Oakland is next to San Francisco, and other realizations by an East Coaster in California

Where was I? Ah, yes.

Day 6. Miles 3,322 – 3,737: Barstow, CA to San Francisco, CA

It was another cold, sunny morning when we woke up in Barstow to a large freight train rumbling by down the road from the hotel. This particular Travelodge, though generally pleasant, had very little to offer in the way of breakfast, so we contented ourselves with fruit and hit the road, bound for San Francisco and anticipating no stops in between. When we started out it was clear, but as we made our way out of the mountains and into Bakersfield, a fog descended. And it didn’t lift until we were in San Francisco. Southern California, it turns out, is incredibly smoggy. I’d heard of this phenomenon, of course, but I wasn't quite prepared for the reality, which was that visibility was less than a mile all the way from Bakersfield to San Francisco. The vast commercial fruit orchards, vineyards, cattle yards, and goodness knows what other sources of our health and well-being were just sitting, soaking in the stuff. If I didn't think twice about where my food came from before, that would have been a pretty startling moment of realization. It was a little unnerving, to say the least.

That being said, the trip wasn't without its scenic moments.

After lunch at that classic western staple, In-N-Out burger, it wasn't long before we were approaching Oakland, and suddenly we were crossing the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Now, I had always thought that Oakland was somewhere in northern California, somewhere even farther north than Sacramento (where Sacramento actually is). And I had thought that Sacramento was between San Francisco and Los Angeles. I don’t know why I thought these things, but imagine my surprise when I discovered that Oakland and San Francisco are right next to each other, and Sacramento is 90 miles northeast. It’s always a bit stunning when your personal perception of geography requires a large, quick update. Combine this with the fact that San Francisco is anything but a grid system, and you’ll understand why I was basically lost for the entire 4 days we were in California. But I digress.

We arrived in San Francisco in the early afternoon and met Matt’s friend Katie, who lives in the Excelsior neighborhood. The neighborhood is lovely, with lots of old Greek revival and Victorian-influenced close-packed row houses, but I was not prepared for the hills.

Whenever people talk about driving in San Francisco, they always talk about the hills. I've been up the world’s steepest road (Baldwin Street in Dunedin, New Zealand), and it was steep, but it was short, straight, and a cul-de-sac with no cross-streets. San Francisco is something else. The gradient is surreal, and your progress is punctuated every so often by stop signs such that you are sitting on a 20-30% grade hoping that you can start moving again without flipping the car. Experienced San Francisco drivers, I later learned, avoid this problem by not stopping. But even this technique is risky, because sometimes you reach the crest of a hill without warning, so if you’re not careful, you’ll come up through a stop sign and find that your car and the surface of the Earth have had a disagreement and have opted for keeping their distance.

We got the hang of it eventually, and after picking up Katie, we made our way downtown, where we parked and started exploring. I didn't bring my camera (I wanted to get a feel for the city first, and figure out how out of place I’d look lugging around an SLR), which turned out to be an unfortunate decision, but so it goes. I learned my lesson and took it out the next day.

Katie guided us to Chinatown (San Francisco’s is apparently the largest in North America), where we walked through the arch and up Grant Street, peering into windows and popping into small eateries along the way. Numerous street performers played instruments (the names of which I do not know) and we could barely navigate the sidewalks with all the stalls and displays. At one point we past a McLaren and a Ferrari idling with a gaggle of admirers outside a very expensive-looking restaurant. The whole scene was far more luxurious than anything I had ever experienced. Eventually we came to a small alley with poetry by Jack Kerouac, Maya Angelou, John Steinbeck, and Chinese poets (I couldn’t read them to identify) on the walls and paving tiles. A small placard informed us that we had entered Jack Kerouac Alley, so named because the aforementioned used to frequent the adjacent City Lights bookstore on Columbus Ave.

