Having friends scattered across the map who are happy to see me and let me shelter under their roof is both a privilege and cost effective. But after a few days I begin to feel like I’ve overstayed that privilege. In every case so far they have assured me otherwise but the disclaimer doesn’t resolve the feeling. Today we are going up to Muir Woods, a patch of old growth redwoods just north of the Golden Gate. I’ve been there twice before but in a secular way, it’s a sacred place. After that it will be, find a winery or a beach, depends on the weather.
I feel compelled to start looking ahead to the next pitstop. I will go to my travel club’s directory. There are lots of travel club members spread out from SF to San Diego and odds are in my favor. Don’t know anyone in LA well enough to drop in; makes me feel like Clark Gable in the movie, It Happened One Night when he and Claudette Colbert were hitch hiking. Every passing car whizzed by him with his thumb out but when she took his place and raised her skirt up to her knee the next car slid to a stop and took them up the road. When I email another travel club member it’s like hanging my thumb out for a bed. I should be moving on soon if just to ease my conscience.
By now my sense of purpose has pooled into a single puddle, best described by a line from ‘Everybody’s Talking’ a Susan Tedeschi song about sunshine and sailing ships, “Goin’ where the weather suits my clothes.” Not that I dread snow and cold so much but I do feel the need to be in motion and I haven’t been out of town since summer. Something about waking up not remembering where we put our head down that feels good (Oh yeah, California. . . Cupertino.)
We went to Chinatown the other night. Parking space anywhere in the Bay area is impossible. But we found a parking garage on a side street that looked like an improvised hole in the wall and steep ramp down into a basement. A tall guy guided us into a slot that would be blocked by the next car (have to move before we could leave). My host asked how much and the guy ask how long. We got two or three prices but my friend wanted a firm price. He gave us a lot of arm waving with a frustrating Chin-glish dialect, a toothy grin and, “You pay now.” We payed more than we were supposed to but when you don’t release the fish it should have thought again before it took the bait. Our car was in his basement and we paid. The restaurant was surreal, the food was awesome and expensive; the T-shirt I got next door was awesome too at $6 after all, it’s Chinatown.
I feel compelled to start looking ahead to the next pitstop. I will go to my travel club’s directory. There are lots of travel club members spread out from SF to San Diego and odds are in my favor. Don’t know anyone in LA well enough to drop in; makes me feel like Clark Gable in the movie, It Happened One Night when he and Claudette Colbert were hitch hiking. Every passing car whizzed by him with his thumb out but when she took his place and raised her skirt up to her knee the next car slid to a stop and took them up the road. When I email another travel club member it’s like hanging my thumb out for a bed. I should be moving on soon if just to ease my conscience.
By now my sense of purpose has pooled into a single puddle, best described by a line from ‘Everybody’s Talking’ a Susan Tedeschi song about sunshine and sailing ships, “Goin’ where the weather suits my clothes.” Not that I dread snow and cold so much but I do feel the need to be in motion and I haven’t been out of town since summer. Something about waking up not remembering where we put our head down that feels good (Oh yeah, California. . . Cupertino.)
We went to Chinatown the other night. Parking space anywhere in the Bay area is impossible. But we found a parking garage on a side street that looked like an improvised hole in the wall and steep ramp down into a basement. A tall guy guided us into a slot that would be blocked by the next car (have to move before we could leave). My host asked how much and the guy ask how long. We got two or three prices but my friend wanted a firm price. He gave us a lot of arm waving with a frustrating Chin-glish dialect, a toothy grin and, “You pay now.” We payed more than we were supposed to but when you don’t release the fish it should have thought again before it took the bait. Our car was in his basement and we paid. The restaurant was surreal, the food was awesome and expensive; the T-shirt I got next door was awesome too at $6 after all, it’s Chinatown.
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