The San Francisco Bucket List

After a dim sum lunch and a week of overindulging in Halloween candy, my primary goal this past weekend was to head outside and do something active. A friend and I decided to explore the Presidio, a park I’d seen little of—with the exception of Baker Beach—though it’s located just north of my apartment. We headed up 15th Avenue into the Presidio, originally a Spanish military fort built in 1776 and the Western U.S.’s center for defense during World War II, stopping at Immigrant Point Overlook to take in the beautiful view. The fog that engulfs the Richmond District had started to dissipate, right in time for our walk, revealing the beauty of Lands End trail and the Marin Headlands.

What next? The Bluffs trail, the Bay Area Ridge trail? We spotted a sign for the Golden Gate by way of the California Coastal Trail and decided the bridge would be our final destination.

We walked the mile to the bridge on the relatively easy path bordered by cypress trees and breathtaking ocean views, the Golden Gate in the distance. We arrived at the bridge in no time, two among a pack of cyclists and a crowd of tourists. Should we fulfill our duties as San Francisco resident-tourists and walk across it? A bucket list item I’ve never crossed off in my year and a half of living in the city.

We decided today would be the day, and we started across the bridge, finding it hard to talk over the ambient car noise, the wind making our strides difficult. The 4,200-foot-long structure took longer to walk across that we expected. I always spot it from afar at Baker Beach or Crissy Field or on the 28 bus on my way to the Marina, often forgetting its glory. And that its “international orange” color is really just a sealant—the US Navy had originally requested it be painted with yellow and black stripes so it could be easily seen by other ships, but architect Irving Morrow insisted on the reddish hue, claiming it complemented the surroundings and increased visibility in the fog.

Though I’m not sure I’d walk the bridge again, it was an experience to be had. The view was unlike any other: the Headlands, Sausalito, Mt. Diablo, Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower —I could see it all, and from a vantage point only possible from a boat cruising the bay.

On the way back from the bridge, after dodging more tourists in heels, photobombing numerous selfies, and fulfilling my quota for cliche bridge pics, we took the trail winding through the cliffs along the Presidio coast, home to numerous bunkers. The fog was completely gone, the sun was shining in the crisp autumn air, and as we walked by Immigrant Point Overlook once more, heading to my Inner Richmond flat, I was finally able to check another item off my San Francisco bucket list.

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A Life More Sweet Than Bitter

“What did you eat for breakfast today?” Jamie Ford asked, pointing to me in the audience.

I answered with an embarrassed smile. “Eggs.”

“And you?” Jamie asked the man next to me.

“An omelet.”

“What about you?” to the woman next to him.

“Oatmeal.”

“Well, I had melancholy sunny side up with a side of despair and a glass of my freshly squeezed tears,” Jamie said with a facetious grin. “Because I’m a writer.”

Litquake swept San Francisco last week. The annual, citywide literary event that showcases both emerging and established writers has grown since its start in 1999, now recognized as the largest independent literary festival on the West Coast. Litquake hosts readings, poetry slams, a literary trivia night, and a litcrawl (a literary bar crawl)—among other events—in San Francisco each year.

Jamie Ford, author of the New York Times Bestseller Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, spoke at the Glass Door Gallery in North Beach during Litquake. The gallery is appropriately located next to City Light Books, a bookworm’s paradise, and Vesuvio, a quaint beatnik bar made famous by Jack Kerouac.

About 30 fans filed into the main room of the studio, claiming seats and waiting for the literary celebrity to arrive at the podium and begin his witty and highly entertaining talk.

“There he is!” I squealed as I pointed him out to my friend.

Jamie Ford began by taking a picture of the audience with his iPhone. “Smile for Facebook!” he exclaimed as his camera clicked.

The day before, I tweeted about my excitement for the event—my book club chose Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet for this month’s book, and I was reading in preparation for Jamie’s talk. Jamie favorited my tweet—the first time a “celebrity” has done so—and Litquake retweeted it. Coincidentally, Jamie started out his talk with an anecdote about social media. He explained that a fan reached out to him on Facebook, asking about tips for getting published; Jamie provided him with a few websites and people to contact. I was impressed by Jamie, a literary celebrity who engages with his fans, using social media for what it’s intended to do—connect with others in an authentic, human way.

