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San Fran: Day 3

Strolling through Muir Woods was like entering into a fairy tale. I was in such awe that the glorious site had me near tears.

Welcome to the magical kingdom of Muir Woods.

I'm inside a tree!

Following the woods, our tour guide took us to Sausalito, which is a quaint little tourist town just north of San Francisco on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge.  When our tour guide parked the bus, he offered up a bunch of suggestions for things we could do during our hour stay in Sausalito. The one that caught my attention was the gourmet burger and wine restaurant just down the street.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve eaten my fair share of burgers in my lifetime, but this one will forever be the love of my stomach’s life. My stomach will ache for the rest of its life, reminiscing about that one perfect afternoon. It was a Portobello mushroom, blue cheese, and bacon burger with a glass of Zinfandel wine from Napa Valley.

I spent my entire allotted hour in Sausalito just savouring every bite of that burger. If I close my eyes, I can still almost taste it.

With a few minutes left to spare, I headed back to the bus, only to find that the bus was no longer there. According to my phone, I’d made it with a minute to spare. The bus driver, however, thought otherwise, apparently.

Irate, I walked 20-25 minutes to the nearest payphone and called up Gray Line, the tour company. The woman on the other end clearly could not have cared less that my plans for my last day in San Francisco were potentially completely ruined. She just told me matter of factly that I could just take an $11 ferry ride to Fisherman’s Wharf, which is where I eventually expected to find myself. If I had more time left, I would’ve happily exploded on the bitch, but knowing that there was nothing they’d be able to do for me, I just cursed her under my breath and hoped a customer would spit in her face for me at some point.

Going directly to the wharf meant I would have no time to check out the cartoon art museum, but that’s life, so I made my peace with it, ate a delicious hot fudge sundae, and got my ass on the ferry.

First stop along the pier was the SS Jeremiah O’Brien, a US Liberty ship from World War II. It was used during the war to carry much needed supplies out to the boys in battle. Visitors can actually climb aboard and walk around, learning about life aboard the ship, as well as about the ship’s personal history. It was the most fascinating interactive museum I’ve ever visited.

Or at least, I thought it was, until I visited the Musee Mechanique right next door. It’s essentially an arcade museum, filled with awesome classic arcade games you can play. Personal favourites:

Marvel Vs. Capcom. Takes me back to middle school.

Crusin' U.S.A.

Whack-A-Mole! 

Upper Deck. I used to play this game for tokens all the time.

The gist of her prediction was "You're awesome." I'm paraphrasing, but that's pretty much what she said.

Pole Position

Indiana Jones!

San Fran: Day 2

Buena Vista Social Park:

After the park, I headed over to the Haight-Ashbury neighbourhod, where I proceeded to spend a stupid amount of money on wonderful treasures. I’m not much of a shopper, but that’s my kind of neighbourhood with my kind of shopping: books, book-related T-shirt, a Metallica vinyl, Hendrix and Dylan posters, and Vans shoes. Oh, and Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, of course.

Next, I headed to Alamo Square for a bit of a reading break.

Cue the music...

I climbed up the Vallejo & Jones Summit.

I napped at Washington Park.

And I rode up to the top of Coit Tower.

Roy Hargrove Quintet @ Yoshi’s with my newest British best friends, Peter and Max. Sushi, beer, and smooth as f*** jazz music…I was in heaven. And to top it all off, Peter offered to pay for my meal. What a perfect night.

San Fran: Day 1

If there’s one thing you have to see while in San Fran, it’s the Golden Gate Bridge. Now, seeing how I love to hike, I figured I’d make my way to the bridge via the scenic Lands End Trail.

First, though, I checked out the Legion of Honor, which had some beautiful Baroque and Victorian artwork, as well as a Matisse exhibit. Yay, culture!

The trail itself (as if I hadn’t hiked enough in Hawaii) was just as beautiful as I’d hoped, as you can clearly see:

U.S.S. San Francisco Memorial

Below lie the remains of the Sutro Baths, and at the far end rests the beautiful Cliff House restaurant.

I headed all the way west to the beautiful Cliff House, where I treated myself to a delectable beer. Then I turned around, and headed in the direction of the bridge.

SO CLOSE!

 Unfortunately, by the time I made it to the bridge, I’d hiked a good 8 km, and there was no way in hell I was going to walk across the bridge, so I snapped my picture and just sat to take in the view for a moment.

