And for our San Francisco Finale, a Parade

By Sunday morning, June 29th, we knew that Brian was headed to Australia that night, and that I was flying home solo. Brian had one more conference call at 6 AM, then we read the Sunday papers and drank a lot of the hotel’s free coffee. Fully caffeinated, we poked around for a place to eat breakfast. The hotel’s restaurant didn’t do it for us, the line at Dottie’s was too long, as were all the lines at all the restaurants. We were still a little full from Saturday night’s return visit to Zuni, so we skipped breakfast and headed to Market Street. (Then went to a terribly posh and semi-extravagant dinner at Asia de Cuba that night.)

It was, of course, time for 2008 San Francisco’s Pride Parade. (official title: the 2008 San Francisco Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Pride Celebration Parade) The title alone should give you an idea of the size, scope, length, and the multitudes and politics involved, (e.g. from my count there were 17 grand marshals). The parade has been an annual event since 1970, the year after Stonewall, and it probably runs about as smoothly as it did then. But it is a lot of fun.There were reportedly over 200 contingents in the parade. If you’ve never been to a Pride parade, it always begins with Dykes on Bykes. Now I’ve seen these grrls in New York, and we had a posse in Seattle, but this group blew them all away and could have been a parade all by themselves. This year, thanks to the California Supreme Court ruling, there were a few bykers dressed in full bridal drag. The noise is fantastic, the bykes are amazing and the ladies do their very best to make everyone revved up for the parade. It worked on us.

After the motorcycles there was the first of a few too many long pauses. I wouldn’t want the job of organizing all of the organizations involved in the contingency, but I wish that someone would do it just a little better. The parade started in dribs and then drabs and I couldn’t help feeling like I was being teased. Finally another group appeared, then a pause, then another group, another longer lull and then, finally everyone started to arrive en masse not just en mess.

But every group that did arrive got cheers and applause from the mixed crowds massed on the curb. There were cheer squads and marching bands. There were community groups and community leaders. There were even corporate floats from Google and Levi’s and Kaiser Permanente and even Macy’s. We saw the team of attorneys who took the cases to court that led to the Supreme Court decision that allows same sex couples to legally wed in California, when the last time YOU heard applause for a group of lawyers?

There was a lot of happiness and there were the contingents that we cheered, even though they made us a little weepy. The kids proudly marching with their two moms or two dads were always worthy of damp eyed encouragement, as were elder members of the community, some in chairs, some on buses, some slowly walking the long route on elder legs. All the broadly smiling couples carrying signs reading “just engaged”, “just married”, or “finally legal after 30 years”, got their share of whoops, roars and acclamation. But the group that always gets to me, even when that group is small and brave is PFLAG, the parents, family and friends group. These people always make me choke up and yell the loudest. And this group was the biggest, proudest loudest happiest group of friends I’d ever seen since they started marching in 1972.

PFLAG on parade. The organization is currently involved in the Straight for Equality,
a national outreach and education project
You gotta love ‘em

Not to say the parade is all politics, causes, and emotional outbursts. Far from it. This group is known for their wicked sense of humor and general audaciousness, right? Well we had plenty of that. Starting out with the mistress of impudent charm and sassy class, the imp with the heart of gold, Cyndi Lauper, one of his year’s Celebrity Grand Marshals, (along with Margaret Cho and Charo!)

Ms. Lauper rode in a vintage red Cadillac convertible and sported a black bustier modestly covered in a white leather suit. She sported a sequined Vegas-ian headpiece and a beaming smile, which only dimmed a little while being interviewed by the bothersome reporter who kept blocking our view.

Fun Facts: Although a known member of the other team, Ms. Lauper fully supports the community, including her gay sister, for who she wrote “True Colors”.

We also had dancers, and singers and rappers and gay and lesbian American Stratfordshire Terriers, (just don’t call them Pit Bulls!). And, thankfully, there were the cheerfully over the top groups like the Barbie Bridal Support Group and the Radical Faeries, who would always always win the best dressed contest, if only there were one.