Jamie continued his talk with a discussion of his new book, Songs of Willow Frost, which debuted last month. “I get paid to break my own heart on a regular basis,” Jamie explained, opening the book and reading an excerpt called “Sacred Heart.”

His sophomore novel tells the tale of a young Chinese American orphan who is determined to reconnect with his mother, whom he believes to be a film star. The story, set in Seattle during the Great Depression, tackles two of Jamie’s favorite themes: love and complicated family stories. He explained that his only expectation for his second novel was to write a good book and embrace the sadness; he didn’t want the success of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet to make him write soft, pillow-y books.

Like Songs of Willow Frost, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet is set in Seattle and explores similar themes. This novel chronicles the life of Henry, a young Chinese boy, as he grows up during World War II. Henry befriends a Japanese American girl in the midst of the exodus to Japanese internment camps. Years later, Henry rediscovers the past in what Jamie describes as a story of “love, lost and found.” In addition to his common themes, Jamie uses familiar names, as they feel true to him. For example, his grandmother’s name is Ethel, and his mother’s maiden name is Beatty, two names used in Hotel.

Later, Jamie focused on his love for the city of Seattle. “I’m emotionally wed to Seattle,” he said. “The city moves you physically and emotionally.” Offering more context for this claim, Jamie explained that his heart was first broken in Seattle—in the fifth grade—and he’ll never forget it.

Jamie has since moved to Montana, but visits the Emerald City frequently, stating that the city is so far removed and so different from his previous life in Manhattan, making it fresh, a great backdrop for his novels. He explained, “I miss the Seattle that isn’t there, that we’ve paved over, that we’ve forgotten.”

Near the end of his talk, Jamie touched on craft and the writing process. He explained that writers have monastic habits, and it’s impressive how much he can accomplish if he unplugs the TV and the Internet. He found this useful for his two novels, for which he conducted six months of research and then spent three months writing the first drafts. His method goes something like this: he starts with a time period and a premise, and a beginning and an end, and then he researches to figure out the middle. Jamie also noted that writer’s block means he doesn’t feel completely comfortable with the ending, and that he must go back and revisit it, rewrite it, until it feels right. In addition, Jamie included this quote: “Write for the most intelligent, wittiest, wisest audience in the universe. Write to please yourself” – Harlan Ellison.

After his entertaining and informative talk, Jamie signed copies of his books, taking the time to talk to each fan and take pictures. I chatted with Jamie about growing up in Seattle and our shared love for San Francisco. Although I was a bit star-struck, it was a humbling experience to meet such a celebrated literary figure—and a fellow Seattleite—in a place that I now consider my home.

Hardly Bluegrass, Strictly Bliss

We arrived shortly after 11 on Saturday morning, halfway through LP’s set. The festival wasn’t too crowded yet, and my friends and I were able to find a spot to spread out our blanket as Laura Pergolizzi’s sweet voice filled the grassy knoll surrounding the Star Stage.

After the soul-touching “Tokyo Sunrise,” LP belted out the lyrics to her last song of the set, “Into the Wild,” and the crowd applauded her incredible performance with a standing ovation.

“Please, don’t get up. You were all so comfortable!” LP exclaimed.

Like thousands of eclectic music lovers, I took part in San Francisco’s famous Hardly Strictly Bluegrass this past weekend. With a record-breaking attendance, more than 750,000 fans celebrated the city’s 13th year hosting the free three-day music festival, where families and hippies, tourists and locals danced about the fields of Golden Gate Park. The first festival—then called ‘Strictly Bluegrass’—was held in 2001, created and subsidized by Warren Hellman, a San Francisco venture capitalist. Since then, the non-commercial, annual musical gathering has morphed into a medley of dozens of bands and artists that hardly count as bluegrass. A few noteworthy performers of the weekend: Bonnie Raitt, Conor Oberst, and Steve Martin.

After LP’s set, we folded our blanket and side-stepped a few picnics, heading to meet some friends at the Banjo Stage. On our way, we passed delectable-smelling food trucks and plenty of dogs and shoeless wanderers.

When we arrived at the next stage, we found our friends, the professional festival-goers. They had a large cooler filled with cold beverages, freshly cut peaches to pass around, and four blankets spread out to accommodate the comings and goings of the group.

