sheets. It was horrible.
Upstairs I found these beautiful flower baskets, like vases but made of wicker.
I walked all the way down Market Street towards the Castro, stopping to buy ’Down and Out in Paris and London’. It was such a shoddy, cheap copy, charged at $15, that I wouldn’t have bought it in protest if I hadn’t really wanted to read it. What a scam.
Lunch at It’s Tops Coffee Shop, an old school diner playing ‘Dock of the Bay’ as I walked in. I had blueberry pancakes, they are meant to be particularly good here because of their old school griddle, and they were particularly good, especially with lots of salty butter and maple syrup.
My destination was the Castro Theatre where they were playing a documentary called The Flat as part of the Jewish Film Festival. I had time to spare so I went to a bar on the corner, with huge windows letting in lots of light which makes a change from the usual dark, dive bar. I had a vodka and lemonade which in retrospect was a weird choice at 2pm and made me want to go to sleep but they had a very limited selection, liquor and wine it seemed. I read by new book, gripping and very interesting. I wonder if Paris still has the same places or whether everything has completely changed. He gives a wonderful description of the hierarchy in a Parisian hotel; who talks to who, what each gets paid, where they work, what they take pride in.
From my seat at the window I saw the whole gambit of gay cliches walk past; men in tight, high waisted jeans, shaved head and leather jerkin, men mincing by with tiny dogs, butch lesbians, and a completely naked man wearing only a baseball cap and a smile. And what is nice about the area is that there are as many, or probably more, people who don’t look like cliches but you notice that they’re two men holding hands or two married women.
The film was in Hebrew (with subtitles) about what the film maker discovered when his grandmother’s flat in Tel Aviv was cleared after her death. Some of the film reminded me a lot of Stratford; this woman kept everything. They counted over 50 pairs of gloves and about 15 suitcases all squished into the attic. She also kept letter, bills, papers. The grandparents had fled Germany in about 1936 but had always hung on to their identity as Germans, all of their books were in German, the grandmother never really learnt Hebrew. The grandson discovered that they had been great friends with a German couple who, as it turned out, were Nazis. He was named as Eichmann’s boss and then worked with Goeballs on propaganda. They were friends before and after the war. The film maker meets the daughter of the couple and tells her about her father, she believed (or wanted to believe) that he had left the party when it started persecuting the Jews. It was a very interesting film, about how great the pull of one’s homeland is, about denial and truth, and how the first generation after the war never asked these questions. I wonder if he would have told the daughter anything it he hadn’t been making a documentary.
The evening’s activity was a run and weights. I haven’t done weights for ages but it was great fun.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
25.07.12 - Cheese 101
More waiting for emails and none arriving, read the local papers to see if there was any inspiration there and to avoid staring listlessly at my screen. The office was very quiet today, most people working at home or away. I find it much more relaxing when it’s quiet. The interns have ended up all having lunch together recently. They are 19, 20 and 21. I think that they are too afraid of embarrassing me to ask me how old I am.
Tonight’s excitement was a Cheese 101 Tasting Course. It was at the SF Cheese School; one of the first places to champion real cheese on the West coast. I had discovered it when I read the obituary of the founder in the local paper. They espouse cheese appreciation, so I thought that it sounded like my kind of thing.
There were about 30 people there, we got 8 cheese tasters, 2 glasses of wine, sweet baguette, a little membrillo, strawberries and a few almonds. The ‘cheese monitor’ professional, talked us through cheese production and different techniques. Here are some cheese facts.
1. In the USA all raw milk cheese (made or imported) has to be aged for at least 60 days, so only hard cheeses here are ever made of raw milk. We had two raw milk cheeses, a Spanish Manchego and a Dutch Nylander and you could really taste the difference in strength of flavour.
2. You can make rennet from thistles and cardoons. And any vegetarian who eats non-veggie cheese should reassess their morals on animals. Although you can get a lot of rennet from one baby animal but it does have to die. American meat portions have actually put me off meat so I’m a moderate vegetarian at the moment. The thought of my pastrami sandwich, belching forth endless slices of pink cow, is gross.
3. To make ricotta cheese the curds are cooked twice; i.e. recooked, re cotto!
4. How was cheese discovered; her theory was that hunter gatherers/nomads carried milk in animal stomachs, leading to the rennet naturally making a form of cheese.
5. Gouda is the most popular cheese at her shop, gouda! In NYC it was Cheddar. Dear me.
6. To recreate naturally occurring European moulds, little vials of frozen cultures are transported to USA to produce the same moulds.
I hate to compound cliches but...for me, the French and Italian cheeses were on another level to the others. A great cheese can transport me to another level of enjoyment, it is the best food ever, mostly because, in concept, it should be horrible, but when it’s good it’s mind blowing. I’m not exaggerating when I say that eating fresh mozzarella in Rome changed my life. The door was opened on what great cheese should taste like, an epiphany moment. For some that comes from God or Shakespeare, for me it’s moldy, aged milk. And Gouda is horrible, rubbery and greasy, no matter what you flavour it with. It made me think of eating great cheese from Jeannine’s special cheese container with a glass of wine in a tumbler and the slate kitchen table. Good times.
The cycle back was awful, I had to walk up five hills, and pushing a bicycle up a hill is almost as hard as cycling. I did get a great view over the city from the top of one of the highest hills though. The twinkling lights and dying rays of the sun lighting up the clouds a sweet pink.
I am really enjoying my book which I realised I said was a biography of A.J.P. Taylor but it’s actually of Hugh Trevor Roper, I mixed up my historians! I often write down little extracts from books that I like. Here are two.
At age 29 he is advised by his elderly friend Logan Pearsall Smith “I take it you are about 30, a turning point in life, when one has more or less to decide on the future path one wants to pursue. Here we are in life, something has to be done about it; one has ventured on various paths which have seemed to lead to nothing; snatched at fruit which has turned sour; knocked at doors which have either remained shut, or, if they have opened, have led into what seemed likely to be prisons, or penitentiaries, or bordels, from which one must flee to save one’s life,” Not exactly how I feel but sometimes on the fringes.
And here’s one for my headstone; “Though (s)he did not achieve great things, yet did (s)he die in their pursuit”, Sancho Panza’s eulogy on his master.
Tonight’s excitement was a Cheese 101 Tasting Course. It was at the SF Cheese School; one of the first places to champion real cheese on the West coast. I had discovered it when I read the obituary of the founder in the local paper. They espouse cheese appreciation, so I thought that it sounded like my kind of thing.
There were about 30 people there, we got 8 cheese tasters, 2 glasses of wine, sweet baguette, a little membrillo, strawberries and a few almonds. The ‘cheese monitor’ professional, talked us through cheese production and different techniques. Here are some cheese facts.
2. You can make rennet from thistles and cardoons. And any vegetarian who eats non-veggie cheese should reassess their morals on animals. Although you can get a lot of rennet from one baby animal but it does have to die. American meat portions have actually put me off meat so I’m a moderate vegetarian at the moment. The thought of my pastrami sandwich, belching forth endless slices of pink cow, is gross.
3. To make ricotta cheese the curds are cooked twice; i.e. recooked, re cotto!
4. How was cheese discovered; her theory was that hunter gatherers/nomads carried milk in animal stomachs, leading to the rennet naturally making a form of cheese.
5. Gouda is the most popular cheese at her shop, gouda! In NYC it was Cheddar. Dear me.
6. To recreate naturally occurring European moulds, little vials of frozen cultures are transported to USA to produce the same moulds.
