On the California Coast

After leaving the sun drenched streets and congested sidewalks of L.A. we travelled along the Coast Highway to Santa Barbara, a refined beach town with girls on every corner: sirens, luring us in. We stopped at a taco place on Milpas St. called La Super-Rica. The line went outside the building and wrapped itself up the block but the place was highly regarded and it was a perfect Southern California day, a warm sun and nobody in a hurry. Behind the counter we could see into the kitchen, where each chef worked with machinelike efficiency. The tortilla lady rolled, flattened and warmed the tortillas in four or five swift movements while crammed in around her the other chefs chopped, diced and grilled their hunks of pork, chicken and steak. As the meat sizzled there was no downtime as they flew around the tiny room filling orders and keeping the patrons happy.

The food (a pork taco variation for me) was even more enjoyable than watching the cooks, and was the best taco Jackson and I could remember (besides Mom’s of course). After stopping for the night in the sleepy old town of Monterey, we were back on the way to our halfway point of the trip, the City of the west (as in not the City of the east, New York) San Francisco. Ned’s brother Will had been living in San Francisco for a few years, so we had a place to stay for a few nights

That evening, we went to a local Chinese place and took the food down to a beach under the Golden Gate Bridge with Will as our all-knowing guide. The sun dipped beyond the horizon while we struggled to keep the sand out of the communal food dishes, a completely useless exercise. For me, Chris, Leighton and Jackson, the ocean breeze, however chilly, was welcome after so long in the desert, and despite the whipping sand we wanted to stay as long as we could. That night, meeting up with Will’s roommates, we went to a nearby bar, the Kozy Kar where we played the craziest and simplest game I had ever seen, Slap Bag. The rules are such: take the bag out of a box of Franzia, slap it (as hard as you can) and take a drink. An easy game to pick up and a good way to become the entertainment for everyone else.

The next day we got a full taste of the City. Will and his roommates (Stephen, Travis and sometimes Torsten) have the whole San Francisco thing down pat and it was cool to be given a taste of it. How great it was to be back in a City, every street corner buzzing. We sprinted through the fog to catch a bus, hopped on and off when we needed and stuffed our faces in between. Mounds of Dim Sum here and trays of dumplings there. These guys are movers and whether or not there was a plan didn’t matter. After a hike through Chinatown, we made our way to the San Francisco Giants game, and stood in a free section nearly under the stadium, beyond the right field wall. Ned and I fit right in with a group of guys who would never miss an opportunity to catch a game, to stand behind the fence and throw scores and stats back and forth, or just simply watch and listen. The right fielder yells a comment to the guy patrolling center field who chuckles. The pitcher stares in towards the plate and the old veteran coaching third flashes signs down the line. A long homer down the line quiets the crowd but the game goes on. The guys discuss what the Giants need to do to fix their holes, and figure out which team has the best chance at making a run. It’s a sport with never ending debates and we tried to have all of them.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at a nearby Beer Garden (rescuing a couple of mistreated and underappreciated mugs in the process) and seeing the skyline from Alamo Park (which of course rose to fame after its appearance in the Full House opening credits). Arriving too late for Chris to start the Pho Challenge (more on that later), we trekked to a pizza place where we shared pies and pitchers of beer over a red-checked table cloth like a big, loud family dinner with countless conversations and everyone chipping in. The restaurant, Gaspari’s, slowed down as the night dragged on, while we picked at the remaining slices of pizza and made sure everyone had a full cup. It was a comfortable feeling, sitting there surrounded by friends, new and old, as stories and jokes were passed around with ease and by the time we were ready to leave only a few couples dotted the booths along the wall. We happily trudged through the late night fog, full and content. Scattered shouts came from blocks away and the screech of a cab’s breaks cut through the night, but the City seemed devoid of that lonely feeling that city streets so often hold late at night. As if we owned the place we made our way back home, tired from a day of hustling and ready for sleep.

The next morning we had to wake up early, having to make another trip to a mechanic. Somehow, in his haste (or ineptitude), old Roy back in Page had disconnected our tail lights. Having gone a week using the passenger’s hand signals for turns, we decided it was time to get it fixed. Our new guy (maybe Mark Ruffalo’s brother?) was a straight shooter so we felt good about this one and Jackson and I were led by our stomachs down to the Mission District to eat the renowned Mission Burrito, a serving too large and too wet to eat by hand. Jackson polished his burrito off with methodical grace, but as I struggled with the last third of mine, the stakes grew higher. Chris, some sort of eating expert, was convinced I would not be able to finish the meal and challenged me on it. I was satisfied with what I had already eaten, but out of pure spite, I stared him in his eye as I forced the burrito down. Chris, defeated, hung his head in shame (that’s how I remember it anyway). We crossed the Bay Bridge to pay homage (for Jackson) to Berkley that afternoon and returned to the City that evening for Chris to try his hand (and stomach) at the Pho Challenge, complete with two pounds of meat, two pounds of noodles, an ocean of broth and 18 eager eyes, ready to see some classic American gluttony. Prepared mentally, if not physically, Chris approached his bowl of noodles devoid of emotion, entirely focused on the task at hand. While the rest of us downed much smaller bowls, he worked steadily for an hour, starting with the meat first, a point of later controversy. As the timer entered single digits his breathing came slower and his breaks between bites longer. The noodles had sopped up the extra broth and try as he might, he could not swallow the large clumps he tried to force down as the bell rang. The hour proved too short a time and Chris left upset and determined to one day come back and demonstrate his ability.

We were up early the next morning to pack our car and thank our hosts. It was a true city experience, always moving, never bored and always incomplete. Though we had spent a whole extra day there it felt wrong in many ways to leave with so much unseen and unknown. As always though, there was another destination just up the road and many more after it. Every time we get comfortable somewhere it is time to split, so we stayed true and flew across the Golden Gate to the ancient Redwoods and the rugged Northern Coast. –A