Go west, old man!

I have seen California at last. My first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean was on Friday, October 27, 2006, in Santa Monica.

The first five days of my trip were spent in L.A. From the very first, as the plane flew over the city to land, I wondered why anyone would want to live there. My opinion changed little throughout my stay. I stayed in Hollywood (not my choice), and saw some the L.A.’s worst neighborhoods. More on that later.

On Saturday, October 28th, I took the Coastal Starlight train from Los Angeles to San Francisco/Oakland. It should have been called the Coastal Daylight, at least until sunset, as it departed at 10:15 a.m. But I suppose there was plenty of starlight for those going on to Oregon and Washington.

What a magnificent ride! A couple hours along the coast with a fabulous view of the ocean — beaches, cliffs, dolphins, seals, surfers. On the other side, brown corrugated mountains, not dissimilar to many I’ve seen in New Mexico, although the vegetation was different. (Not dissimilar to those I’m flying over now, east of Lake Tahoe, although these appear from 39,000 feet to be completely devoid of vegetation.)

Shortly into the ride I discovered the observation car, with glass all around and outward-facing seats. What a wonderful way to travel! A few hours into the trip, somewhere around San Luis Obispo, the route turned slightly inward and became a mix of those mountains and farmland in the valleys. We passed fields of cauliflower, broccoli, onions, strawberries (that went on a ways, but not forever) tomatoes, lettuce, lemon trees, grapes, a bunch of green things I couldn’t identify, and one field of flowers. Interestingly and not surprisingly, in most places the green and cultivated fields were surrounded by browness, a sure sign that nature did not intend this place to be America’s produce market. There was a field or two of organic tomatoes, distinguished by the abundance of weeds.

Most of the fields and mountains were, in fact, brown. The National Park Service guide (a retired gentleman, volunteer; the first third or so of the journey included interesting narration of the sights) explained that after the rains (Jan/Feb) everything turned green, but it didn’t sound like it lasted long.

Training was so much more pleasant than planing. You could move around and there was lots of room (it was not full). People talked to each other; there was even a fight, a young couple, punky/ghetto, drinking; she ripped his shirt off. They were greeted by police in San Luis Obispo. At one point, my ticket stub fell out of my pocket, which was somewhat disconcerting. I didn’t need it, but wanted it as a souvenir. I retraced my steps — back to the coach, down to the bathroom, back to the observation car, down to the lounge, back to the observation car to a different seat. I chatted it up a little bit with the remaining ghetto drinkers (one an aspiring filmmaker, the other a musician), and about a half hour later some guy came up and handed me a folio and asked if it was my ticket stub. Sure enough, it was.

Lunch and dinner in the dining car, seated with strangers. An entertainment lawyer from L.A., a mental health worker from Oregon, a retired (at 20-something, injured but fine) Army photographer from San Diego going to Oregon to photograph her brother’s wedding. The food was not bad, not great, kind of expensive.

I had brought books, work, the computer, lots of diversions (plus planned sleep) to pass the time on an 11-hour train ride. Once we left the station in LA, they all sat ignored for 11 hours. It was that good.

San Francisco was, of course, fantastic. I was staying below Oakland (the train came into Oakland, and I needed to be near the airport for this morning’s 7:15 flight). I took a cab to the BART and the BART to the city, getting off in the Mission District sometime before 10 a.m. Visited Mission Dolores (oldest building in SF, dedicated to Saint Francis of Assisi), then wandered down to one of the alleys to see and photograph the murals. I didn’t go as far as the one with the real Hispanic political murals; it was another 8 blocks or so, and I was trying to pace myself. Then back onto the BART to head downtown, on the trolley car (not the cable car, I learned the difference eventually) to the waterfront, past most of the tourist traps. I did go out on the pier by the Cannery to get a view of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, etc. It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy day. I half thought about hiking up that incredibly steep hill to see Lombard Street; one-quarter thought about it, actually, before I turned around and headed back down to scope out a cable car.

So this was a tourist trap, catching the cable car at the turnaround. It took at least a half an hour or more to get a much more expensive ticket and wait in line for the car. The whole time serenaded by the world’s worst street musician, a grizzly pony-tailed old guy playing electric guitar, approximating (vaguely) some of the great rock hits of the sixties and seventies. Reminded me of the time I almost learned a song on the guitar.

The cable car, although packed, was a good idea. Up way steep, down way steep, up way steep, etc. I got off in Chinatown, wandered around, randomly picked a place and ate some very bad Chinese food. The marketplaces of the streets were teeming, fascinating, and stinky. As I was working my way out of Chinatown, I thought they were having a parade for me, but it turned out to be a marching band leading a funeral. Nice way to go!

So, then North Beach to the City Lights bookstore (pilgrimage), haunt of the beats. Then, climbed up the incredibly steep hill to Coit Tower, with magnificent views of the whole Bay area — bridges left and right, mountains, the city, wow! I was just a bit too late; the sun was still lighting the Oakland/Sausalito side, but not the rest. Twenty minutes earlier would have been perfect.

Back down the incredibly steep hill to have cappuccino at Caffe Trieste (see separate post), then up to Saints Peter and Paul church (beautiful) for prayers, then wandering around narrating the sites to my love over the cell phone. Waiting in the Steps of Rome for Farideh and Joseph, who picked me up and gave me an after-dark (but not nightlife) tour. Up to the “twin peaks” to see the lighted city laid out below, down through the Presidio to the Golden Gate (the park beneath) which was just magically lit. Around through town, here and there, down the switchbacks of Lombard Street, to end up, surprise! at the North Beach Pizzaria. Faradeh and Joseph were delightful, entertaining, and absolutely gracious. I’d never met them before, and I would not normally do that sort of “arranged” thing, but I was glad I did. (See, I can still try new things and learn!)

Enough of this for now. I need to sleep; only got four hours last night. No mood to write about homelessness now, but I will later. Now, it won’t be long until I am in welcoming and long-awaited arms.

It was a great trip. Especially the last part. And coming home.

P.S. You packed me so well, but you forgot the hand sanitizer!

30 October 2006