I hate to compound cliches but...for me, the French and Italian cheeses were on another level to the others. A great cheese can transport me to another level of enjoyment, it is the best food ever, mostly because, in concept, it should be horrible, but when it’s good it’s mind blowing. I’m not exaggerating when I say that eating fresh mozzarella in Rome changed my life. The door was opened on what great cheese should taste like, an epiphany moment. For some that comes from God or Shakespeare, for me it’s moldy, aged milk. And Gouda is horrible, rubbery and greasy, no matter what you flavour it with. It made me think of eating great cheese from Jeannine’s special cheese container with a glass of wine in a tumbler and the slate kitchen table. Good times.
I am really enjoying my book which I realised I said was a biography of A.J.P. Taylor but it’s actually of Hugh Trevor Roper, I mixed up my historians! I often write down little extracts from books that I like. Here are two.
At age 29 he is advised by his elderly friend Logan Pearsall Smith “I take it you are about 30, a turning point in life, when one has more or less to decide on the future path one wants to pursue. Here we are in life, something has to be done about it; one has ventured on various paths which have seemed to lead to nothing; snatched at fruit which has turned sour; knocked at doors which have either remained shut, or, if they have opened, have led into what seemed likely to be prisons, or penitentiaries, or bordels, from which one must flee to save one’s life,” Not exactly how I feel but sometimes on the fringes.
And here’s one for my headstone; “Though (s)he did not achieve great things, yet did (s)he die in their pursuit”, Sancho Panza’s eulogy on his master.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
23.07.12 & 24.07.12 - Work Sucks
The past two days at work have been pretty similar. Not enough meat for a story and no new ideas. I’m sure that computers steal all of your imagination and eat away at your brain. I feel motivated and keen on my way into work and then after about two hours I have lost all will to live. I just start not to care and that is a slippery slope. I know it’s more because I’m not busy and spending hours trying to come up with new ideas is mind numbing and depressing. I have to fight hard not to just revert to doing as little as I can get away with; years of doing that at school, college and university have left me an expert hand in doing the minimum and bull shitting the rest. I must ignore the devil on my shoulder....as I know too well, going nothing breeds a desire to do nothing. Hopefully something will present itself...now....right now....
Two things that I forgot to say about my trip. Firstly, the actors in the play pronounced Milan as ‘Mill--un’ which I thought was funny, in a culturally snobbish sort of way.
And secondly, I missed the excitement that you would get if you did a road trip through probably any country in Europe (UK excluded) of finding amazing places to eat and the further afield you went the more delicious the food. This does not seem to apply here; no local cheeses or meats, even the fruit and veg, which in terms of weather should be delicious, are somewhat lacking. Exempting the nectarines and peaches which are ridiculously sweet. Nothing ever feels really fresh. I suppose this juxtaposes a lot with my trip last year through Macedonia and Albania where every meal was an absolute treat. Even if you were eating another tomato and cucumber salad, each one was amazing. That was probably the best culinary trip I’ve ever been on. The irony that the poorer the country, the more likely the food has come from someone’s back garden, and therefore tastes 100 times better. There is less variety but you get quality over quantity. I haven’t had any gastronomical eureka moments yet; I just dream of Italian cheeses and French food markets.
Apart from the chocolate covered pretzels of course. I haven't been back to the shop yet to see if they have restocked.
Things that I have learnt from the other interns; it is normal for university students to share rooms. One girl shares with two other girls. Horrible. And to go to a non-state uni cost approx $45,000 a year. And we think £9k is expensive.
Yoga again on Tuesday night. Trying to rebalance my energies, om....
Two things that I forgot to say about my trip. Firstly, the actors in the play pronounced Milan as ‘Mill--un’ which I thought was funny, in a culturally snobbish sort of way.
And secondly, I missed the excitement that you would get if you did a road trip through probably any country in Europe (UK excluded) of finding amazing places to eat and the further afield you went the more delicious the food. This does not seem to apply here; no local cheeses or meats, even the fruit and veg, which in terms of weather should be delicious, are somewhat lacking. Exempting the nectarines and peaches which are ridiculously sweet. Nothing ever feels really fresh. I suppose this juxtaposes a lot with my trip last year through Macedonia and Albania where every meal was an absolute treat. Even if you were eating another tomato and cucumber salad, each one was amazing. That was probably the best culinary trip I’ve ever been on. The irony that the poorer the country, the more likely the food has come from someone’s back garden, and therefore tastes 100 times better. There is less variety but you get quality over quantity. I haven’t had any gastronomical eureka moments yet; I just dream of Italian cheeses and French food markets.
Apart from the chocolate covered pretzels of course. I haven't been back to the shop yet to see if they have restocked.
Things that I have learnt from the other interns; it is normal for university students to share rooms. One girl shares with two other girls. Horrible. And to go to a non-state uni cost approx $45,000 a year. And we think £9k is expensive.
Yoga again on Tuesday night. Trying to rebalance my energies, om....
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
22.07.12 - The Final Leg
The next door neighbour started revving their motorbike engine at 6.30am and I could feel the temperature rising already. It was 90F by 9am. I made an early exit, heading for the coast at Carmel,
The country just West of Mariposa was absolutely stunning. Rolling hills of yellow grass so bleached that it was almost white. It looked like a ski resort but instead of snow the hills were covered in grass and instead of rocky outcrops there were small patches of low, shrubby trees. But not a sole on it, barely even a bovine one. It made me want to stop and get lost in the seemingly endless country, it felt as if you could have gone miles without meeting anything.
The landscape then flattened out into fruit farms and pistachio orchards. I stopped and bought some delicious strawberries, some average pistachios and a bag of dry, hard cucumbers. There is definitely a lore Hispanic vibe around here, lots more Spanish radio stations. I did also happen across the The Rush Limbaugh Show, the highest-rated talk-radio program in the United States. Care of Wiki; “He criticizes what he regards as liberal policies and politicians, as well as what he perceives as a pervasive liberal bias in major U.S. media. Limbaugh is among the highest paid people in U.S. media, signing a contract in 2008 for $38 million a year through 2016 or nearly half a billion dollars.” Even I was considering backing Mitt Romney after half an hour so if this is the biggest talk show in the USA then he must have a lot of groupies agreeing with him.
What I found most interesting were his arguments about Obama not understanding what being a true American is all about. The rhetoric is so different from UK politics; we have had our moment of glory as a nation, our empire is behind us and we no longer see ourselves as a super power. But, apologies for sweeping statements, there is a lot of talk about being a super power, being the envy of the world, etc. When you mix this strong national pride and religion together it can be a dangerous mix. The mindset and idea of national identity is so different to ours. Maybe we were the same 140 years ago when we thought we ruled the world. What does irritate me, though, is not understanding the hypocrisy of international tub thumping about how great you are whilst some Americans basically live in conditions that any developed nation should be ashamed of. E.g. 3% of people in Washington D.C. are HIV positive, in the UK it is 0.15%. You are not allowed to be in the Boy Scouts of America (as a scout or a leader) if you are gay, this has been upheld by the Supreme Court as within their rights, according to the constitution. Even the BNP have to allow non-whites to join. Maybe this is not surprising when it was only in 2003 that homosexual activity was made legal throughout the country.
Anyway...back to the stunning scenery. The flatlands gave way again to rolling hills. Yellower in colour this time but similar in style to what I’d driven through in the morning. California has 119 State Parks, 8 State Forests, 9 State Recreation Areas, 11 State Wildlife Areas, 1 State Historic Site, 11 State Reserves, 9 State Fish Hatcherys, 9 National Parks, 19 National Forests , 3 National Historic Sites, 1 National Seashore, and 31 National Wildlife Refuges. The most of any state, and a lot of financial upkeep needed. Some are obviously very well known and popular whilst others are virtually unpopulated. The state was going to get rid of some of them due to lack of funds but only two are going to be axed in the end.