For the little boy in me who learned to be ashamed of himself at a very young age, thanks to the lessons I quietly learned from my church, my television, my peers and even from my unknowing family, it was a good day. For the adult who is still a little too afraid to hold hands with Brian on the streets of Michigan or even consider doing what just a few too many hetero couples do in public, let alone on my television screen, I was very happy to be able to be part of the parade, even if I was just cheering from the sidewalk.

And isn’t that what Pride is all about.

- - - David

This bring our Tales of San Francisco to it’s inevitable and long awaited conclusion.
If you haven’t had enough, and I doubt that you haven’t, feel free to peruse our photo album
San Francisco 2008,
by clicking here of on the top of any page on our iWeb site.

Part Three: Our Saturday in San Francisco

Brian on BART, not heeding the warnings of Petula Clark
"Don't sleep on the subway, Darling!"

The walk to the station was easy, the ticketing machines were a little more of a challenge. Luckily Brian had experience with the things and rather than figuring out the fare, just pulled out a twenty and bought me a ticket. “The train will know, and we’ll keep the change.” How magnanimous.

It’s an easy ride under the water of the Bay, through Oakland and Berkeley and onto El Cerito Plaza, where our host, Rebecca and her lovely driver/friend greet us as soon as we get off the train. A five block drive to The Rockway Institute, where Rebecca resides with her housemate, “the Fabulous Laurie Weed, on a lovely tree lined street.

“There’s a drought” Rebecca warns, before I notice her front lawn was a looking a tad thirsty. Yet her neighbor’s lawn was as emerald green as the Centre Court at Wimbledon. I later learned from a fellow guest that the industrious neighbor had laid down synthetic turf, going the extra step of designing a little lift up patch for the water line access. No need to worry about mowing or watering! Rebecca, take note.

In the back of the house, past the steroidal jade trees, waited a verdant garden, a terraced hill side laden with bounty, anchored by an enormous tree. California at it’s finest, and it smelled incredible, too, or was that the food table?

I would like to say that my failure to get any decent photos of the gardens at the institute were totally intentional. I admit it is a blatant attempt on my part to get invited back as soon as possible to remedy the situation. Hopefully it will work. Faithful blog readers will be rewarded, as will the photographer.

We met some wonderful people at the Garden Party. I was expecting to meet Laurie, Rebeca’s housemate, but what I wasn’t expecting was that Laurie was the one, the only, Fabulous Laurie Weed.

I never made the connection. I know of Laurie Weed through Rebecca’s blog as well as Ruby Montana’s, Laurie is the consumate traveller, writer and, why yes, a web blogger too. Her writing puts mine to shame, of course, so should you decide to jump ship and head over to this award winning woman’s, I won’t blame you. I may not forgive you, but I won’t blame you.

The crowd was fun, smart, cute, and yes, well fed. Being foreign visitors, we weren’t expected to bring any home made wonders, so we were off the hook with a handful of sunflowers and a bottle of wine. Life is good in this land.

We had plenty of food, birthday cake, and just a little wine, beer and something called Pirate Port, and lasted well past dark, which I believe is pretty late for a garden party. The locals accused the weather of being nippy and lit a bon fire. Brian and I, acclimated to our wintry clime, reclined in our resort wear.

A fine time was had, and it was written about too. By one of the hosts. I attach here for your pleasure a link to the work of the great word smithee, Rebecca Chekouras, from her blog.

To view the original blog, in context, click here.

you won't regret it.

- - - David

Part Two: Last Saturday in San Francisco

Crab at Hog Island Oyster Company

A week ago, after an amazing tour of the Frida Kahlo Exhibit at SFMoMA, a stop for Melatonin at GNC for Brian’s trip to Australia, a shopping quickie at Virgin Records for a hat I saw the day before, and a brief respite at the hotel for Brian’s business commitments, we hopped on an antique street car on Market for a slow scenic ride to the Embarcadero and on the Bay. The Ferry Building, on the East Bay at the head of Market. It opened in 1898 and was the transportation hub of city. Trains from the East, and ferries from all the East Bay and Marin all came to this terminal.

“From the Gold Rush until the 1930s, arrival by ferryboat became the only way travelers and commuters—except those coming from the Peninsula—could reach the city .. The opening of the Bay Bridge in 1936, and the Golden Gate Bridge in 1937, along with mass use of the automobile, rendered the daily commute by ferryboat obsolete.” ferrybuildingmarketplace.com

The building has now been renovated as a mixed-use property with a public food market. A large farmers market takes over the areas around the market on Saturdays, (There’s a smaller group of vendors on Tuesdays on the Embarcadero sidewalk).