Columbus Ave leads straight down to the famous Fisherman’s Wharf, so once we were on that road, the Wharf seemed the only logical destination. It was a wee bit far, but it was a nice day (especially for December. And, apparently, for San Francisco) and we decided to walk it. We passed through North Beach, by small shops and ornate but diminutive (and some not so) places of residence, along medians with subtropical flora, and finally we smelled it. The Wharf was bustling and literally sizzling as people wove to and fro, from one seafood establishment or gift shop to another. We opted for the Musée Mécanique, housed in Pier 45 Shed A, which provided us with a solid hour of entertainment as we perused the historic (most dated from the 1920s or before) mechanical musical instruments, games, and coin-operated scenes, including a Wurlitzer Orchestrion, a dreadfully frightful Laughing Sal, and scenes with such evocative titles as “Drunkard’s Dream” and “Opium-Den”. One door opened out to the pier, where we caught a glimpse of the World War II submarine USS Pampanito and watched the sky move through the colors of sunset over Alcatraz to the north and the Bay Bridge to the southeast.

With a New Year party to get to and time running short, we hopped on a street car at the Wharf and buzzed down the Embarcadero, took the BART inland, and grabbed a few slices of deliciously greasy pizza from Blondie’s before locating our vehicle and progressing toward the evening’s activities.

Katie’s friend Britt generously hosted a rollicking New Year’s party in the Sunset that consisted of copious vinyl listening, Great Lakes (courtesy of Matt) and local San Francisco beer, champagne, home-made munchables, and alcohol-infused baked goods. We met loads of new people and mingled well into the morning.

Day 7. Miles 3,737 – 3,744: San Francisco, CA

Having found our way back to Excelsior the evening prior, we woke up and headed to the Sunset again by way of Ocean Beach, which was crowded with surfers looking to take on the winter waves. 

Matt takes a picture while Katie looks on at Ocean Beach

Katie, Matt, and I found brunch in the Sunset on Irving Avenue at a small Mexican restaurant called LaFonda. Mexican food may not have been the best choice for our mildly hung-over stomachs, but the chorizo breakfast burritos were delicious and the portion sizes were not lacking, especially considering the low price. The salsa bar was also a perk, as was the well-daylit balcony over the serving counter that provided a quiet view of the restaurant below and the street beyond.

From the sunset we wound up through Golden Gate Park to the famous Haight-Ashbury district, where we explored Amoeba Music, an enormous independent music store which felt a little bit like a warehouse designed by Mondrian. We wandered down the street, which contained second-hand stores (consisting almost entirely of tie-dye products) and high-end boutiques and gastropubs in equal measure, simultaneously paying tribute to its hippie history and taking advantage of its name recognition.

Corner of Haight and Ashbury

At the boundary of the district we headed south on Masonic Avenue one block to find some of San Francisco’s famous “Resplendent Victorians”, the Painted Ladies.

Painted Ladies at Waller St and Masonic Ave

From the Haight we drove north, through the Presidio, to the Golden Gate Bridge. We were lucky enough to see it in its entirety, unobscured by the famous bay fog, and near twilight. Katie, who had presumably seen it many times, napped in the car while Matt and I walked to the Fort Point overlook and eventually onto the bridge itself, where we had a spirited argument over the definition of a pillar. This argument arose when we got separated and tried to find each other by describing our location on the bridge. We eventually found each other near the southern tower of the bridge and fought our way through the thousands of tourists (including what I felt was a disproportionate number of French people) toward the car, stopping to read about the seismic retrofitting of the bridge following the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake.

Seismic refit under the Golden Gate Bridge. The column in the middle is comprised of alternating layers of rubber and steel to allow the supports to move independently of the road surface.

The bridge, at 4,200 feet long, was impressive, as were the views. The crowds were very heavy, although this presumably had to do with the fact that it was New Year’s day and nobody was at work. The scale of the bridge was such that we didn't really notice all the people while we were on it, or from a distance. It was rather serene, actually.

Looking north over Fort Point to the Golden Gate Bridge

With the day nearing its end, Katie took us to Corona Heights Park, which contained a small (~220 ft) hill providing panoramic views of San Francisco. The red chert comprising the hill made up some interesting rock formations at the summit, but in this particular instance, I was more interested in the lookout.

Looking west from Corona Heights Park with Downtown to the Left

Twilight over San Francisco

We stayed for a little while at my request, so that I could get a decent picture of the city after dark, and then we headed into town so that Matt and I could find our hostel and we could all grab dinner. We walked around downtown a little, though not extensively since it was after dark, and Matt and I checked in and dropped our stuff off. The HI San Francisco Downtown was not cheap (although for downtown, it probably wasn't bad), and the wireless had some problems, but it was well appointed, secure, and clean with nice views of Mason Street and comfortable beds. We were in a room with four beds, only three of which were occupied. Our roommate was quiet software engineer from Wisconsin on a grand US tour who was thoroughly well-informed on world affairs and all topics newsworthy. After chatting with him for a while, we left in search of food, and found at Café Mason, a large 24-hour full-service restaurant that left us pleasantly surprised by their food selection and quality (easily as good as or better than any other 24-hour establishment I've ever been in). We chatted over our very filling dinner and eventually Matt drove Katie home and I headed back to the hostel.

