To the Coast and Back Again.
Nov. 29th, 2024 10:18 pmLeaving for San Francisco was delayed by two hours, thanks to the prioritization of human life and safety. The rain on both coasts made it unsafe to travel, and Arriving was only pushed back by an hour, thanks to the magic that's airplane travel. Landing was its own small adventure: the friction on the tarmac was decreased significantly due to all the rain, so the pilots had to hit the brakes something fierce. Pushed back all the way in my seat, clutching the armrests, I did what I could to enjoy the experience. And enjoy it I did.
I kept making wrong turns in San Francisco that turned out to be the better choice all along. There were things I didn't get to because I didn't have time, or didn't know about, or simply were off-limits due to structural integrity and infrastructure issues. But they're not going anywhere, and I know I can find my way back to them in due time. I didn't make it to either of the decommissioned missile silos I could've gone to, but one was off-limits and the other was something I might've passed up in any case to get to another mountain. There were a lot of mountains this time around.
The first one was Angel Island itself, where I'd thought I'd take a long walk around the island, see the old immigration stations and take in the poetry, but the usual route - the one by the old silo, one of the Cold War relics Rebecca Solnit described as a souvenir from the cancelled end of the world - was closed off due to several days of hard rain. So I tried to cut around the other way. In doing so, I made a wrong turn and ended up deciding to climb up the entire mountain, and got me a grand view of the entire San Fransisco Bay. The ride there had been its own small adventure: running through the rain to get to the right dock, running to get a ticket, running back to catch the first ferry. It turned out I didn't need to run, but in running I got some nice conversation with another tourist from greater London. She said she was from Windsor, which was where the Queen - well, not anymore, she said, it was where the Queen used to live, and of course I knew exactly who she meant. We chatted as the rain cleared and as the sun came out, lighting up the city and the water and the Bridge of the Golden Gate, and helping us spot the first harbor seal of the day. Once I was making my way up the mountain, I was struck with the sensation of being back where I came from. The shape of the leaves, the color of the grass. The particular curves of the tree branches as they try to reach towards the sunlight through the sharply cut canyons, the way the sunshine played through the eucalyptus grove. The eucalyptus wasn't native, but neither am I, and we're both from California in such ways we know how it should hang on our skin. Up on the mountain top, I saw some clouds roll in, and I'm not often up with the clouds. But that day, I was. I made my way back down, one step at a time, and just before I made it all the way, I stopped and gasped and knew not to run because there was a coyote standing on the path before me, telling me I'd made the right choice in every moment to get to see it. The island staff scare the coyotes off from the trash with cowbells. There's no dissuading the seals from hanging out on the docks, but they're more inclined to keep their distance anyway. Coyotes walk lightly along the ground. Seals are solid and inarguable, charming and noisy, and neither are to be trifled with.
There were so many animals not to be trifled with - not just the coyote and the seals, but all the birds that came along. There was an epic number of crows, and a truly staggering number of ravens. On the far side of Mount Sutro, there was a Northern Flicker. Deep in the Mount Sutro canyon, there was a hummingbird. Also deep in the canyon, it was cool enough that my breath fogged. I got there by hiking up a steep street, taking a sharp turn onto wooden stairs, and then heading up. Heading all the way up. There were blackberries to pick, and other vines to avoid, and a feeling of being somewhere completely unknown and totally safe. I had an encounter with another tourist from France and we managed to piece together a few directions, and when I was on the switchback above and she was on the switchback below, I called out, "Bon voyage!" She laughed and said I said it perfectly, so I called out, "Merci!" She laughed again, and I called out, "That's all I got!" But it was all I needed.
There was Mount Sutro that day. There was Sutro Tower on another mountain, where I took the long way around and didn't mind because I got a better view of the Tower itself in sunshine and got to see a part of San Francisco that was left to itself to be as wild as it wanted. There was only one of the two peaks of Twin Peaks, because the other was having some repairs done to the stairs, but from that one peak, I could see where I was staying that night, where I'd be staying the next night, where I'd be going as the point of the trip, and both Mount Diablo and the Farallon Islands. I bought a ten dollar cup of watermelon from a vendor and got my money's worth when I fed two ravens some of it. And then I had to figure out how to get down off the mountains. I managed eventually.