A forced, exhausted smile.

The brains behind the whole operation.

That’s when I heard a girl say, “Hana, dul, set,”  which translates to “one, two, three” in Korean. She was taking a picture of her father standing in front of the bridge.  Knowing they’d be surprised, I offered to take a picture of them together and counted “Hana, dul, set” in turn. The looks on their faces was priceless. I miss you already, Korea.

After a quick break, I hopped on the bus and headed back to my hostel for a break before stepping out again to catch The Rosebuds playing at the Independent.  The show turned out to be great enough to warrant purchasing the band’s new record on vinyl.

I also managed to befriend a dude by the name of Giraud who works for Air France and offered to let me crash at his place if I’m ever in Paris. Not sure when that’ll happen, but it’s good to know the option is there.

Sacramento

After a beautiful weekend of drinking and camping in the outskirts of Sacramento with my friend, Arnica, and her band of misfits, I had a day to explore Sacramento itself, so I hopped on a bike that Arnica was gracious enough to lend me and I headed out to check out Old Sacramento. I didn’t take any pictures, but it basically looks like you’ve just walked into an old western movie; except instead of saloons, there are touristy shops.

I walked around the area looking for something that stood out, and I stumbled into an art gallery. Inside, in a corner, I set my eyes on a collection of jazz-inspired pieces. There were, of course, the classics, like Mr. Miles Davis and Mr. John Coltrane; however, there  were also more contemporary artists like Wynton Marsalis.

As I stood admiring the artwork, a deep, smooth voice strolled up beside me. “You like jazz, young man?” asked the voice. I replied affirmatively, and the tall, gray-haired old man started quizzing me, asking “Who’s that?” and pointing to each picture.

When he got to Marsalis, I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name; I only knew that he was from New Orleans. The old man insisted that he wasn’t, but I was positive that Marsalis was from that area. When the old man finally revealed Marsalis’ name, I said, “That’s it! He’s totally from New Orleans!” and he laughed, nodding and admitting that he was just trying to throw me off.

I asked him about a portrait of an old guy wearing a hat and smoking a cigarette; I couldn’t quite make out the face. He almost looked like a homeless man. It was Tom Waits. As soon as he told me who it was, I immediately recognized Waits’ worn, stone face. It was perfect.

I ended up buying the large Waits portrait, and 3 smaller portraits and continued on my way.

After a quick Subway lunch, I continued moseying around the area, popping in and out of stores until I eventually made my way to the Train Museum, because I’m cool like that.

Once I left the museum, I was beat, and I was ready to start heading home. As I approached the bike rack where I’d locked up the bike, though, I didn’t see Arnica’s bike, and I started worrying.

Sure enough, when I got to the bike rack, I found my lock, along with two other locks that went with the two bikes that were locked up beside mine broken and thrown on the ground. Sonofabitch. I was walking home.

Thankfully, Arnica was super understanding, and we made the most of the night by just munching on pizza and drinking some Flor de Cana rum that Arnica was kind enough to surprise me with, as she had known that I was craving some of my nation’s sweet nectar after being separated from it for an entire year in Korea.

What a host!

Day 5: Maakapu’u Lookout (Near-death experience #2 of 2) & Masaladas

After my harrowing brush with death, the previous day, I was ready for an easy day; a nice, calm goodbye to Honolulu. The plan was as follows: Wake up nice and early to catch the bus to Maakapu’u Lookout and do the easy hour hike to the lighthouse. After that, explore Chinatown, even if only just to see the old Sailor Jerry tattoo shop, which apparently had just re-opened, bus it back to the hostel, and get a shuttle with all of my bags to the airport. No death-defying feats today. This was a flip flops kinda day.

Destination: Up

Then something happened two thirds of the way up the hike. Sound familiar?

I saw what could potentially be a hike down towards the water. More importantly, I saw a group of four people swimming in a small pool among the sharp rocks that line the shore. The waves were literally crashing on the rocks right behind them! I had to get down there! Flip flops be damned!

I figured since I could only see four of them, they were probably just a bunch of crazies who had braved this frightening hike down. So much for a nice, calm goodbye.

I continued on the hike, telling myself that if I still felt a pull to go down there on my way back down the trail, I’d give it a go.

