Touring San Francisco is always a colorful adventure.  With my brothers in town for the holiday, we wanted to eat our way through this great city and experienced the sights.  I used to know like the back of my hand.  I lived there for eight years.  Now in the burbs, how easily I have forgotten where to go and what to see.  I was digging deep into the memory banks to come up with an impressive itinerary for a couple of guys, last minute.

Alcatraz of course came to mind, a great idea too late.  Twenty years after moving here, this place is still a hot spot for cool touristy things to do.  I thought I got lucky with the third website.  Why are so many dates available?  I booked us an 11 AM tour at 10 PM the night before.  As I slept, I was jolted awake as my mind began to settle on this “luck.”  Did I just book a boat with holes in it?  Something isn’t right.  And it wasn’t.  I had plugged in the date of 11/23 and was automatically booted to the next available tour, Monday, November 26, 2012.  I failed to note this important detail.  Tickets non-refundable.

Chinatown

I Googled the top-ten things to do in San Francisco and found a travel article from Time magazine’s website.  Between the two, the article and me, we cooked up a great plan for the guys.  Day One we meandered through Chinatown for tea tasting and fortune cookie manufacturing.  Never would we have walked out with Blue Angel and White Peach Green teas had the shop girl note deemed our first picks as just plain tea, no flavor.  She chose for us.  Blest Tea was written up in Marie Claire; the article prominently tacked to the wall.  We just lucked into the place, the beginning of our extraordinary and serendipitous travels.

We crossed the Chinatown border into Little Italy, or North Beach to locals.  We dined at L’Osteria del Forma.  The Zagat and Trip Advisor stickers plastering the windows surrounding the entrance drew us in. The three of us squished around a table, a tiny, tiny place.  We ordered salads with oven-roasted prawns and lamb skewers.  We attempted a pass on the wine but the look of horror on the veryEuropean waiter’s face influenced us otherwise.  We needed to live a little.

We made it!

Dessert was on the go, a raspberry ring from my favorite Italian bakery.  We trekked up the undulating hills of Telegraph Street to Coit Tower, number one on Timethe top ten list.  We burned up calories as soon as we ate them, I’m sure of it.  Afterward, we walked down Columbus Street and stopped at City Light Bookstore, where bestsellers are hard to find but ANYTHING off the beaten path such as high-school novels (Catch 22; Catcher and the Rye), anarchist manifestos or jazz musician interviews are plentiful.  I felt deep just browsing where famed beatniks used to linger.

This shot only available on foot.

On Day Two we went for a main attraction, Muir Woods, anybody not on a boat to Alcatraz was staring up at the giant Redwoods.  We couldn’t park within two miles!  Back to the City, over the Golden Gate Bridge and into the Presidio we went.  We traded one popular sight for another.  We parked faraway from Golden Gate Bridge, at least we could.  It was the last of the BIG attractions yet nevertheless on my list and the Time top-ten.  We walked and walked and walked, across the bridge until we reached the first arch, 3.5 miles round trip.  I knowthat raspberry ring from the day before was all but a memory, not a calorie left.

This t-shirt is not to be worn outside the house. Per Alex.

The last day we hit the jackpot for quintessential San Francisco, The Haight.  My younger bro split early so it was just the older bro and myself hanging out.  (I picked up some local lingo.)  We hit Amoeba Records, number three on Timethe top-ten.  We were on the hunt for more Christmas albums to play on my dad’s 1950s stereo.  I found exactly what I was looking for:  The Mills Brothers.  I also found a very Haight-esque album, Reggae Christmas.  When in Rome, why not? (I learned later Reggae and Christmas don’t mix.  I should have judged by the cover:  Weed sprouting from the Christmas tree.)

Before leaving, we walked a few blocks to photograph the famed street corner:  Haight/Ashbury.  Youthful panhandlers dot the sidewalks, a couple staked at the coveted photo-op corner. I guess every generation has a hippie-homeless lot.  I just can’t imagine dreaming of the day one can panhandle in The Haight.  Some actually play guitar or banjo to try to make a buck.  I’m dying to ask, “Does your mother know what you are doing with all those music lessons?”  I am on the other side of the generation gap now.

Still THE SCENE.

I succumbed to the most creative, clean and clever of the bunch.  Dressed in brown from head to toe including his brown bushy beard, he cried out, “Help Keep San Francisco Weird.”  I dug fifty cents out of my pocket and handed it over.  “Here.  I just have to give you something.  I love your line.”  He was so happy.  “I made my first dollar on Haight Street!”

On our way back to the car, we crossed paths with an Eastern-religion evangelist.  His head was shaved and his complexion painted grey.  Silver dots outlined his eyes and mouth.  He was carrying a stack of old books, probably enlightenment giveaways.  “Hi!  Are you from here?”  I replied yes, thinking a local earned immunity from further discussion.  His theatrical, boyish face pushed towards my face.  “Greeeat!….”  I didn’t stick around to listen.  “Ah, not today.”

I wanted to spout out a bunch of Hail Mary’s or some kind of shield for protection.  The eerie painted face will haunt me in my nightmares; I just know it.  Or on the positive side, maybe it will be good for a Slum-Dog Millionaire question like the blue Hindu god Lord Rama.  I got more than my fifty cents worth of “Keeping San Francisco Weird,” maybe too weird.

The Ferry Building was next on the lists for lunch.  We grazed our way, one food item at a time, no hard choices that way.  We dined on crab and salads.  I dared my brother to try a super fresh oyster shot with me.  He’s still not sold, despite all the horseradish to kill the flavor or perceived “ookies.”  Our last culinary hurrah was a crusty baguette and a wedge of Cowgirl Creamery cheese.  We sat on the sidewalk in front of the Ferry Building to soak up the remaining rays of sun and enjoy our fare.

A twelve-year old boy was earning extra money tap dancing while playing the trumpet.  He was so focused not even a teenage girl asking him for a hug made him flinch.  Two gals smooched three feet away from him and still he played on, never missing a toot or a tap.  A street drummer with upside down trash cans and aluminum cans played in the distance.  It was a pleasingly eccentric day.

My donation to the weird continued to pay forward.  A twenty-something guy in silver, sparkly basketball shorts and white sneaks unlocked his bike, about twenty feet from our urban picnic.  He peddled off into the sunset, his boombox in his wire bike basket blaring Hall and Oates, “Your Kiss is on My List.”

The last item on MY list:   Keep San Francisco weird.