The arcade inside the building houses The Ferry Building Marketplace, with shops, restaurants, cafes that are opened all week and that’s where we headed.

First Stop, Hog Island Oyster Company, for lunch. We got in line and miraculously were the only two person party and were seated at the counter immediately, (left, top) even the smiling counter woman was surprised.

Two cold local beers and a dozen iced oysters (left, center) started us off, but you would have expected that, with buttered bread, of course. (We think the butter was Plugrá, or as good as Plugrá).

I went for the Traditional Oyster Stew, (left, bottom) creamy broth, plump oysters and fresh herbs, two slivers of grilled bread garnishing the bowl. It was wonderful, right up there with the Oyster Pan Roast at the Oyster Bar in NYC’s Grand Central Station. For me, there is no higher honor I can offer.

Brian, went for the famous Clam Chowder. Brian is very faithful to his chowder, he gets it every time he comes. I think this was his fifth bowl. I had a taste, and I later agreed with our friend Rebecca, it IS the best clam chowder in the entire world. (Sorry no photo, I was too blissed out to focus, but you can see it in the photo album, San Francisco 2008)

After lunch, we stepped out to the waterfront, just outside. The Farmer’s market was closing down, which was a good thing because I can get frustrated not being able to buy arm-fulls of fresh produce that are not allowed on the plane due to their possible terrorist tendencies. But there was plenty of temptation inside the building.

Flowers were gathered for our rendevous with Rebecca, as was wine. We couldn’t resist tasting our selection at the Ferry Plaza Wine Merchant’s bar, and coming to the conclusion that all wine vendors should offer this option. Wouldn’t the world be a better place?

We stopped at all the vendors, at least once. I was stopped in my tracks at Far West Fungi, which had a field of organically grown, cultivated exotic and specialty mushrooms. Be still my fungi loving Polish heart.

I admit, I got a little emotional walking through this building. At one point my eyes actually misted over and like a two year old I whined to Brian, “I can’t go back to Adrian, I need these things in my life.

Yep, right there, my heart fell out of my body and now resides again in San Francisco.

- - - David.


Stay tuned for Part 3 of the Saturday trilogy,
where our travelers cross under the waters
and go where they’ve never gone before . . . El Cerrito

A Saturday in San Francisco, Part One

At SFMoMA
Jasper Johns, American, born 1930
"Flag" 1958 Encaustic on canvas

Last Saturday, Brian had the day off from work, kinda sorta, so I had a big day planned. No rest for the weary, that’s my traveling motto. After all, I can get plenty of down time in Adrian.

We started with breakfast at Dottie’s True Blue Cafe. This teeny little place is only open for breakfast and lunch. There is always a line to get in, even before the doors open. But in was just a block from our hotel, and we wanted to relive our youth, Brian and I had gone there before we were “married”. Once we got in line, the guy in front of us asked us if it was worth it. “It’s good”, was all I would say, Later, he looked pretty happy.

The menu is straight forward diner food, but the ingredients take it up a notch or three. We got happy too.

Now that I had fed my victim, it was a walk to the Museum of Modern Art, where we had 10:00 tickets to the Frida Kahlo exhibition.

Though Frida may have gained her greatest fame of late by being portrayed so well by Salma Hayek, the real woman was just as fascinating. Her paintings are often symbolically autobiographical with an air of the surreal in a disturbingly graphic way. She was in fact embraced by the group, first by André Breton. "I never knew I was a Surrealist," Frida said, ". . . till Andre Breton came to Mexico and told me I was". But she later clarified that by saying, “They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.”

Her work relates and contrasts with her husband Diego Rivera’s. Both have strong Mexican roots, but, unlike his, some of her works are very small, and painted on metal, in the tradition of traditional Mexican Ex-Voto paintings, which she and Rivera collected. (Like me!). Frida had a tumultuous life, and her art reflects that. Her spirit was unbreakable, unlike her body, and her paintings are filled with that energy. The show was inspiring, eye-opening, and very moving. Even Brian liked it!

