Oh, you visitors to the Bay area who say, “Take me to Napa Valley, let me drink wine.” I indulge them of course, I’m a good host, but eventually, I take them down miles of winding roads that may get them carsick, climb over the hillocks amongst the staked out vineyards and pause there, point to a random small house on the far horizon, then I quote Norman MacLean’s epic conclusion to a River Runs Through It.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”
Having said such a thing, some smart ass will always point out that there’s no water in sight, but that’s not the point, is it? My point is that as far as scientists can tell, all brontosauruses are thin at one end, much, much thicker in the middle, and then thin again at the far end. Q.E.D.
Prepping to be off to Africa in the coming day, and then a truly grand trip begins.
Ah, The bus terminal. The old American tradition of the 1950’s – 1970’s until it began it’s long slow decline to a reputation as a refuge for society’s marginalized, its homeless, its drifters and beggers and miscreants alike. Transit is always fun for people watching, but taking a Greyhound bus cross country takes it to a new level. A Scottish musician trying to make it big “I’m going to LA!”. A rotund elderly lady who forces the bus to stop in the Arizona desert because she doesn’t want to throw up around the other passengers (she sprinted to the back of the bus, and we all watched her heave). The dreamy throwback hippy millenial with her tie die and long straight hair all scarfed up. A wisecracking Asian bus driver, telling jokes that only a few of us understand, but we laugh because he’s laughing so hard at himself.
In any case, you’re looking at something temporary in this picture; By late 2016, San Francisco’s ultra modern Transbay Terminal (e.g. our first true Grand Central Station) will have opened, and the terminal before you will become a park with skyscraping views of shiny glass towers, with folks on lunch break nibbling their organic wheatberry salads as they sit awkwardly in the grass. Go West and gentrify, by gum, and don’t forget to bring your Pez dispenser!
The last major quake in the San. Francisco Bay Area was the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989; it was perhaps the first quake of the modern age to be witnessed live, during the opening of Game 3 in the World Series between the Giants and their cross Bay brethren, the Oakland A’s. Millions watched as the screen went static, and the baseball players started looking around in quasi panic as the announcers talked about the shuddering rolling ground beneath. In the days that followed, we watched the iconic images of collapsed freeways, including the silver lining of the quake; the broken Embarcadero freeway, an eyesore double decker that ran the outer perimeter of the city and blocked many of its fantastic waterside landmarks like the Ferry Building.
The quake forced demolition of the freeway, and by 1991, the waterfront was reborn as the Embarcadero you see here, which is a source of much joy to locals and turistas alike as they ramble up and down its magnificent three plus miles.
Night walks on the Embarcadero promenade are a lovely menagerie of light and color, old brick buildings with ornate stonework and modern glass wonders. Or the Bay Bridge, who’s current LED light show undulate in non repeating patterns; the operating cost of the whole bridge display is only $15 USD per night!
These October nights are the tail end of San Francisco summer, the wind a mere gentle breeze, the temperature a mild 65F(18C), and I love the sound of the lapping Bay waters as they echo the city lights and the bridge in their reflections.