Though LP was the only artist I had planned to see that day, we danced through the midday sun at the Banjo Stage, the sounds of Tim O’Brien and The Jerry Douglas Band swirling through the trees and around the colorful spectators spread out on the grass.

We made friends, we laughed, we thumb wrestled between sets, and we soaked up the sun—all with a seemingly personalized soundtrack scoring our afternoon at one of San Francisco’s most magical events.

The Mountains are Calling and I Must Go

It was a bit difficult to bask in the serenity of the giant redwoods as a human chain of thirty eight-year-olds trudged across the wooden boardwalk, a field trip to the John Muir National Monument. It was late Thursday morning. I can’t wait to come back in the winter, when the crowds are thin and the air is crisp and the trees are happy in the cool, temperate air.

Luckily my dad purchased a lifetime pass to the National Parks a couple years ago when we visited Joshua Tree. Whenever I’m with him, I try to visit a National Park, as he gets free admission (and his guests do, too).

Before making friends with the awe-inspiring redwoods, my parents and I walked the Redwood trail in the mountainside above the John Muir National Monument to reach the Nature Friends Tourist Club.

(I’d heard rumors about this semi-secret place, so I figured we should check it out. This lodge is part of the Nature Friends organization, founded in Austria in 1895. The organization encourages its members to learn about nature and offers free lodging in exchange for trail maintenance. The Tourist Club in Muir Woods is open to the public a few weekends per year, and sells beers and brats to be enjoyed on picnic tables with board games. But you must hike to the lodge.)

Starting at the Mountain Home Inn, indicated as a starting point on the Tourist Club’s website, we didn’t see any clear trail markers. Luckily a park ranger was nearby, and pointed us in the right direction.

After about a half mile walking on the narrow trail, the landscape quickly changed, revealing a thick, mossy canopy and luscious soil, so different from the dry trail and open hillside through which we had just meandered.

And then we came around the corner to a clearing, the Tourist Club barely visible in the sea of trees. A forest green, Bavarian-style building, nestled into the hillside, surrounded by misty fog.

After a bit more walking, we arrived at the Tourist Club, only to find a big “closed” sign outside. Even though it was only 10 am, I figured the lodge wouldn’t be open to the public on a Thursday. Luckily, neither my parents nor I were disappointed – it was a wonderful hike to the lodge.

We stopped for a few minutes, checking out the building’s creative architecture and wood-carved shutters. A woman sat on the deck, blonde dreads halfway down her back. There was a nice picnic area behind the building, one that I hope to enjoy on a sunny Saturday when the Tourist Club is open to the public.

As we left, we took a different route – up the private (only for members) driveway that leads down to the Tourist Club. Perhaps the steepest driveway I’ve ever encountered, and on one of the more humid days in Northern California. My parents and I took multiple stops to rest on the way up, and at one point a pickup truck came down the drive, two young guys in the front, eight kegs in the back. That was the beer we had hoped to have at the Tourist Club, but for which we’d have to come back another day.

We concluded the day with a trip to the Lagunitas Brewery in Petaluma. Though in an industrial park just outside of Petaluma, the brewery boasts an outdoor beer garden, live music, and dogs galore. We took a 30 minute brewery tour, which highlighted its entertaining history and current standing as sixth best craft brewery in the nation. Afterward, we enjoyed a sampler of their 16 beers – including one of my favorites, Lagunitas’s flagship IPA – even if just to make up for the beer we were denied at the Tourist Club.

Napa: A Gift from the Wine Gods

My parents and I woke up on Friday morning, and as we congregated around the continental breakfast table in our hotel lobby, we discussed ideas for the day.

“Let’s go to Napa!” I said. I’d been to Sonoma and Healdsburg, and thoroughly enjoyed both – so much that Zinfandel is my favorite wine. Admittedly, I’m fairly new to the wine game. I’d heard that Napa was pretentious and not for the faint of heart. So I decided we should give it a go.

We did what any first time Napa visitors would do: we didn’t plan it out at all. Well, I did do a little searching on Sunset.com for a restaurant—we decided that dinner should be a splurge—but not much more time was spent planning. And even after all that, I hadn’t quite narrowed it down to one restaurant.

Okay, so we’d wing it.

We arrived in downtown Napa around noon, stopping at a coffee shop for a quick caffeine fix to prepare ourselves for an afternoon of imbibing. Next, we took a quick stroll around town, unsure where to begin with the actual wine tasting. Then, a gift from the wine gods appeared: a sign pointing to the Visitor Information Center.