Photography was NOT allowed, so you are spared a blogging art tour. But I want to add that the recorded tour, which cost a whopping $3.00, was great. For that money you carry a little MP3 type player that has information on a selection of the paintings, and biographical, cultural and historical info too.

If you want more Frida Facts, click here.

Much of the rest of the museum was closed for installations, but we did get to see some of the permanent collection, which was also highlighted on the recorded tour. Brian even had enough energy to visit the phenomenal MuseumStore and buy us a new Wegman video. He was still smiling when I mentioned we should head to the Ferry Building for lunch, or was that why he was smiling?

Stay tuned for more Saturday adventures, where we tour the Ferry Building, take a ride on BART, and visit the infamous Rockway Institure.

History of Art 101
pop quiz:

Identify these three paintings (right) from the SFMoMA collection

by artist, title, date and location.

How do they illustrate the artist’s experience and the era in which they were painted?

Please do not cheat by viewing the album that I added to our iWebsite yesterday, which contains over 250 photographs of our trip: San Francisco 2008.

You should only look at the album AFTER you have completed and handed in your quiz.

- - - David

San Francisco Dreaming

There’s a park across from SFMoMA (the museum of modern art), Yerba Buena Gardens.

There are flowers and grassy places to sit and there are also buildings, and a lot of concrete and usually a lot of people. It’s noisy and bustling, the way it was designed to be.

I found it once, a long time ago, looking for a shortcut to my hotel. Walking through, I noticed this waterfall and a walkway leading underneath. It was hot, and I was hot so I took a detour, just to cool down.

At the first turn I saw a bust of Martin Luther King Jr. Then turning on the walkway I was behind the waterfall. On the back wall are glass panels etched with photo images and quotes from King. By the time I had walked the 20 feet, I had completely forgotten about the waterfall. I was taken somewhere else, into a dream.

There are twelve panels each with a quote and a photo. Some of the quotes are famous, some were new to me. The panels are glass and were impossible for me to photograph. I can’t help think that this was intentional. I was meant to read them, not to see them through the lens. I was meant to just be there. Each one took me further into the power of King’s words. In the dim light with the sound sight smell and feel of the waterfall in the background, I felt inspiration, sadness, anger, and mostly hope.

I have searched, fruitlessly, to find a collection of all the quotes online. I was able to find one inserted into a persons own story of a visit to the memorial. I wish I had the proper attribution for this quote. Maybe Vegas could help.

“We must rapidly begin to shift from a thing-oriented society to a person-oriented society.
When machines and computers, profit motives and property rights
are considered more important than people,
the giant triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism are incapable of being conquered."

I paused at each quote then deep in thought I turned to leave the memorial. Then, around the corner, I came upon this quote carved into the wall.

"No, No, we are not satisfied and we will not be satisfied
until justice rolls down like water and righteousness
like a mighty stream"

The first time I read it, years ago it made me cry. I always visit this memorial every time I am in San Francisco. And every time I turn that corner, I cry.

I am also transformed, if only for awhile, into someone who feels that the world can and will change. Everyone will be treated equally, everyone will be given the same rights, and no one will know blind prejudicial hatred.

Sometimes, I get a grasp on the dream.

- - - David

Dinner on Market Street . . . or He of little faith

There’s a lot of great food in San Francisco, and we did our best to eat a lot of it.

So where was I, oh yeah it was last Thursday, our first day in San Francisco. I went to Golden Gate Park, the Japanese Tea Garden, the de Young, the Flower Conservatory, Nob Hill, Grace Cathedral for the Keith Haring chapel, the Masonic Temple to see the 1957 Emile Norman glassy mosaic windows, Chinatown and then Brian and I went for Dinner at . . . you guessed it . . . Zuni Cafe.

Zuni Cafe is a two story jigsaw puzzled layout restaurant on Market between the Civic Center and the Castro, sort of in the Fillmore. It’s been there for 20 years and is one of my favorite places on earth to eat. Headed by Judy Rogers, the kitchen doles out fresh food without airs and the copper topped 30 foot bar serves up great wine and excellent cocktails.

We walked into the door, the light was streaming in the windows and gleaming off the copper bar, which is where we headed to wait for our table. (we were early, the table wasn’t late).