I didn't know Angel Island or any of the central mountains at all. I knew the Presido well enough that it wasn't unfamiliar. I knew its status as national park meant not a whole lot would be different, and enough would be the same I could handle the changes. Mostly, I saw what I'd seen before, like the Golden Gate Bridge and Chrissy Field and the cemetery and its hills and hills of solemn white headstones. I hadn't seen the Korean War memorial before - something small and contemplative, out of the way and easy to miss, bleakly appropriate. I hadn't seen either the Spire or the Wood Line pieces, either, and Andy Goldsworthy has his moments, and he's got his moments of great art, too. I swung by the "What's Up, Doc?" stairs when I was done, and to a coffee shop with one of the best salads I've ever eaten, and ended up making a pretty even square of San Francisco by bus when I was done with the day, over and up and over and down to where I'd started.
The next day, I walked out and touched the Pacific. I was on the beach when two crabbers got something in, and they didn't mind me walking over to stare in wonder at their quarter-inch-too-small-to-keep catch, especially when I followed an instinct I didn't know I had and reached up to hold the crab upside-down, which had one of them exclaim, "She has the touch!" I watched them let the crab go, and I walked over to a local Safeway, and wonder of wonders, I still had my Safeway club card tucked deep in my wallet. For exactly this sort of situation. I kept wandering around Golden Gate Park and up and down Balboa for a while, and had to head back to where I was staying to crash a bit, because that night was the reason I was there. The reason of reasons.
Top Gun: Maverick. In concert. Music to picture. The San Francisco Symphony, live, synchronized to the movie. I knew the movie perfectly, having seen it the night before, and several times already. But that meant I didn't have to keep my eyes on the screen: I could keep my eyes on the conductor and the musicians. It was seeing how the magic happens in such a way as to not take away any wonder, but to make it all the more fantastic to know everything that went into making it possible. I spotted four Maverick cosplayers, one Rooster, and one person with a handmade Top Gun art jacket, and I can't say how many more cosplays there were that I didn't spot. I started smiling before the conductor came out on stage, and I didn't stop for a long time after it was all over and the lights came back up. Not until I was trying to fall asleep for the morning flight back to New York. It was why I'd come. It was a sublime, transcendent experience, and I'd do it all over again if I could.
The next morning, I had about four minutes between the text message coming in that the arranged ride showed up and me running down the stairs without even getting my shoes on, which had me thankful I'd packed up everything the night before. I made it to the gate with time to spare, and public transit got me home in about two hours. It took me another two days to recover enough to write it all up, and now, I get to figure out how to head back to San Francisco someday, with or without a symphony to draw me there.
I kept making wrong turns in San Francisco that turned out to be the better choice all along. There were things I didn't get to because I didn't have time, or didn't know about, or simply were off-limits due to structural integrity and infrastructure issues. But they're not going anywhere, and I know I can find my way back to them in due time. I didn't make it to either of the decommissioned missile silos I could've gone to, but one was off-limits and the other was something I might've passed up in any case to get to another mountain. There were a lot of mountains this time around.
The first one was Angel Island itself, where I'd thought I'd take a long walk around the island, see the old immigration stations and take in the poetry, but the usual route - the one by the old silo, one of the Cold War relics Rebecca Solnit described as a souvenir from the cancelled end of the world - was closed off due to several days of hard rain. So I tried to cut around the other way. In doing so, I made a wrong turn and ended up deciding to climb up the entire mountain, and got me a grand view of the entire San Fransisco Bay. The ride there had been its own small adventure: running through the rain to get to the right dock, running to get a ticket, running back to catch the first ferry. It turned out I didn't need to run, but in running I got some nice conversation with another tourist from greater London. She said she was from Windsor, which was where the Queen - well, not anymore, she said, it was where the Queen used to live, and of course I knew exactly who she meant. We chatted as the rain cleared and as the sun came out, lighting up the city and the water and the Bridge of the Golden Gate, and helping us spot the first harbor seal of the day. Once I was making my way up the mountain, I was struck with the sensation of being back where I came from. The shape of the leaves, the color of the grass. The particular curves of the tree branches as they try to reach towards the sunlight through the sharply cut canyons, the way the sunshine played through the eucalyptus grove. The eucalyptus wasn't native, but neither am I, and we're both from California in such ways we know how it should hang on our skin. Up on the mountain top, I saw some clouds roll in, and I'm not often up with the clouds. But that day, I was. I made my way back down, one step at a time, and just before I made it all the way, I stopped and gasped and knew not to run because there was a coyote standing on the path before me, telling me I'd made the right choice in every moment to get to see it. The island staff scare the coyotes off from the trash with cowbells. There's no dissuading the seals from hanging out on the docks, but they're more inclined to keep their distance anyway. Coyotes walk lightly along the ground. Seals are solid and inarguable, charming and noisy, and neither are to be trifled with.
