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!