I stopped at St Juan Bautista, a small town based around one of the missions on El Camino Real, the long line of missions that run down the California coast. This one was built in 1796. Lots of Latino tourists. I pushed on to Carmel, the fog descending. I didn’t stop there but paid my toll to drive along the headland, past all of the famous gold courses, and stopped at the beach which was grey and windy and felt like the English seaside. I stopped in Monterey for lunch, desperate for fish and chips but only offered mediocre tourist gunge. I didn’t have time to explore so I ate my sandwich on a rocky outcrop looking over the sea. At first I thought that there were two massive otters in the bay but they were divers in black hoods. Lots of divers and kayakers.
I kept on along the sea before heading in land at San Jose and up into the Redwood forests there. The road was again very windy, the lack of gears, frustrating but the scenery was stunning. Redwoods are definitely better viewed from below, the light streaming in from above amongst the huge trunks. It was worth the detour and slow roads. Then the drive through Palo Alto was again stunning; more rolling, parched hills with short, stubby trees. I will have to come back here as it’s not far from SF. The final furlong into town was a bit sticky but traffic here is so different from in the UK, although everyone seems to drive everywhere there is just more space and less people. I made it home, exhausted. Sandra was super impressed by the ground that I had covered. It was a great way to see lots of places but I did wish for a second driver by the end. On a very rough estimate I think I did 850km.
The country just West of Mariposa was absolutely stunning. Rolling hills of yellow grass so bleached that it was almost white. It looked like a ski resort but instead of snow the hills were covered in grass and instead of rocky outcrops there were small patches of low, shrubby trees. But not a sole on it, barely even a bovine one. It made me want to stop and get lost in the seemingly endless country, it felt as if you could have gone miles without meeting anything.
What I found most interesting were his arguments about Obama not understanding what being a true American is all about. The rhetoric is so different from UK politics; we have had our moment of glory as a nation, our empire is behind us and we no longer see ourselves as a super power. But, apologies for sweeping statements, there is a lot of talk about being a super power, being the envy of the world, etc. When you mix this strong national pride and religion together it can be a dangerous mix. The mindset and idea of national identity is so different to ours. Maybe we were the same 140 years ago when we thought we ruled the world. What does irritate me, though, is not understanding the hypocrisy of international tub thumping about how great you are whilst some Americans basically live in conditions that any developed nation should be ashamed of. E.g. 3% of people in Washington D.C. are HIV positive, in the UK it is 0.15%. You are not allowed to be in the Boy Scouts of America (as a scout or a leader) if you are gay, this has been upheld by the Supreme Court as within their rights, according to the constitution. Even the BNP have to allow non-whites to join. Maybe this is not surprising when it was only in 2003 that homosexual activity was made legal throughout the country.
I stopped at St Juan Bautista, a small town based around one of the missions on El Camino Real, the long line of missions that run down the California coast. This one was built in 1796. Lots of Latino tourists. I pushed on to Carmel, the fog descending. I didn’t stop there but paid my toll to drive along the headland, past all of the famous gold courses, and stopped at the beach which was grey and windy and felt like the English seaside. I stopped in Monterey for lunch, desperate for fish and chips but only offered mediocre tourist gunge. I didn’t have time to explore so I ate my sandwich on a rocky outcrop looking over the sea. At first I thought that there were two massive otters in the bay but they were divers in black hoods. Lots of divers and kayakers.
I kept on along the sea before heading in land at San Jose and up into the Redwood forests there. The road was again very windy, the lack of gears, frustrating but the scenery was stunning. Redwoods are definitely better viewed from below, the light streaming in from above amongst the huge trunks. It was worth the detour and slow roads. Then the drive through Palo Alto was again stunning; more rolling, parched hills with short, stubby trees. I will have to come back here as it’s not far from SF. The final furlong into town was a bit sticky but traffic here is so different from in the UK, although everyone seems to drive everywhere there is just more space and less people. I made it home, exhausted. Sandra was super impressed by the ground that I had covered. It was a great way to see lots of places but I did wish for a second driver by the end. On a very rough estimate I think I did 850km.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
21.07.12 - F*cking Hot
Another early morning and an even shorter run (5mins) down to the beach where I was going for a swim, however the water was only up to mid-thigh after 100 yards so I dunked myself like an adult baptism. I wish that I could do this everyday, it is the best way to start the day. The lake was very still and quiet, just one boat and waterskier. The view is amazing; sapphire blue lake, dusky blue mountains and bright blue sky.
There was a waffle maker at breakfast, a little waffle iron and a jug of batter.
I drove South along the lake and then up and over the mountains. There is an amazing bit of road at the bottom of the lake where the road goes very high dropping off to the lake on the left and down into a valley on the right, just the road without any barriers, stomach turning.
On route 89 now, up and down through windy, woody roads then down into wet valleys, then up again over huge, dry scrubby hillsides, through craggy rock canyons (that look like a Red Indian should start shooting at you) and down into flat, green pastures with cows grazing. I felt like I’d been through Scotland, Albania, the Alps, in four hours. The roads are very high here, regularly at 7,000ft. I rather underestimated the distances on the map and the going is sometimes pretty slow, mostly due to the nature of the roads rather than traffic.
I made it to Mono Lake by Lee Vining which is where Route 120 turns left into Yosemite. The lake lies in a huge barren basin before the slopes of the park. I picked up some supplies for a picnic lunch.
Entrance to the park costs $20 and as it is a summer Saturday there are quite a few people about but not too many to spoil the awesomeness of the landscape. The road initially goes through shady pine forest, running along the river. At each available stopping place there is at least one car and people swimming in the river. It looks incredibly appealing. Then the landscape widens out and the big, rocky faces come into view. The land drops away on the left and the pine trees stick out like hard bristles on a brush. I stopped at Lake Tenaya which is loomed over by a huge, flat, rockface and has a sandy beach populated with Europeans. I walked to the far side and had my lunch sitting on an old log over looking the lake. I had to spread the Philadelphia and cut the tomato with my driving license. But it was delicious and I finally got my sandwich with a normal number of fillings.
It was quite windy and therefore deceptively cool but the sun was very hot. I went for a swim in the lake which was divine. One thing about being on a road trip is that it makes me always anxious to reach the next destination, I haven’t felt that I have much time to stop anywhere. Partly that is because I don’t have much time and the distances to go are long but also there is that feeling that I should be travelling rather then stopping.
The famous peaks and moonscapes of Yosemite came next and then back into woody shade with the occasional, magical clearing in the woods. It does make me realise how beautiful the Wood in Kent is, and private too.
I stopped at Wolf Creek camp site for a coffee and read my book, another one this time by A B Guthrie Jnr, a modern (70s) Western crime thriller. Gripping. I saw a park ranger on a horse and the campsite is full of signs about bears and how to avoid being eaten. Camping is not my thing anyway but camping when you might get munched by a bear is definitely not for me.
I left the park driving along the river which also had lots of people swimming in it, it was now 5pm and the car’s thermometer read 105F at one point. Having the windows open just meant very hot being blown in my face so I had to put the AC on. But I did find a religious radio station to listen to; they were discussing why America is not mentioned in the Bible. The man who has written about this was saying that he believes it isn’t mentioned in scripture because something bad is going to happen and America’s status as a ‘super power’ is not going to last. One of the four awful things that could happen was oil being cut off, apparently the USA uses 25% of the world’s oil and is at the whim of supplier nations, especially terrorist rich regions such as the Middle East and Africa. ‘But what should people do if they are worried about this?’ the host asked. ‘Well, if you believe in God then you know that he has an almighty plan for us and he will keep us safe. If you don’t then you should be scared.’ Great advice, don’t worry about it, God has got it sorted.