There were so many animals not to be trifled with - not just the coyote and the seals, but all the birds that came along. There was an epic number of crows, and a truly staggering number of ravens. On the far side of Mount Sutro, there was a Northern Flicker. Deep in the Mount Sutro canyon, there was a hummingbird. Also deep in the canyon, it was cool enough that my breath fogged. I got there by hiking up a steep street, taking a sharp turn onto wooden stairs, and then heading up. Heading all the way up. There were blackberries to pick, and other vines to avoid, and a feeling of being somewhere completely unknown and totally safe. I had an encounter with another tourist from France and we managed to piece together a few directions, and when I was on the switchback above and she was on the switchback below, I called out, "Bon voyage!" She laughed and said I said it perfectly, so I called out, "Merci!" She laughed again, and I called out, "That's all I got!" But it was all I needed.
There was Mount Sutro that day. There was Sutro Tower on another mountain, where I took the long way around and didn't mind because I got a better view of the Tower itself in sunshine and got to see a part of San Francisco that was left to itself to be as wild as it wanted. There was only one of the two peaks of Twin Peaks, because the other was having some repairs done to the stairs, but from that one peak, I could see where I was staying that night, where I'd be staying the next night, where I'd be going as the point of the trip, and both Mount Diablo and the Farallon Islands. I bought a ten dollar cup of watermelon from a vendor and got my money's worth when I fed two ravens some of it. And then I had to figure out how to get down off the mountains. I managed eventually.
I didn't know Angel Island or any of the central mountains at all. I knew the Presido well enough that it wasn't unfamiliar. I knew its status as national park meant not a whole lot would be different, and enough would be the same I could handle the changes. Mostly, I saw what I'd seen before, like the Golden Gate Bridge and Chrissy Field and the cemetery and its hills and hills of solemn white headstones. I hadn't seen the Korean War memorial before - something small and contemplative, out of the way and easy to miss, bleakly appropriate. I hadn't seen either the Spire or the Wood Line pieces, either, and Andy Goldsworthy has his moments, and he's got his moments of great art, too. I swung by the "What's Up, Doc?" stairs when I was done, and to a coffee shop with one of the best salads I've ever eaten, and ended up making a pretty even square of San Francisco by bus when I was done with the day, over and up and over and down to where I'd started.
The next day, I walked out and touched the Pacific. I was on the beach when two crabbers got something in, and they didn't mind me walking over to stare in wonder at their quarter-inch-too-small-to-keep catch, especially when I followed an instinct I didn't know I had and reached up to hold the crab upside-down, which had one of them exclaim, "She has the touch!" I watched them let the crab go, and I walked over to a local Safeway, and wonder of wonders, I still had my Safeway club card tucked deep in my wallet. For exactly this sort of situation. I kept wandering around Golden Gate Park and up and down Balboa for a while, and had to head back to where I was staying to crash a bit, because that night was the reason I was there. The reason of reasons.
Top Gun: Maverick. In concert. Music to picture. The San Francisco Symphony, live, synchronized to the movie. I knew the movie perfectly, having seen it the night before, and several times already. But that meant I didn't have to keep my eyes on the screen: I could keep my eyes on the conductor and the musicians. It was seeing how the magic happens in such a way as to not take away any wonder, but to make it all the more fantastic to know everything that went into making it possible. I spotted four Maverick cosplayers, one Rooster, and one person with a handmade Top Gun art jacket, and I can't say how many more cosplays there were that I didn't spot. I started smiling before the conductor came out on stage, and I didn't stop for a long time after it was all over and the lights came back up. Not until I was trying to fall asleep for the morning flight back to New York. It was why I'd come. It was a sublime, transcendent experience, and I'd do it all over again if I could.
The next morning, I had about four minutes between the text message coming in that the arranged ride showed up and me running down the stairs without even getting my shoes on, which had me thankful I'd packed up everything the night before. I made it to the gate with time to spare, and public transit got me home in about two hours. It took me another two days to recover enough to write it all up, and now, I get to figure out how to head back to San Francisco someday, with or without a symphony to draw me there.
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