“Oh my god!” I gasped like a little girl who’s just spotted Hannah Montana, then grabbing Brian’s arm and trying to whisper, “It’s Alice Waters!” Yes. The foodie goddess was sitting next to the guy playing the baby grand piano. “That’s not her,” Brian said, “she’s too young”.

(Did you hear that Ms. Waters?)

Chef Judy Rogers worked under Ms. Waters at Chez Panisse in Berkeley and brings Water’s Slow Food approach to Zuni’s menu. Ms. Water’s worked on a charity show house kitchen for us while I was at Met Home and I not only helped get her everything she wanted, but I had the honor of meeting her.

But Brian doesn’t believe me, even when I assure him, pointing out that Alice does go out to eat, this is her stomping grounds and that she is known to often be in the company of good looking young men, as was the lady by the piano. Even when he witnessed said woman continually approached by adoring fans, would he believe? no.

We were led upstairs, to a great table by the window. We ordered wine, (turned out Brian is so into rosé* wine these days) We got the menu and toasted our get away and our dinner. Then a dozen oysters on the way, Brian excused himself. He was only gone for a minute or two.

“I was right,” he said as he got back to the table, “It IS Alice Waters, the waiter said she comes here at least once a week.”

If we hadn’t taken Donna’s suggestion and ordered the brick oven fire roasted chicken for two, served over warm Tuscan-style bread salad with frisée, currants and pine nuts, I would have thrown him out the expanse of windows overlooking Market Street. But we had, and I didn’t, and the wine was cool and delicious and there was a wonderful aroma in the air.

My blissfull mood saved his life.

And the chicken was delicious.

- - - David

I'm back, but he's not

Where in the world is our busy business traveler?

Brian got quite a few calls while we were in San Francisco, insisting he travel ASAP to a meeting in Australia. He tried to save the “vacation”, but business is business.

Luckily, Saint Alicia Reyes, of the Adrian Reyes', had our house key and scurried over and found his passport and over-nighted it to us. Bless her. After hours and hours on various websites, he was able to book a flight (don’t ask how much it cost) and left on Sunday for Sydney and Melbourne.

Can all you geography buffs find Melbourne on the map? Let’s hope Brian can!

And for extra credit, who can name the capitol of Australia? (no internet research allowed!)

I will be updating the blog in his absence with out version of Tales from the City, San Francisco as we saw it.

stay tuned

- - - David

Enlightenment PART TWO . . . immediately following Part One

Who knew? I didn't.
Paintings by the artist Dale Chihuly.

After I had a zen clarification of both my prejudices toward poodle trees (I now call them a form of bonsai) and my lack of knowledge of Japanese gardening in general, I headed down the path to the de Young.

The De Young is a newish museum in Golden Gate Park. The building is a metal trapezoidal group of wedges that house a variety of collections from contemporary to historical and anthropological art. What's not to love? But I was there to see a show of Ruby's pal and famed glass artist Dale Chihuly. This is where my journey begins.

Having lived in Seattle, which is this artist's stomping ground, I knew this artist's work. It was at our museum, and in a lot of other places. around town. The man is a household name. His art is recognizable by most and, well, I thought I knew it.

I knew nothing.

Walking down into the depths of the museum along a long long stone stairway lit by a sloping sliver of the glassed in Fern court, I was slowly submerged myself into dimness. The room at the bottom of the stairs that opens into the exhibit was very dark, almost black. I turned the corner and came upon the first installation.


The sculpture, a collection of glass drops, was self illuminated. They were created by standing on ladders an letting the molten glass trail down to and collect on the floor. Then neon was added. It was exhibited in the dark with blackened mirrors. This is art, now I see.

The next room was hung with big fluted disk of color, made in tribute of ancient Persian glass work, which the artist admits he had never seen. These looked more like the Chihuly I knew, more bowl-like, but the massing of them, the way they were hung in the room, and the artistry of the lighting were all breath-taking.

But it was the next room that really was the bell chime to awaken my conscience. First one wall is covered with Pendelton trade blankets. The other wall is covered with native american woven baskets. Then you notice that there are glass vessels interspersed with the woven pieces. A large collection of glass is displayed on a platform in the middle of the room. The patterns and colors of the Northwest coast native art is echoed in Chihuly's work. Writing on the wall explains how the artist was influenced by seeing a collection of baskets that came out of storage at a museum and were distorted by storage.