An air-conditioned breeze welcomed us as we stepped into the center. The girl working the desk sized up our newbie status and rattled off a list of wineries we should try, and I frantically typed them into my iPhone. By the end of it, I figured I had enough information, and rather than ask her to repeat herself—and possibly burst a blood vessel—we were on our way to the car, headed to St. Helena.

We pulled into V. Sattui—one of the wineries that Information Girl (as I’ll call her) had recommended—and had a lovely time. There’s not a lot to say. I’d recommend it, but it wasn’t the most memorable winery we’ve been to. We found out this is the most visited winery in the world, and it certainly appeared that way on this busy Friday afternoon. Luckily, it’s also one of the only wineries in the area that offers food—thank the wine gods—so after our tasting, we grabbed some gourmet sandwiches and salads from the deli and enjoyed them on a picnic table in the gardens before the next winery.

Next was the real highlight of the trip: Raymond Vineyards. Now I must say, our first impression of the grounds doesn’t do this place justice. It looked like a regular building with some nice gardens surrounding it. Nothing like the incredible, monstrous chateaus of other wineries, whose majestic beauty encourages full-fledged winery photo shoots.

No, this normal building looked a little strange, and at first we weren’t quite sure why Information Girl had steered us here.

The tasting started out like any other — a pour of Chardonnay, then a Sauvignon Blanc, “Mmm, this is good,” and “Oh, this would be great with salmon.” Just before our next taste of a red blend, our pourer, Rebecca, explained that the band Lady Antebellum visited the winery a few weeks back and booked one of their private tasting rooms, which she described as entirely stainless steel, futuristic, and a “wild time.”

After pouring the red blend and thinking for a moment, she said, “I don’t normally do this, but I’ll show you the tasting room. Bring your wine and follow me.”

Down a long hallway glowing with red lights, she led us into the stainless steel room. It was in a warehouse bordered with wine tanks, and the room had a stainless bar, bartenders at the ready, burlesque mannequins on trapezes, multiple glass cases with glittering jewels, and mirrors galore. The only light sources were a few chandeliers, which gave the room an eerie feel. Not sure I’d want to host a private party in there, but an incredible space nonetheless.

Next was the lab—think high school chemistry, with beakers and lab coats—where they host their blending class. This sounded really fun. In this few hour class, you learn the science of blending wines, and get to affix your own, customized label to your personal bottled blend. Rebecca told us that a man had recently proposed to his girlfriend in the class, putting the words “Will you marry me?” on a label. She said yes.

Then Rebecca led us into the red room. (By this time, I’m thinking, I’m ready for another pour, please!) This place was straight out of Boardwalk Empire. I felt like I had jumped into the Clue board game, and was about to solve a murder mystery. “Colonel Mustard in the study with the candlestick!”

Dark, gleaming wood, floor-to-ceiling books, and plush red velvet chaise lounges. My next birthday better be here.

Last—and I’ll admit, this was a bit underwhelming after touring the previous tasting rooms—was the library. No books, just bottles. Four walls, floor-to-ceiling bottles. With a round table in the middle.

We finally returned to the tasting room reserved for mere mortals, tasting our last three pours. They were great. I settled on a bottle of petite syrah (who knew these grapes have even more flavor than regular syrah?) to bring home. We thanked Rebecca for the incredible tour, her unmatched wisdom, and a fantastic almost-end to a successful, impromptu Napa trip.

Heading back to the car, it was time to figure out dinner. It was Friday evening, and we hadn’t bothered to make a reservation anywhere. I called Cole’s Chop House, one of the restaurants Sunset had recommended in downtown Napa. No availability, but first-come patio seating at 5 pm. It was 4 o’clock. I then called Press, a St. Helena steakhouse also featured on Sunset’s website. Same lack of availability, and no patio seating – just bar seating. Not exactly our idea of a splurge. We decided to head on down to Cole’s.

We were seated on the patio as soon as we arrived, the setting sun casting a wonderful light on the outdoor seating area. A pleasant riverside spot, exactly what we needed after a strenuous day of wine tasting.

We settled on a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a shrimp cocktail to start. Delectable. Rustic bread, and a butter lettuce salad to follow. Then our steaks came, and our side dishes of creamed spinach and baked potato. What more could a girl ask for?