I had to stop before I would have like because I was over heating and was bored of driving. I stopped at Mariposa, a town just out of the hills. It was SO hot, like being in a oven. Thankfully the motel had a pool so I cooled off in there but the room was like a sauna with no through breeze at all and an AC system that sounded like the Titanic’s engine room. Even at 8.30pm it was oppressively hot, I am just not used to the heat after SF, I had to sleep spread eagle without a single bit of flesh on flesh. It eventually cooled down by about midnight.
There was a waffle maker at breakfast, a little waffle iron and a jug of batter.
I drove South along the lake and then up and over the mountains. There is an amazing bit of road at the bottom of the lake where the road goes very high dropping off to the lake on the left and down into a valley on the right, just the road without any barriers, stomach turning.
On route 89 now, up and down through windy, woody roads then down into wet valleys, then up again over huge, dry scrubby hillsides, through craggy rock canyons (that look like a Red Indian should start shooting at you) and down into flat, green pastures with cows grazing. I felt like I’d been through Scotland, Albania, the Alps, in four hours. The roads are very high here, regularly at 7,000ft. I rather underestimated the distances on the map and the going is sometimes pretty slow, mostly due to the nature of the roads rather than traffic.
I made it to Mono Lake by Lee Vining which is where Route 120 turns left into Yosemite. The lake lies in a huge barren basin before the slopes of the park. I picked up some supplies for a picnic lunch.
Entrance to the park costs $20 and as it is a summer Saturday there are quite a few people about but not too many to spoil the awesomeness of the landscape. The road initially goes through shady pine forest, running along the river. At each available stopping place there is at least one car and people swimming in the river. It looks incredibly appealing. Then the landscape widens out and the big, rocky faces come into view. The land drops away on the left and the pine trees stick out like hard bristles on a brush. I stopped at Lake Tenaya which is loomed over by a huge, flat, rockface and has a sandy beach populated with Europeans. I walked to the far side and had my lunch sitting on an old log over looking the lake. I had to spread the Philadelphia and cut the tomato with my driving license. But it was delicious and I finally got my sandwich with a normal number of fillings.
It was quite windy and therefore deceptively cool but the sun was very hot. I went for a swim in the lake which was divine. One thing about being on a road trip is that it makes me always anxious to reach the next destination, I haven’t felt that I have much time to stop anywhere. Partly that is because I don’t have much time and the distances to go are long but also there is that feeling that I should be travelling rather then stopping.
The famous peaks and moonscapes of Yosemite came next and then back into woody shade with the occasional, magical clearing in the woods. It does make me realise how beautiful the Wood in Kent is, and private too.
I stopped at Wolf Creek camp site for a coffee and read my book, another one this time by A B Guthrie Jnr, a modern (70s) Western crime thriller. Gripping. I saw a park ranger on a horse and the campsite is full of signs about bears and how to avoid being eaten. Camping is not my thing anyway but camping when you might get munched by a bear is definitely not for me.
I left the park driving along the river which also had lots of people swimming in it, it was now 5pm and the car’s thermometer read 105F at one point. Having the windows open just meant very hot being blown in my face so I had to put the AC on. But I did find a religious radio station to listen to; they were discussing why America is not mentioned in the Bible. The man who has written about this was saying that he believes it isn’t mentioned in scripture because something bad is going to happen and America’s status as a ‘super power’ is not going to last. One of the four awful things that could happen was oil being cut off, apparently the USA uses 25% of the world’s oil and is at the whim of supplier nations, especially terrorist rich regions such as the Middle East and Africa. ‘But what should people do if they are worried about this?’ the host asked. ‘Well, if you believe in God then you know that he has an almighty plan for us and he will keep us safe. If you don’t then you should be scared.’ Great advice, don’t worry about it, God has got it sorted.
I had to stop before I would have like because I was over heating and was bored of driving. I stopped at Mariposa, a town just out of the hills. It was SO hot, like being in a oven. Thankfully the motel had a pool so I cooled off in there but the room was like a sauna with no through breeze at all and an AC system that sounded like the Titanic’s engine room. Even at 8.30pm it was oppressively hot, I am just not used to the heat after SF, I had to sleep spread eagle without a single bit of flesh on flesh. It eventually cooled down by about midnight.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
20.07.12 - Naked Hot Springs
I've got a blocked nose and keep waking up with a mouth like sandpaper so haven’t been sleeping too well. Got up early and went for a run around Nevada City, a very short run which I am blaming on the increased altitude and heat, although being unfit is probably more likely. No breakfast included
here but there was a swanky coffee machine so I helped myself to a cup and drunk it in the small, top floor conservatory looking over the back garden. I am reading a biography of A.J.P. Taylor by Adam Sisman, which sounds like a chore and looks like a brick but is actually really interesting. He is currently working on decoding German ciphers during the war.
One annoying thing about travelling alone is having to pay the same rate for a room as two people, it makes accommodation seem very expensive.
I managed to hit the road by 9.30am, deciding to take the scenic route via the Sierra Hot Springs. Route 49 (aka The Golden Chain Highway) winds through pine forests over the hills and then runs along the Yuba river. I stopped at a little stop point to admire the wonderful looking river, water running over big rocks between deep, blue pools of clear, clear water. I scrambled down to the water, thinking of all of the awful things that could happen; dropping the keys down between a rock, being bitten by something horrible, falling and breaking something. Luckily none of these happens and instead I found a huge bramble bush covered in delicious blackberries. And the water was cool and fresh and very inviting but I pressed on.
Then I stopped in Downieville, a little stop on the road with a few shops, cafes, a bar and a tiny museum like the one in Nevada City. A great collection of random things, including a tea cup with a special lid on top for those with a moustache.
Driving an automatic has its benefits; not having to think about gears is at least one less thing to think about but...when driving along windy roads it is so annoying not to have the finesse of gears and the time lag from stepping on the gas to going anywhere must be a good couple of seconds. Very irritating. And driving someone else’s car is fraught with stress - who knows what that dial means, is that needle meant to be at 14?, why has that light come on, what is that noise? Things that in your own car you would just ignore but in a strange car make you think that the car is about to explode.
As I approached Sierraville I came out of the mountains and hit the plain, a beautiful large expanse of yellowing grasses, marked with dark cows and tin roofed barns with the low mountains in the background. And I saw a genuine cowboy, on a horse with a cowboy hat. So cool. The landscape is really ‘big sky’; it feels full of promise and opportunity. It feels so good to see the horizon stretched out for miles across.
I found the Sierra Hot Springs, a hippy honey pot full of naked people hanging out in the meditation pool. There is a main house where people can stay, they have yoga classes, new moon drum evenings, etc. Lots of ‘recycled air’ as Eddie from Ab Fab would say. The main attraction is the hot pool, which can get up to 105F. It is housed in a temple domed hut where silence is asked for, I shouldn’t think they demand anything of you here. The water bubbles up through sand on the bottom. It is weird plunging yourself into a
boiling hot pool in boiling hot weather. But the best bit is getting into the freezing cold baths afterwards. It is so refreshing and revitalising, really wakes up the nerves. The regular pool outside was shaded by a huge canopy and looked out over the sierra and was full of naked people, some of whom looked way to cozy. I walked back to the other side of the house, about a 5-10 minute walk, to the Meditation Pool. This one was outside and only warm compared to the first, I didn’t really enjoy lounging in warm water in the heat and I looked like a real prude in my utilitarian Slazenger one piece. so I didn't stay long. One the way back I discovered several enamel baths sitting in the grass, randomly dotted around, water flowing into them from pipes presumably from the spring. I sat in one of them just because it was a bath outside but it was a bit slimy. I also walked past a woman, wrapped in a shawl, sitting on her own looking over the sierra,
just playing the flute. It was quite eerie and atmospheric, like the American Indian, reedy pipe music that they play in Westerns. An hour was enough for me, I don’t think that I could cope with the high
levels of earnestness but it is an amazing location for a spa experience. You would have to come with a friend you could enjoy the hippy vibe and had a strong sense of irony.
