Sausalito

I saw only a slice. Pleasant, tourist friendly, warm, and smooth as it was, lining the Bay with galleries and boutiques, it’s a town meant for some.

 

A cyclist in all the right gear running out of a Starbucks shouting “Don’t touch that!” as he scurried to pull his chained bike away from two blonde toddlers in a stroller still cries in my mind.

 

The mother attempted to apologize, but you could sense the indignation in her voice, “I’m sorry. They’re not trying to hurt it.” (A tiny palm barely grazed it.)

 

“It cost $15,000!” He shouted over her, the pain so evident in his voice, as he bent to lay it back just so on the meter where it was chained.

 

“Some people are psycho,” the grandmother said as she passed me.

 

Welcome to Sausalito. Let me back up a page.

 

The ferry has long been on my list. My first ever visit to the city, I was staying near the Wharf and was stuck after peeking in on a Giants game in their glorious new park (then Pac Bell, then Barry Bonds in a race for the home run record). A Blue & Gold was there and I’d asked for directions back north. They were closed down but docking there and knew it was a long late night haul for me, so they kindly offered me a free ride. Little did they know, free is my most favorite word. These were my very first minutes in the city and I was being taxied for free across the Bay, smitten with the lights beaming from the shore.

 

This time I checked the schedule and noted that it was leaving within the hour. I packed up the guitar and a notebook, and skipped the nine blocks to the Ferry Building, already       y the vagabond. I arrive to the landing with the frequent saxophonist welcoming wanderers of the pier that day to the cries of “Stardust.”

 

I took a seat front and center, then stood with a team of tourists to take in the glorious water and ride. I write this still a little sunburned, particularly on a rarely exposed patch in my vagabond gear. Izze’s Clementine drink clatters against the rail as I let the half finished bottle rest in my sweatshirt pocket. My stomach’s a bad history with boats but this time it is smooth and eager and hungry for more.

 

We passed many a sailboat and seal. The glorious Bay Bridge and large gray barges to match. The water was a warm green and the wind in our face and tearing apart hair styles as the ferry motored on made me feel excitement like a fourth grader. The grin couldn’t be smacked or wind blown off my face. There was something exciting we were riding toward – another land, another adventure. As the ferry shot closer to the Golden Gate Bridge, fogged over in a mysterious haze with blue peeking behind, I glanced back at the shrinking images and sounds of my city. I turned ahead to see pure sunshine, palms, a cloud atop the mountain as if this was a Paradise Island. It was no island. It was Sausalito.

 

I tracked off the boat, eager to be on the adventure. Lined up for a good quarter mile were bicycles branded by Blazing Saddles, a Columbus Avenue bike rental shop with the red bridge and city landscape branding lines of bikes all seeking to leave Sausalito.

 

A subdued brown sandalwood beach but nonetheless clearly upscale inn greeted us, with a few dress shops to its rear. I turned the other way towards a small bushed in park and large fountain and took my seat upon the fine crafted stone bench.

 

The fountain flowed to the beat of the chatter surrounding the pier, the village, the shops, the tourists. I faced a road of glittering vehicles and the occasional motorcycle, more often zipping cyclist or Blazing Saddle tip toe rider. More languages cross my path than I can list or remember.

 

There was a woman clearly crying to the back of me, sitting Indian style in a corner of the small grass patch behind the fountain. She wore designer black shades, jeans, black ballet shoes, and a stylish black and white jacket all of which were making her look like a mis-planted New Yorker. She is on a cell phone. Looking downtrodden, she bows her head into the phone, occasionally wiping away a tear from beneath those glasses. 

 

Turning back to the town, I found Sausalito warm and quaint in a modern wine country blended way. The streets rumble and a cackle rises from the impromptu fountain photo shoots and the turnstile of people that pass. Everyone, from every direction, seems to have ice cream.

 

I sit facing the Kokopelli Gallery, in honor of the Southwest hump-backed flute player, and reminding me in the glitter of the shop signs of part of Taos, Sonoma, and Williamsburg (Virginia) in its oft imported style of “fine” shopping. None of which spells adventure to me, but I wander from my seat nonetheless.

 

This is when I pass the not so easy rider, the anxious sprinter and hater of toddlers that I mentioned earlier that get a chorus of F*&@ Sausalito into my head to title this piece. He echoed a complex these blocks off the boat only hinted at. How could we be so close to my free flowing town yet back in stuffy boomer ville? I wanted to find something different and reserve glittering sign judgment on the boutique priced food, clothing, hats, and Benetton on the corner.

 

More Blazing Saddle belt buckled bikes passed by. Shiny cars and designer sunglasses floated between the tourists aiming for adventure like I. I’d seen all there was to see in the short block radius of activity that wasn’t residential or a concrete path for cars, and settled in to a wood bench facing back to my city. I was hungry, but saw nothing worth patroning and missed the ease of my beloved haunts across the water. I decided to forestall judgment and pretend I was welcomed here.

 

So I pulled out my guitar and walked over to two Novato guys playing the tabla and guitar. I sat and strummed and we made up songs (and we made $2!) to the joy of several passersby and the green cladded kid sitting next to me. We got request for La Bamba and a woman stood next to me to get her picture taken on this trip. My guitar was happy for the action and I soaked in the sun and the peripheral view of my town, calling me home.

 

I rode a much more crowded ferry back, apparently many were pooped out of Sausalito. The sad woman from the park accompanied us back, a calm over her now. Perhaps Sausalito was a good place to hide and cry.

 

We were able to see the nooks and crannies of Alcatraz on the green ride back. I found myself in a bit of “ship head” – a sensation of rocking and waves beneath you – that carried me up the hill slowly.

The Golden Gate Ferry had delivered. Sausalito sprinkled on a sun shiny escape. I happily curled back into the city.