When I got to the top, as usual, the view was spectacular. I took a photo for a lovely couple who were from the area, and we chatted for a bit. Then I found myself a nice little spot with a view to sit and write a postcard to a special someone.

Once that was done, I started to make my way back down the trail.

Soon enough, I came to the path that might not be a path, and I just couldn’t take my eyes off of those people down there. It just looked like too insatiable of an experience to pass up, swimming with the sound of the ocean waves right there.

I started to make my way down.

This “path” was down a rocky cliff; it was no dirt trail. I was also the only one walking this path. I didn’t care, though; I was going to do this. It totally looked doable, too; it looked like there were flat rock surfaces going all the way down. Besides, if those four could do it, why the hell couldn’t I? I mean, aside from my poor balance and the fact that I was wearing flip flops.

For the first ten minutes or so, I felt pretty confident. I was taking my time, and calculating every step.  Then things got shakier and shakier. The flat surfaces became more and more rare. I found myself having to do a crabwalk type thing from time to time because there were too many slippery rocks that could easily roll me right off the cliff.

I looked to be about two thirds of the way down, when things started to feel very real. Looking up, I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to do this climb in reverse; especially with flip flops. I could very well be stuck there. I might be on the news as the jackass tourist who needed a helicopter lift to pick him up and rescue him. And I would miss my flight!

And looking down, it was here that my fear of unsecure heights decided to kick in with full force. I was paralyzed; these cliffs jutting out at me seemed to almost be pushing me, forcing me to lean forwards, giving me a bit of vertigo.

I was literally between a rock and a hard place.

I looked down, and saw something that convinced me to keep going: a dog. There was a freakin’ golden retriever down there! How was that possible?! If that dog could do it, then so could I! (Granted, the dog probably had better footing than I did. But still, it gave me hope.

I also saw footprints, which told me I wasn’t the only idiot to try this, as well as a dirty blanket and pillow tucked into a little cavern. This was somebody’s home.

I pushed on. I grabbed on to a rock with my right hand, stepped down to the lower rock with my right foot in the lead, and immediately turned on my heel, grabbing on to the rock with both hands now.

From here, the path looked easier.

Within five minutes, I made it to the pool. I waved hello to the group of four girls who were down there, and was shocked and disappointed by their lack of response. Shit, I had just risked my life to get down there, and they didn’t give a shit!

Then I saw the couple I'd taken a picture of back at the top of the hike. How the hell did they beat me here?!

That’s when I turned around and saw this.

There was a fucking path! THERE WAS A FUCKING PATH! A FUCKNIG PATH! It zigzagged its way along the rock cliff. That was the biggest face palm moment of my life.

Then I turned to the left and saw this. This is what I had just climbed. In flip flops. I burst out laughing harder than I ever had in my life. I was hysterical.

Not a path.

I turned around again to look back at the couple in the pool, and the guy said, “I thought I saw some crazy guy making his way down! Damn, Cliffhanger!”

I am both the dumbest and the luckiest person in the world.

I jumped into the water in my regular shorts and found myself once again swimming with the fishes. Let me tell you, after everything I’d just put myself through, that was, hands down, the most refreshing water Id ever swam in. I don’t know how else to describe it other than refreshing.

Totally worth it.

After regaining my sanity, I started to make my way up the cliff. The proper path proved to be a bit of a challenge as well, though, because my wet feet made the flip flops extremely slippery. I took my sweet ass time.

On my way up, I had another face palm moment.

There were arrows.

The entire time, there were arrows. I had started on the right path, but I’d taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

I got back to the hostel, cleaned myself up, and headed right back out. There was one last thing I needed to do before I bid Hawaii godbye.

Tankia had told me that if there was one Hawaiian delicacy I needed to try, it was a malasada from the famous Leonard’s Bakery. I walked to the nearest bakery and picked up half a dozen original and half a dozen cinnamon malasadas. For those reading this from the comforts of Toronto, imagine Tiny Tom’s donuts from the Ex, but ten times bigger. They tasted exactly like Tiny Tom’s donuts. Fried dough caked in sugar or cinnamon…how could you go wrong?

I grabbed my box of malasadas and headed back to the hostel to share them with the staff as a thank you gift for all of their help.

I arrived at the airport well in advance of my flight, but grateful to be leaving Paradise alive.