I left feeling invigorated and ready to take on the world. Leaving the sierra I crept back up the mountains and over towards Lake Tahoe. The driving takes a lot longer than I had expected but I eventually made it there by about 4pm. I had booked ahead at Tahoe City Inn, recommended by the Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festival website. The road sign advertised in room jacuzzis and huge video selection; the two things that would immediately put me off taking a room. At least they weren’t offering water beds but it was close. The motel was double stacked rooms in a horse shoe backing onto the lake. I had a ground floor room and eventually worked out how to set the blind so that the many people walking about couldn’t see through the window.
There was a huge bed, easily room for three people and then a huge, heart shaped jacuzzi, raised up on steps, big enough for a least four people which took up the rest of the bedroom. I wandered down the road, had a Mocha Expresso Fudge ice cream and then got ready to go again. I had booked a ticket for The Two Gentlemen of Verona, performed in an open air theatre on the shores of the lake. However, it was on the other side of the lake so back in the car, ugh, for another half an hour. The shores of the lake have attracted classic waterside, holiday things like cafes, shops, restaurants, casinos, a crazy golf course; all a bit tacky and faded as seems to be the norm. This is also a winter sports centre so it’s got a double whammy. The play was on the East shore in the Lake Tahoe National Park so the tackiness ends on the North shore and gives way to trees.
The seating is all on raked sand so if you’re not careful then you end up on a chair that’s tipping forward, the front legs having pushed into the sand more than the back ones. You can just see an inlet of the lake through the set; I thought that the audience would be facing the lake but as the sun sets it would be right in your eyes.
The play was very good, apart from the badly composed and badly sung songs that acted as links between the scenes. However,....I have decided that as much as I fully understand the genius of Shakespeare, it’s not for me. I know that this probably makes me a complete heathen and philistine but I’d rather see something that is not in what is almost a foreign language (to me anyway) so I left at half time, because I could. One of the joys of travelling solo, I can just do whatever pleases me. And going to bed seemed more pleasing than getting cold watching a play. Say what you will!
I tried out the jacuzzi, pressing the button produced a very loud noise like a jumbo jet preparing for take off and no bubbles so I just had a bath, but in a heart shaped bath, watching a film on my computer as there seem to be no regulations stopping me from trying to electrocute myself. I’m sure that Shakespeare wouldn’t have minded.
They have drive thru ATMs! A great idea.
One annoying thing about travelling alone is having to pay the same rate for a room as two people, it makes accommodation seem very expensive.
I managed to hit the road by 9.30am, deciding to take the scenic route via the Sierra Hot Springs. Route 49 (aka The Golden Chain Highway) winds through pine forests over the hills and then runs along the Yuba river. I stopped at a little stop point to admire the wonderful looking river, water running over big rocks between deep, blue pools of clear, clear water. I scrambled down to the water, thinking of all of the awful things that could happen; dropping the keys down between a rock, being bitten by something horrible, falling and breaking something. Luckily none of these happens and instead I found a huge bramble bush covered in delicious blackberries. And the water was cool and fresh and very inviting but I pressed on.
Driving an automatic has its benefits; not having to think about gears is at least one less thing to think about but...when driving along windy roads it is so annoying not to have the finesse of gears and the time lag from stepping on the gas to going anywhere must be a good couple of seconds. Very irritating. And driving someone else’s car is fraught with stress - who knows what that dial means, is that needle meant to be at 14?, why has that light come on, what is that noise? Things that in your own car you would just ignore but in a strange car make you think that the car is about to explode.
As I approached Sierraville I came out of the mountains and hit the plain, a beautiful large expanse of yellowing grasses, marked with dark cows and tin roofed barns with the low mountains in the background. And I saw a genuine cowboy, on a horse with a cowboy hat. So cool. The landscape is really ‘big sky’; it feels full of promise and opportunity. It feels so good to see the horizon stretched out for miles across.
I found the Sierra Hot Springs, a hippy honey pot full of naked people hanging out in the meditation pool. There is a main house where people can stay, they have yoga classes, new moon drum evenings, etc. Lots of ‘recycled air’ as Eddie from Ab Fab would say. The main attraction is the hot pool, which can get up to 105F. It is housed in a temple domed hut where silence is asked for, I shouldn’t think they demand anything of you here. The water bubbles up through sand on the bottom. It is weird plunging yourself into a
levels of earnestness but it is an amazing location for a spa experience. You would have to come with a friend you could enjoy the hippy vibe and had a strong sense of irony.
I left feeling invigorated and ready to take on the world. Leaving the sierra I crept back up the mountains and over towards Lake Tahoe. The driving takes a lot longer than I had expected but I eventually made it there by about 4pm. I had booked ahead at Tahoe City Inn, recommended by the Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festival website. The road sign advertised in room jacuzzis and huge video selection; the two things that would immediately put me off taking a room. At least they weren’t offering water beds but it was close. The motel was double stacked rooms in a horse shoe backing onto the lake. I had a ground floor room and eventually worked out how to set the blind so that the many people walking about couldn’t see through the window.
There was a huge bed, easily room for three people and then a huge, heart shaped jacuzzi, raised up on steps, big enough for a least four people which took up the rest of the bedroom. I wandered down the road, had a Mocha Expresso Fudge ice cream and then got ready to go again. I had booked a ticket for The Two Gentlemen of Verona, performed in an open air theatre on the shores of the lake. However, it was on the other side of the lake so back in the car, ugh, for another half an hour. The shores of the lake have attracted classic waterside, holiday things like cafes, shops, restaurants, casinos, a crazy golf course; all a bit tacky and faded as seems to be the norm. This is also a winter sports centre so it’s got a double whammy. The play was on the East shore in the Lake Tahoe National Park so the tackiness ends on the North shore and gives way to trees.
The seating is all on raked sand so if you’re not careful then you end up on a chair that’s tipping forward, the front legs having pushed into the sand more than the back ones. You can just see an inlet of the lake through the set; I thought that the audience would be facing the lake but as the sun sets it would be right in your eyes.
The play was very good, apart from the badly composed and badly sung songs that acted as links between the scenes. However,....I have decided that as much as I fully understand the genius of Shakespeare, it’s not for me. I know that this probably makes me a complete heathen and philistine but I’d rather see something that is not in what is almost a foreign language (to me anyway) so I left at half time, because I could. One of the joys of travelling solo, I can just do whatever pleases me. And going to bed seemed more pleasing than getting cold watching a play. Say what you will!
I tried out the jacuzzi, pressing the button produced a very loud noise like a jumbo jet preparing for take off and no bubbles so I just had a bath, but in a heart shaped bath, watching a film on my computer as there seem to be no regulations stopping me from trying to electrocute myself. I’m sure that Shakespeare wouldn’t have minded.
They have drive thru ATMs! A great idea.
