The city surrounded by a gorgeous blue and green bay and luminous visions of steel on either side was trapping us inside this weekend. The Bay Bridge, the bridge leading from the city to Oakland and a gateway to the East Bay towns, was closed.
That left us with no choice – we had to (whoa is me) stay in San Francisco for the three day weekend.
On the itinerary – Mary Poppins Sing-a-Long, excursions to local shops, and a ferry to hike Angel Island.
The Castro is the Best
I nearly cried.
The love, the joy, the community in that room – in a neighborhood many Americans held an irrational fear and mantra to destroy – was a home I had never seen. Where difference and humanity, and plain old silliness could exist. We were about to start singing aloud, many of us young and old, costumed, and it was life at its fullest and most optimistic.
For this afternoon, I was ready to sing.
They passed out a bag of gizmos for all the patrons, and we each took one. Bouncing around us were chimney sweeps and attempts to be Mary Poppins herself – in various heights. Then there was the much older gentleman that just settled in gladly behind us, nothing more on his agenda than to get on with the damn movie. The organ rose from below the stage and I joined the kids in ooh-ing it all. They paraded all those dressed up on stage and the chorus of ah’s followed, this time from the adults. Mary and Burt were our hosts to open our night of Chim, Chim, Cha-roo.
I could have bounced from my seat during most of this, but when the lights went down, I misted over. I suppose I get weepy at such moments because of the hope surrounding, hope that’s so real its hard to absorb, but that I never delve to far into.
Mustacho had too much fun with the poppers and glow sticks, many of the toys adorning his body throughout the film. It was a helluva lot longer than we remembered and included far more . . . political messages than our youthful memories articulated.
We had tacos on the mind but were distracted by the queerest bookmobile in the city (that’s a quote, folks). We scuttled in the real mist of San Francisco drizzle to 826 Valencia’s pirate shop and inspiring writing center, Dog Eared and other used book stores, and back home in the chill without a single taco consumed.
Buy Local
I was on the hunt for stationary, part of my new found protest of all things technological, expedient, or easy to read.
I popped in Shop One: not a card to be found.
Shop Two: Merely journals surround.
Ah, but shop three gave me simple, thin, Made in Italy paper and packaging to adorn my writerly ways. Just right.
Angel Island
Mind over matter, mind over matter, was what I kept telling myself in our hustle to the ferry.
My stomach had not often taken well to boats, but my mind didn’t give a damn.
Just a month or so before, I’d spent most of a great snorkeling boat trip in the snorkel boat bathroom. Between dives, that is. Free lunch? Gone. (But let’s be honest, it came with the fare.) Dignity while a line waited for me to get the hell outta there? Gone. Folks were so sweet but there suggestions rang in my ear and fell out of my stomach.
But I needed to get to a Point B and that Point B was surrounded by the Bay.
Angel Island was the Ellis Island of the West. A historical station to process immigrants through the myriad of health codes and paperwork on their way through, Angel Island is today primarily a dryland hiking trail with some occassional nice wooding. Last year, it caught on fire.
This year, we were finally venturing its way. The view from the top was supposed to be a 360 degree picture of the world we live in here.
My stomach held, and we hustled to get to hiking in order to make the ferry back. (After I got some snacks, of course.)
A climb up and an endless wind around, with stops for sandwiches or snacks, water or pauses to take in one handful of the land, the water, the sky. It was another warm day. Summer had just cracked in San Francisco. We were headed to its dry, arid point to be a lightning rod for the sun.
The top was crowded but indeed a panorama. The city was a long arm length away. The bridges were at our sprawled feet. Many a resting hiker relaxed at that peak. We took in the sun and snapshots from each angle. Then it was down, down, down. The ferry clock was a-tickin’.
So we skidded down brown cliff sides. Minimal scratching, but some running by children and families in a hustle to find the finish line. We assumed our positions in the cue after a few wrong turns and the sight of a docked boat about to board.
Skittles tried to calm my stomach those last water-filled miles, but it was having none of it. I tried imagination. When all else failed, I willed time to go faster and fixed my eyes on the waters I loved but that insisted on torturing my stomach so.
Super-Cali-Castro-luscious-Angel-Blue&Gold-all for ya.
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