The fusion of form and color and textures was a clarifying moment for me. I started to see.

The rest of the show included a series of installations. Two old boats full of glass spheres which echoed old fishing floats. Vegetative forms clustered in gardens, Glass ceilings lighted from above that gave the feeling of being under the water of flower covered pond.



Learning that Chihuly was as much performance artist as glass artist was a moment of clarity that enabled me to better see what this artist does, and why he's so well respected.

Nothing like a museum that does what it's supposed to do. Inspire, teach, shock and awe. I thank my angel/mentor/spirit guide RZM for leading me there.

What I thought I knew, I didn't know at all. This old dog, learned a new trick.

- - - David

Western Enlightenment . . . PART ONE

I left the hotel at 8:30 yesterday morning and with no cable cars in sight was forced to take a bus, a Muni #5 that is, heading west to Golden Gate Park.

With Brian in meeting and out of the picture I was free to go museum touring. Brian will pout if I try and expose him to things like rooms full of Monets in Paris, so I've learned to separate this part of my life from his.

I was on my way to the de Young, The architecutrual wonder in the park that houses some of this city's art. The bus ride was fun and quick and I found myself standing in front of the gated de Young, a half an hour before it opened.

Fated, I headed to the Japanese Tea Garden, which is right "next door", and just happens to open 30 minutes before the museum.

If you've never been, go. It's a fine fine place that will quietly begin to teach you all you need to know about Japanese garden design. The paths lead you up, down, here, there, forcing you to slow down and see. It's a bit of manipulation, virtually a path to enlightenment, but it works.

So there I was, walking through a place I had been before, seen already, done that. I had time, so I walked the paths from all directions, multiple times. And I stopped viewing and started being there.

And it was then grasshopper, that enlightenment comes.

Many of the specimen plants I was sharing my time and admiration with suddenly stood out. They are artfully, meticulously pruned, coaxed into shapes meant to evoke memories and elicit distant landscapes. And the question mark appeared in my third eye. Could these be the same poodle shapes that suburbanite misuse? Are they related to those poor tortured plants that are forced to stand guard, lonely and isolated at the corners of uncountable ranch houses across america?

I see. The answer is no, and yes, and it depends, and just shut up oh high and mighty mister master. Give trees a chance.

Be quiet, do not judge. Be still, learn . . . enjoy.

Smile.

Enlightenment, however unexplainable, does that to me.

- - - David

West Coast update, get me the editorial desk

My view from the back of the van-cab on the way into San Francisco.
Brian has the phone to his ear, as usual.

The flight into San Francisco was on time and flawless, for me at least. Brian was a real sweetie and let me take the upgrade while he rode with the brown back toting massses in steerage. I sipped orange juice while he scrounged for pretzels. I owe him one . . . or was this one of the ones he owed me?

The cab ride in was fast and scenic. The hotel is small, clean, hip and non-smoking. The entire city is non-smoking, except the sidewalks. This smoking sidewalk effect is heightened by the fires to the north and south of the city. It smells smoky, the air is hazy, it's like camping.

And, oh say can you see? Through the dawn's early light? The flags are flying around the city, the rainbow flag, that is. Even here in hetero-friendly business-people land, Macy's huge white building is festooned with the campy prideful colors.

I took this photo on our 6 AM walk around the neighborhood. One of the joys of flying in from the Eastern Time Zone, we're up before 5.

Luckily one of the neighborhood's Starbuck's opens just then. So it was us, the panhandlers, the trash trucks and the other EDT's out on the smoky pavement this morning.

Brian is in meetings from 7:15 until late afternoon.
So I, primed with tips and with a nose for news, am going exploring. I already did a little shopping in a quick hour spurt last evening, while Brian was, believe it or not, making phone calls. So check that off the list.

Let's see if I can figure out how to jump on a cable car. Do I wait until they stop? Do they stop? Is it a moving target challenge?

My mom used to be able to do trolley jumping in Detroit, back in the day.
Maybe the skill is genetic.


- - - David