Friday, July 20, 2012
19.07.12 - Road Tripping
I started off this morning with a pit stop at the garage to check tyre pressures, oil and water. Mostly because I had Mum’s voice in my head nagging me about it. Getting out of the city was easy, across the Bay Bridge and onto highway 80 towards Sacramento. I had read an article about Nevada City (California) in a magazine so I had picked it as my first stop. The first bit of the drive was through
uneventful landscape, the heat steadily rising. I stopped for lunch in Marysville; I could feel the change in atmosphere immediately. I guess SF has its own special kind of atmosphere though. Everything felt much slower, people spoke slower, there was hardly anyone around, the shops were quaintly parochial. There was a Cowboy Corral shop, a huge show repair shop run by two guys who looked like Hell’s Angels, a bikers shop run by a similar guy, a huge diamond jewellery shop, lots of antiques shops selling a whole assortment of junk. The one that I went in to had old glass bottles, books, videos, comics, skillets, dolls, pin badges and two surly old custodians. I bought a cowboy book to get into the spirit of the West. I am really not far from the cultural coast so I can only imagine what the middle of the country is like. Creepy as hell probably. I saw a woman painting her white picket fence and I am only 2 hours out of SF. I went to Carlos’ Fine Dining Mexican Restaurant for lunch. Fine dining would be pushing it, a lot. The food looked pretty bad and was pretty bad. Everything had a skin on it, the sauce, refried beans covered in greasy melted cheese. There’s something about American food that just makes you feel fatter as soon as you’ve eaten it. And something is giving me bad skin. I am not going to come back the bronzed Californian goddess I had imagined.
Pressing on the country started to look interesting; small bleached hills studded with dark green trees and random scatterings of bluey rocks. Very like some of Australia, it had the same big country feel to it. The landscape is pure Americana; old farm buildings, houses with porches and swing doors, old rusty cars decomposing, farm machinery old and new, cows, horses. You could spend your life taking picture postcard photographs. Then as I approached Nevada City the hills got bigger and the trees changed to pine trees, everything was greener. There are lots of small wineries around here. I took a small detour to go to a town called Rough and Ready, one of the oldest settlements in Nevada County (1849), the town is named after a company that was named after a military man, Zachery Taylor ‘Old Rough and Ready’. It is called The Great Republic because in 1850 they tried to secede from the Union in protest about a tax on mining claims. I went into the only shop and to my surprise there was an Arab behind the counter; I did not expect to see anyone who wasn’t white out here.
I found the perfect radio station that played classic road trip tunes, we had Born to Be Wild, The Boys Are Back in Town, She Was Just 17. My favourite road sign was ‘Speed Limit Enforced by Aircraft’, I didn’t see any aircraft though, I was imagining the aeroplane chase scene from North by Northwest.
Nevada City is an old mining town, as are all of the others around here. The main street runs up hill from the freeway with covered walkways on either side. My inn was at the top of the hill, just at the end of the shops. Like tourist towns everywhere there is a selection of shops to extract money from passing trade; clothes shops, jewellery, furs, and general tat. There is no proper food shop in the centre, not one that sells fruit and veg anyway. I went to the Fire Station Museum; a tiny little place in the old fire station (it became too small when they swapped horse drawn for motorised fire trucks) full of some American Indian bits, some Chinese bits (the gold attracted many Chinese to the Wild West) including opium pipes and the altar from the old Chinese temple. Upstairs there was a selection of old things; clothes, kitchen implements, guns, uniforms, photographs. The kind of things that many bigger museums wouldn’t
bother to display because they have too many exquisite things but in this context are really interesting. (The photo is an early x-ray tube). The weird thing is remembering that the beginning of white history out here is so recent, only about 150 years.
The town feels like a larger, Stockbridge with a hippy streak, and a few bums. They are everywhere. it seems. Maybe not as stuck up as Stockbridge, and no butcher. The corner shop here is run by an Indian family, another unexpected occurrence, and there is a Jamaican restaurant about to open called ‘Cool Runnings’, who would have thought it. I can’t be in Hicksville yet, damn.
For an evening’s entertainment I went to The Music Man, playing at the theatre on the main drag. It wasn’t until I read the programme (all programmes so far have been free) that i realised that it was local am dram society performance. I was expecting Micheldever Panto with an American accent but thankfully the standard was quite a lot higher, although bad American am dram would have been funny. I think that I saw the Music Man in Regents Park with Auntie Ant, years and years ago. It rang a few bells. The performance was great fun and I sat next to a lovely older couple, she reminded me of my friend Hannah Ellis (who incidentally I am going to see in Mexico City in a few weeks), really sweet. They live about 15 miles away, in a tucked away place by a lake. Apparently it’s full of retirees but of the slightly cooler, Californian variety.
To bed! Shattered.
uneventful landscape, the heat steadily rising. I stopped for lunch in Marysville; I could feel the change in atmosphere immediately. I guess SF has its own special kind of atmosphere though. Everything felt much slower, people spoke slower, there was hardly anyone around, the shops were quaintly parochial. There was a Cowboy Corral shop, a huge show repair shop run by two guys who looked like Hell’s Angels, a bikers shop run by a similar guy, a huge diamond jewellery shop, lots of antiques shops selling a whole assortment of junk. The one that I went in to had old glass bottles, books, videos, comics, skillets, dolls, pin badges and two surly old custodians. I bought a cowboy book to get into the spirit of the West. I am really not far from the cultural coast so I can only imagine what the middle of the country is like. Creepy as hell probably. I saw a woman painting her white picket fence and I am only 2 hours out of SF. I went to Carlos’ Fine Dining Mexican Restaurant for lunch. Fine dining would be pushing it, a lot. The food looked pretty bad and was pretty bad. Everything had a skin on it, the sauce, refried beans covered in greasy melted cheese. There’s something about American food that just makes you feel fatter as soon as you’ve eaten it. And something is giving me bad skin. I am not going to come back the bronzed Californian goddess I had imagined.
Pressing on the country started to look interesting; small bleached hills studded with dark green trees and random scatterings of bluey rocks. Very like some of Australia, it had the same big country feel to it. The landscape is pure Americana; old farm buildings, houses with porches and swing doors, old rusty cars decomposing, farm machinery old and new, cows, horses. You could spend your life taking picture postcard photographs. Then as I approached Nevada City the hills got bigger and the trees changed to pine trees, everything was greener. There are lots of small wineries around here. I took a small detour to go to a town called Rough and Ready, one of the oldest settlements in Nevada County (1849), the town is named after a company that was named after a military man, Zachery Taylor ‘Old Rough and Ready’. It is called The Great Republic because in 1850 they tried to secede from the Union in protest about a tax on mining claims. I went into the only shop and to my surprise there was an Arab behind the counter; I did not expect to see anyone who wasn’t white out here.
Nevada City is an old mining town, as are all of the others around here. The main street runs up hill from the freeway with covered walkways on either side. My inn was at the top of the hill, just at the end of the shops. Like tourist towns everywhere there is a selection of shops to extract money from passing trade; clothes shops, jewellery, furs, and general tat. There is no proper food shop in the centre, not one that sells fruit and veg anyway. I went to the Fire Station Museum; a tiny little place in the old fire station (it became too small when they swapped horse drawn for motorised fire trucks) full of some American Indian bits, some Chinese bits (the gold attracted many Chinese to the Wild West) including opium pipes and the altar from the old Chinese temple. Upstairs there was a selection of old things; clothes, kitchen implements, guns, uniforms, photographs. The kind of things that many bigger museums wouldn’t
The town feels like a larger, Stockbridge with a hippy streak, and a few bums. They are everywhere. it seems. Maybe not as stuck up as Stockbridge, and no butcher. The corner shop here is run by an Indian family, another unexpected occurrence, and there is a Jamaican restaurant about to open called ‘Cool Runnings’, who would have thought it. I can’t be in Hicksville yet, damn.
For an evening’s entertainment I went to The Music Man, playing at the theatre on the main drag. It wasn’t until I read the programme (all programmes so far have been free) that i realised that it was local am dram society performance. I was expecting Micheldever Panto with an American accent but thankfully the standard was quite a lot higher, although bad American am dram would have been funny. I think that I saw the Music Man in Regents Park with Auntie Ant, years and years ago. It rang a few bells. The performance was great fun and I sat next to a lovely older couple, she reminded me of my friend Hannah Ellis (who incidentally I am going to see in Mexico City in a few weeks), really sweet. They live about 15 miles away, in a tucked away place by a lake. Apparently it’s full of retirees but of the slightly cooler, Californian variety.