Day 8. Miles 3,744 – 3,987: San Francisco, CA to Groveland, CA

Matt and I woke up bright and early, breakfasted at the hostel (which had an excellent selection of bagels and toppings, and where, while sitting, we chatted with a nice Dutch couple), swung by Excelsior to pick up Katie, and drove down to the Mission district, which was vibrant, colorful, and historic. Music seemed to come from every intersection and fruit stalls crowded the sidewalks. We parked and walked up 16^th and 17^th streets, through Clarion Alley (home to the one of the largest concentration of murals in San Francisco), past an inordinate number of little cafés and coffee shops, and wandered by Mission San Francisco de Asís (the oldest building in San Francisco, dedicated in 1971) to Mission Dolores Park, which offered yet another panoramic view of the city with the spires of the historic missions in the foreground. From there we walked to the Castro district, along Castro Street and the incredibly colorful shops and displays, down Market Street, and onto 16^th Street again, where we stopped for lunch at Ike’s Place, a sandwich shop named the best in San Francisco for a number of years (I forget exactly how many – it was a substantial number). The lines was nearly out the door but it moved quickly, and after I ate my sandwich—entitled “We’re JUST Friends” and comprised of fresh avocado, halal chicken, pepper jack, and a sweet orange glaze—I was inclined to agree with the aforementioned accolades. We finished our lunches back at Mission Dolores Park, hurried back to the car, which had been sitting at an expired meter for a few minutes, and, after dropping Katie off, headed for the hills.

We exited San Francisco on Route 1 across the Golden Gate Bridge and, after losing the trail in Mt. Tamalpais, climbed over the coastal hills and emerged at Muir Beach. We mostly stuck to the road, stopping here and there to clamber over some particularly interesting-looking rocks (check out this PDF from the USGS about the San Andreas fault and geology of the Point Reyes peninsula) to a decent overlook. We had hoped to make it to one of the lighthouses, but we were short on time and wanted to make it into wine country before everything closed, so we contended ourselves with the view from the car windows (which, mind you, was not lacking).

California coast

We took a hard right at Point Reyes National Seashore, left the coastal route, and motored inland, eventually making our way into hills covered in orderly rows of vines. It was nearing 5:00 pm and we guessed that most tasting rooms would be closing, so soon after we passed a sign for Sonoma, we followed the advice of a small roadside advertisement indicating the direction toward the Robledo Family Winery. We parked in the gravel parking lot next to a small house and barn and located the tasting room. A large group was leaving and the attendant, Jonathan, seemed happy to see us, a perception that was reflected in the quantity and quality of wine we received to taste. We chatted about the family history (a Mexican immigrant who started out working in another vineyard and slowly got enough money to start his own vineyard management business before transitioning to production), wine-making and transitioned to beer-making (which was his true passion) before leaving with a bottle each of a particularly delicious red blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Syrah.

Sunset over the vineyard at Robledo Family Winery

We continued into Sonoma proper and had dinner at an upscale pizza joint called Red Grape, where I, for the first time, had a glass of wine with pizza. And it was wonderful. The wine list was thorough and the server well-informed, and we had an excellent dinner before carrying on through Napa and beginning the long trek back east. Before long, we were navigating the twisting, winding roads of the Sierra Nevada over cliffs and through rich alpine forest (not that we could see much, it being decidedly dark) with the temperature outside dropping rapidly. There was almost nothing in the way of settlements, so, fearing that we’d wind up stranded and freezing at the park entrance until morning, we stopped at the rather rickety-looking Groveland Motel. We were put up by a skittish proprietor in a small, comfortable, odd-smelling, severely dated cabin, but it was cheap, heated, and outfitted with wi-fi, so we couldn't complain too much. We settled in and dozed off.

Tune in next time for Part IV in this continuing series: Parks, Bars, and Hoodoos