Dessert.

We couldn’t settle on just one, of course. The bread pudding sounded great, so we had them bring out a slice. But the real winner was the Bananas Foster, which I’d never had before. The sun had set, and the server brought out the dish, glowing with blue 151 flames. Divine. A peaceful evening, seated riverside, with wonderful food and great company, giddy with wine.

Driving back to Marin to turn in for the night, I had to admit, Napa impressed me. I still have a soft spot for Sonoma’s Zinfandel, but I certainly had a memorable, unpretentious visit.

…I almost forgot I’m going to Napa again next weekend with my friends. A blessing from the wine gods.

See Ya Later, Karl!

Summer has officially started in the Bay Area. I know this because I felt the warm sun through the sunroof as I cruised down the 101 South last weekend, leaving behind a San Francisco less foggy than usual. The sun followed me down the coast to Monterey County, forming mirages that glimmered over the fields of artichokes and strawberries.

I know summer has started because the sun peeked through the overlapping hills on my way down to Big Sur. I know this because I left my sweater in the car and thought about getting iced coffee, but then decided on a hot latte because it was early, and because children splashed in the surf in Carmel. I know this because we rented a surrey—a four-person bike—and rode along Monterey’s Cannery Row, afterward cooling down with big scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough in waffle cones.

Back in San Francisco, the days of the gray, lifeless, early summer sky are over, and Karl the Fog cowers as the sunshine rolls in, covering the city in a blanket of warmth. Though the days get shorter, the sun grows stronger as I wander through the Presidio and down to Baker Beach. The sun illuminates the Golden Gate Bridge, originally painted red to warn ships of its presence in the thick fog, but the gray haze has disappeared in the September heat and the structure glows a bright orange, like the embers of a late summer bonfire.

Though summer has arrived in Northern California, the fog sneaks in along 17-Mile Drive to make sure he’s not forgotten. Darn you, Karl.

The Lone Cypress

What Do Fall City and Tasmania Have in Common?

As we turned off the windy road in the foothills of Washington’s Cascade Mountains, I swept my curly hair to the side to take in the valley of horse pastures and corn fields, bordered by pine tree-covered mountains. We’d driven an hour from Seattle’s suburbs to Fall City with the Thunderbird Club, my father’s ’56 Baby Bird third in the caravan of classic cars.

After we parked in the gravel driveway in front of a barn, its large doors opened, and a short man stepped out to greet us. “Welcome to the Fall City Wallaby Ranch!”

We were led inside the musty barn, and Rex, the quirky ranch co-owner, presented a slideshow demonstrating the breeding habits and life cycle of marsupials. During the presentation, Rex negated the common assumption that the pouch is like a large pocket, instead explaining that it serves as a safe environment for the baby kangaroos and wallabies to grow from embryos into fur-covered joeys in five months.

Rex also revealed that Fall City and Tasmania have the same temperate climate, an ideal environment for wallabies and kangaroos. While the weather suits these animals, Rex further explained that they enjoy spending time inside just like cats and dogs, and he often watches Wheel of Fortune with his “babies.” This little-known fact ended the presentation–during which I admit I learned more about gestation and lactation than about the characteristics and living habits of marsupials–and Rex led us out onto the 22-acre ranch, introducing us to the gentle, though slightly shy and easily startled mammals. Careful not to make any sudden movements, we fed them bread and petted their cashmere-like fur.

Feeding a wallaby

At one point, Rex grabbed the 130-pound kangaroo’s tail, and the animal bolted. Rex sprinted behind him, tail in hand, as if chasing a wheelbarrow down a hill.

Rex with a red kangaroo

After the pouched animal petting extravaganza, we headed back to the front of the barn, took off in our classic convertibles, and grabbed a late lunch with the rest of the group to end the weekly Thunderbird outing.

When we arrived home after the Thunderbird Club event, my parents and I settled on the couch to watch a movie. At the same time, Rex and Tawny cuddled up in the living room with their beloved wallabies, draping a blanket over the animals’ furry laps and turning up the volume for Jeopardy. And later that night, as I turned off my bedside lamp, I envisioned Rex in his king-sized bed, big spoon to Vanilla Bean, the albino wallaby.

Vanilla Bean