To bed! Shattered.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
18.07.12 - Automatic Driving
Worked on stories...they are going to publish my one on the Olympics on Friday.
Today I discovered that Peter is Sandy’s son! Which puts a whole nother level on to office politics, although I haven’t noticed any bad feelings towards the Chief’s offspring. His Dad died a couple of years ago and he was involved to so it is very much a family affair. Peter’s wife works there too so they’re keeping it in the clan.
After work I went to have my nails painted. I returned to the same place, there was still no on else there. The proprietress got her friend who runs the chinese tea shop next door to bring me in a couple of samples, presumably hoping to pass me on as business. I went for a dusky pink colour, one of the few ones they had that wasn’t shiny and sparkly. I think that some of the colours have been there a while. Then I went to pick up Bradley’s car which I am borrowing for my road trip as he is in Australia with work. He keeps it in a very expensive garage near his house on Nob Hill, near the Cathedral. I had to show the attendants a text from Bradley saying that I could use the car, then try to prove that I wasn’t a thief which was difficult as I couldn’t answer any of their questions on what the car looked like, where Bradley lived, etc. But they finally capitulated and handed me the keys. At which point I realised that I’ve never driven an automatic. It took me 5 minutes to work out how to get it out of P into D. And remember, drive on the right, drive on the right!
Filling up with petrol, or gas, was even more fraught; eventually a guy who was trying to solicit business as a windscreen cleaner showed me how to open the petrol tank, how to pay first before using, how to lock the nozzle into the tank, etc. It was stressful; how can filling up a tank of petrol be so different. It cost me $40 for over half a tank.
Made it back home and packed up a few clothes, lots of film. I finished my book on the plague in SF at the Velo Rouge then had an early night.
Today I discovered that Peter is Sandy’s son! Which puts a whole nother level on to office politics, although I haven’t noticed any bad feelings towards the Chief’s offspring. His Dad died a couple of years ago and he was involved to so it is very much a family affair. Peter’s wife works there too so they’re keeping it in the clan.
After work I went to have my nails painted. I returned to the same place, there was still no on else there. The proprietress got her friend who runs the chinese tea shop next door to bring me in a couple of samples, presumably hoping to pass me on as business. I went for a dusky pink colour, one of the few ones they had that wasn’t shiny and sparkly. I think that some of the colours have been there a while. Then I went to pick up Bradley’s car which I am borrowing for my road trip as he is in Australia with work. He keeps it in a very expensive garage near his house on Nob Hill, near the Cathedral. I had to show the attendants a text from Bradley saying that I could use the car, then try to prove that I wasn’t a thief which was difficult as I couldn’t answer any of their questions on what the car looked like, where Bradley lived, etc. But they finally capitulated and handed me the keys. At which point I realised that I’ve never driven an automatic. It took me 5 minutes to work out how to get it out of P into D. And remember, drive on the right, drive on the right!
Filling up with petrol, or gas, was even more fraught; eventually a guy who was trying to solicit business as a windscreen cleaner showed me how to open the petrol tank, how to pay first before using, how to lock the nozzle into the tank, etc. It was stressful; how can filling up a tank of petrol be so different. It cost me $40 for over half a tank.
Made it back home and packed up a few clothes, lots of film. I finished my book on the plague in SF at the Velo Rouge then had an early night.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
17.07.12 - Gay Scouts
Work was the same old, worked on my stories, followed up on some emails. Peter said that he had heard something about the Russian parliament passing a bill making politically involved NGOs, funded from abroad, dub themselves foreign agents. This is what I had written a short piece on before that Peter had rejected, so he came to say that maybe he should have looked into it more rather than hastily dismissing it. One point to me.
I walked a couple of blocks to a sandwich shop for lunch; it seems impossible to find a sandwich that doesn’t have at least five ingredients in it. I felt pretty saturated with all American subs but somehow ended up ordering a ‘Stephanie’ - tuna mayo, bacon, American cheese, sprouts, pickle and sauce. No sandwich needs that much in it. I’m looking forward to eating an anorexic, British sandwich with just one filling.
I discovered today that the Boy Scouts of America, which is the US version of the British Scouts, denies membership to both kids and adults who are gay. And they opening adhere to this policy. I can’t believe that this is legal. The Supreme Court upheld their decision in 2000 saying that any private organisation has a right to chose its members. Even the BNP wasn’t allowed to restrict its membership to whites only, by decree of the European Court of Human Rights.
However, I also read that a Heinz Mayonnaise advert in the UK that included two men kissing was pulled because 200 people complained about it. Obviously Heinz is not willing to stand up for equal rights in the face of such huge public anger! The article also said that double the amount of people had complained about a car advert that showed a wet dog, shivering outside a car. Where did people’s sense of humour go?
I decided to try out Hatha Yoga with Patricia this evening. I borrowed one of Sandra’s yoga mats, she has about 5, and headed over to the gym. You don’t have to have any kind of induction to use the equipment here, surprising in the litigation capital.
There were about seven people in the class and the woman who ran it must have been about 65, with grey hair up in a ponytail, big, gold hoop earrings and a cliched yoga teacher’s spaced out expression and monotone voice. We did lots of breathing and stretching and extending. It was great, a full body and mind work out.
Tonight’s film was ‘Fire in Babylon’, a documentary about the 1970/80s West Indian cricket team that dominated the sport for 15 years. Finally a film that didn’t make me cry. It was fascinating to understand how that one team symbolised so much for the people of the West Indies and gave them an identity that wasn’t fun loving, beach bums but world class athletes who could conquer the world. A recommendation for those not looking for a gut wrenching, emotional roller coaster.
I walked a couple of blocks to a sandwich shop for lunch; it seems impossible to find a sandwich that doesn’t have at least five ingredients in it. I felt pretty saturated with all American subs but somehow ended up ordering a ‘Stephanie’ - tuna mayo, bacon, American cheese, sprouts, pickle and sauce. No sandwich needs that much in it. I’m looking forward to eating an anorexic, British sandwich with just one filling.
I discovered today that the Boy Scouts of America, which is the US version of the British Scouts, denies membership to both kids and adults who are gay. And they opening adhere to this policy. I can’t believe that this is legal. The Supreme Court upheld their decision in 2000 saying that any private organisation has a right to chose its members. Even the BNP wasn’t allowed to restrict its membership to whites only, by decree of the European Court of Human Rights.
However, I also read that a Heinz Mayonnaise advert in the UK that included two men kissing was pulled because 200 people complained about it. Obviously Heinz is not willing to stand up for equal rights in the face of such huge public anger! The article also said that double the amount of people had complained about a car advert that showed a wet dog, shivering outside a car. Where did people’s sense of humour go?
I decided to try out Hatha Yoga with Patricia this evening. I borrowed one of Sandra’s yoga mats, she has about 5, and headed over to the gym. You don’t have to have any kind of induction to use the equipment here, surprising in the litigation capital.
There were about seven people in the class and the woman who ran it must have been about 65, with grey hair up in a ponytail, big, gold hoop earrings and a cliched yoga teacher’s spaced out expression and monotone voice. We did lots of breathing and stretching and extending. It was great, a full body and mind work out.
Tonight’s film was ‘Fire in Babylon’, a documentary about the 1970/80s West Indian cricket team that dominated the sport for 15 years. Finally a film that didn’t make me cry. It was fascinating to understand how that one team symbolised so much for the people of the West Indies and gave them an identity that wasn’t fun loving, beach bums but world class athletes who could conquer the world. A recommendation for those not looking for a gut wrenching, emotional roller coaster.
16.07.12 - Exploding Eggs
I super smashed the editors meeting with two story ideas that went down well; one on Silicon Valley investment in Ghana (basically interviewing Bradley’s friend Victoria) and one about what happens to people when they can’t afford to pay for a funeral (copied from an article in the Telegraph). I find it quite hard to work in the office though, it’s too noisy to concentrate properly, and if I had to do this five days a week I would probably die, without wanting to sound melodramatic. Because I don’t have anything concrete or specific that I have to achieve everyday it’s quite easy to space things out and not get things done, bad habits return! In my defense a lot of time is spent waiting for people to reply to emails. I’d much rather be out interviewing people but then I need to find a story that is local but has national relevance and an ethnic hook and hasn’t been covered already by every newspaper. Basically I just want to be told exactly what to do, at least occasionally, I think.
I have managed to find a route home with slightly less steep hills though. And the local grocery store has not replenished its supply of chocolate pretzels, this is both a good and a bad thing. I also signed up with the local fitness centre, which is literally across the road, and went for a swim. The website says that the pool is 50m, which it is but the lanes are across the pool width ways, so there are lots of shorter lanes which means that you usually have a lane to yourself.
I repeated the egg experiment, thinking that microwaving it for only 30 seconds would work. The first egg blew up after 29 seconds and the second after 25 so I gave up. I will have to wait to have a boiled egg until my return, something to look forward to.
Tonight I watched a film called Third Star, initially because it has Benedict Cumberbatch in it, but he was in fact the least believable character in it. It was another absolute tear jerker about four friends who go on a pilgrimage to a far off Welsh bay, one of them has terminal cancer and he wants to go on a final trip there. Very funny and powerful at the same time, the end is amazing/traumatic but I won’t spoil it just in case you watch it. I wouldn’t recommend it as a light watch but it is a very good film. I should probably stop watching these awfully emotional films just before bed. I had a dream about hoovering up eucalyptus leaves which was at least just weird rather than traumatic.
Random asides...the Americans have water everywhere, restaurant and cafes always have tap water on the side, or they always bring you a glass of water before anything else. And there are loads of water fountains around the city. It is great for me as I drink so much water. Maybe I will petition Boris to do the same.
Secondly, the other day a Hawaiian woman at the bus stop said that I has ‘something of the Jeanette McDonald about me’. She was a 1930s movie star. See photo...I’ll accept that even though it might be a tiny something.
I have managed to find a route home with slightly less steep hills though. And the local grocery store has not replenished its supply of chocolate pretzels, this is both a good and a bad thing. I also signed up with the local fitness centre, which is literally across the road, and went for a swim. The website says that the pool is 50m, which it is but the lanes are across the pool width ways, so there are lots of shorter lanes which means that you usually have a lane to yourself.
I repeated the egg experiment, thinking that microwaving it for only 30 seconds would work. The first egg blew up after 29 seconds and the second after 25 so I gave up. I will have to wait to have a boiled egg until my return, something to look forward to.
Tonight I watched a film called Third Star, initially because it has Benedict Cumberbatch in it, but he was in fact the least believable character in it. It was another absolute tear jerker about four friends who go on a pilgrimage to a far off Welsh bay, one of them has terminal cancer and he wants to go on a final trip there. Very funny and powerful at the same time, the end is amazing/traumatic but I won’t spoil it just in case you watch it. I wouldn’t recommend it as a light watch but it is a very good film. I should probably stop watching these awfully emotional films just before bed. I had a dream about hoovering up eucalyptus leaves which was at least just weird rather than traumatic.
Random asides...the Americans have water everywhere, restaurant and cafes always have tap water on the side, or they always bring you a glass of water before anything else. And there are loads of water fountains around the city. It is great for me as I drink so much water. Maybe I will petition Boris to do the same.
Secondly, the other day a Hawaiian woman at the bus stop said that I has ‘something of the Jeanette McDonald about me’. She was a 1930s movie star. See photo...I’ll accept that even though it might be a tiny something.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
15.07.12 - Jellyfish
cycling over the bridge so we returned to the Ferry Building and hired bicycles. We cycled along the water front, past Fisherman’s Wharf (looking out for the Bush Man - a busker who tries to make money by hiding behind a bush and jumping out at people - sadly a no show), through Crissy Fields (stopping at the Palace of Fine Arts) and then up the hill to the bridge. It was cold and windy and full of tourists but still fun even though this is trip number two for me. To make it a bit different we carried on, once over the bridge, to Sausalito, the Mediterranean
Town, stopping on the way to eat our empanades that we’d bought as a picnic. The bay is always full of little white sails; it must be a great place to sail but terrifying if you don’t like skimming along the water at a 45 degree angle. We didn’t stay long in Sausalito, enough time to have an ice cream in the sun, before we got the ferry back to Fisherman’s Wharf and went to the Bay Aquarium. There was an amazing jellyfish exhibition, they are just such weird creatures, but incredible to look at up close. They also had a cylinder full of water in which a shoal of sardines (not sure about this!) were swimming round and round, they looked beautiful. I hope the fish do it in shifts, swapping with the ones in a slightly bigger tank. The tunnels were a bit disappointing, not enough exciting fish and too many people. I managed to avoid the Banana Slug exhibit, it was close though. 
Walking to the BART station we passed the regulation bums who hang out near the Civic Center, ending the trip as it had started for Emma, with a stroll through a dingy neighbourhood.
Monday, July 16, 2012
14.07.12 - Rockin' The Air Guitar
I had only realised after booking that we were on mini bus with huge windows rather than an open topped bus as I had imagined. We had seen loads of great looking open topped buses on our walk around and I was getting more and more annoyed with the fact that we were going to be cooped up inside (it was a sunny day), I was even considering ditching the booked tour and paying again to go on another. Then we turned up at the collection point and the rep was the most bored looking woman ever; we decided that the only saving grace would be if it was so bad that it was funny. In fact, being inside was fine and was actually preferable when we headed towards the Golden Gate Bridge which was hung with fog. We could see people on the open sided buses shivering and the opened topped buses were rammed full on the lower deck as everyone headed for shelter. I felt rather smug inside.
Things we learnt on the tour:- There used to be 23 cable car lines in SF, now there are 3. The dog shaped cranes that I mentioned before were supposedly the inspiration for the AT-AT walkers in Star Wars. I said that you could imagine them walking around. The Golden Gate Bridge is painted International Orange, even though it looks red.
We passed Mrs Doubtfire’s house too. Then the guide started reeling off some dubious facts; he said that Chinatown had been quarantined because of a tuberculosis outbreak. ERROR, as we know it was bubonic plague. Then he said that Bruce Lee had fled Hong Kong because gangs were after him but the bus drivers corrected him saying that he had actually been born in America. The more our guide talked the less he seemed to know!
The venue was quite small and full but not crowded. The crowd was a mix of definite groupies, long time fans and randomers like us. By chance we ended up sitting on a little raised section to the right of the stage which turned out to be an amazing place to watch. You didn’t really get anything extra from being in the crowd, it was definitely better to have full view of the artists.
Having thought that it might be quite fun, I can now say that it was the best performance I’ve ever been to. It was such a great night out. We were watching the SF division, a week before the American finals. The winner of which goes to Finland for the international championships. There were some pros and some real shockers who had competed for years. There was a half time performance from the 2008 American finalist. Each contestant got 60 seconds of their on tune then the top five all had 60 seconds to perform to a track picked by the judges. There were outrageous costumes and comedy names. Each bit was marked from 4.0 to 6.0 like figure skating. I never thought that someone could be bad at air guitar but it is a real skill. One of the nicest things was the camaraderie and bon homie of the event; everyone was having a good time and just in it for the hell of it. At the end they invited everyone up on to the stage for a huge air guitar fest so we joined and riffed with the pros/really really keen amateurs.
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