Avatar Random Thoughts

There has been so much hype and buzz about Avatar that I actually went to see this movie on the day of it’s release. Ok, I didn’t go to a midnight showing, but if I had really thought it out, I could have. I had Friday off so Thursday night was free for me. I wonder if that will keep me from achieving true geekdom?

We arrived around 645pm for the 7pm show. The theater was packed. But we were able to find two seats at the end of the aisle on the 2nd row. I don’t know if I’m the only one, but sitting in the middle of the theater tends to make me claustrophobic. I don’t like crawling over people’s knees to stumble out to the bathroom.

There was an actual theater attendant who had to seat people as the minutes ticked closer to the show. I’ve never been to an IMAX experience, balking at the higher ticket prices. But having been sucked into the hype and seeing the amazing trailers, I wanted to see it in the biggest screen I could find.

There were so many pre-movie commercials I felt like I was watching the Superbowl. I didn’t mind the commercials simply because there was such a large crowd, you want to keep them distracted. One commercial came on and the audio disappeared midway, you should have heard the catcalls and the ominous rumblings that ensued!

You don’t want to rile a sold out show.

Then they started showing previews of movies that will be coming out in 3D in the future. “Shrek 4“, a cute children’s movie, “How to Train Your Dragon” and “Hubble 3D”. On the last NASA shuttle flight to fix the Hubble telescope, IMAX cameras were on board to record the mission. From what I saw in the previews, I will want to see this documentary. When did I ever want to go see a documentary on the big screen? Never.

Avatar, despite the previews of aerial fights and aliens, had a lot of down time. They were building a story and letting you see all the cool stuff that they had thought up and brought to the screen. I for one enjoyed that sort of thing. I could have sat there and watched the 3D holographic computer displays they had for days. I loved how you can just pluck out a display and walk off with it.

They were telling a story, not all the characters were fleshed out, but then again, you just wanted to go and explore Pandora, the alien world. I won’t comment on all the fuss about how this movie had a message, I just wanted to see a cool heavily FX-ed movie.

But this I will say, I never had an opinion about the term ‘tree-hugger’, but after seeing this movie and reading some of the internet comments that referred to it, I find the term offensive. I understand as a human being on this planet with my own personal and vested interests, with my own trigger points and anger levels, how wars can happen. But I don’t have to like it. I hate that men and women have to die. But if we have to wage a war, I think we should go back to swords and knives and make the generals and leaders also go into battle. Then they can understand the exact price they need to pay when they have to face someone and watch the light of life escape from their eyes as they kill each other.

War by techno-proxy just seems like efficient murder.

That being said and off my chest, I absolutely support every man and woman on our armed forces who are out there today doing their jobs to protect our vested interests and I only wish them and their family the best because it is a thankless job they do. We cannot possibly imagine what they have to go through and our disdain for the Vietnam vets is a tragedy that never needs to be repeated.

It may seem that I have run out to left field with the past paragraphs, but it's what resonated through me after seeing Avatar. We do run the risk of killing Mother Earth. As much as we say God put us on this planet, he also gave us Earth. We have just as much responsibility to care and tend for the planet as we do for each other. Not that we treat each other as well as we should.

From a purely selfish standpoint, Earth is a finite resource, without it we die. How can we not think of caring for it? How can we leave the future generations with nothing but ruins, testaments to our selfishness and greed?

There are scenes in Avatar that was just stunning, you could feel the tension in the movie theater, for there was a silence that can only be described as awe.

It wasn’t a perfect movie, that was “Terminator 2: Judgement Day”. But it was a movie perfect for a generation who will grow up on HDTV and 3D movies and hopefully, use technology to benefit humankind, not fall prey to it’s enslavement.

Now I have to go read a book on my iPhone while I listen to my music on the iPod and have my chair massage me in my hyperbaric chamber with my anti-bacterial hand wash.

PS. It's just a USB link.

NaNoWriMo Novel

I can't believe I think I'm going to actually do it. I've got 39,081 words in my tally to meet the 50,000 word criteria. The story, as all of my stories have a tendency to do, have run away from me and I've lost control. I write imagining the scene in my head, what the characters say and feel, what I am observing. Does that make me a writer or a simple observer?

Last night I wrote such a devastating scene that there were times when I couldn't see my screen, the tears blurred my vision and I cried for my characters. I hurt for them. Is this what it feels like to be a god? Don't get me wrong, I've no delusions of grandeur, I'm simply telling a story. But if I create the scene, the character, the situations am I not a god? Omniscient? It's a bizarre feeling and one I'm a little concerned about because I'm enjoying it too well.

Shall I eschew social obligations so I can create another world? Wait, that's the SIMS game. Nevermind. I'm tired, sleep-deprived through this experience or shall I say experiment?

If you haven't noticed, my banner has the link to my "Seawater Eyes" NaNoWriMo novel.

http://kidbamboo.blogspot.com/

Please if you like the story, let me know. I appreciate the feedback.

Crush

It's been several very longs weeks. I guess I'm reacting to sleep deprivation, bad nutrition and overall carelessness. So when I'm tired, needing sleep, pushing myself too hard, what's my ultimate reaction? I get cranky. So I've been doing a little soul searching. I'm usually a very positive person, great outlook in life, because that's how it should be. Expect the clouds and be delighted that you are right because it rained is self defeating. But at the same time, don't expect the sun to shine EVERY day, it isn't going to happen. I seek equilibrium. So I accept that I have my good days and I'll have my bad days. I'm having a bad day, I should go to sleep, instead I indulge in a pity party. I'll write this up, post it and feel chagrined in the morning. So be it, I KNOW me, if I self-flagellate sometimes, trust me, the pain is temporary. Sometimes you bang your head on the wall because you KNOW, it will feel so good when you've stopped.

A crush is one of the worst things that can happen to a person. Very rarely does it ever work out. Instead, someone pours their affection and expectation on someone else and when the expectation isn’t met and the affection isn’t returned, there is hurt.

I guess I should feel lucky that my crush will be forever distant, untouchable and completely unattainable. What expectation of reciprocation will never be met; therefore no expectation will ever be required.

Sometimes, you’re just that poor slob in the crowd, wearing his heart on out his sleeve, waving a poster that says. “I Speak Klingon” and they will never pick you, they will never talk to you and you will never be acknowledged. Your diligence in learning to speak a fictional language will never be praised, because none of your friends speak Klingon. You are the only one.

I’ve had a crush on someone actually attainable. Ended horribly, I’d rather not talk about it, except to say that a crush is just something that needs to be nipped in the bud. Because one of three things inevitably happens when you have a crush; either the other person reciprocates (yeah, start dating), the other person is revolted or the other person takes advantage of you.

You hope you don’t get the revulsion. But it’s actually, of the three, the least painful in the long run. The pain of instantaneous rejection is painful, but like a jab of the needle, mercifully quick, just don’t pick at the scab.

If you are taken advantage of, you are led on a gilded leash, providing your object of affection all the attention and care they want. You make yourself their willing patsy.

If there is some interest and you date for a while, you find out she’s not the one for you because she’s really a shallow misanthrope with delusions of grandeur reminding you of a line from a Michael Penn song, “What makes you think that just cause you dress bright means that you shine?” .

If it’s reciprocated and you end up living happily ever after, it wasn’t a crush, it was true love.

It’s called a crush because your heart is crushed.

There is no happy ending for a crush, just the slights of unintended arrows.

Writing vs. Processing

Sometimes we write things out with pen and paper that cannot be taken back. In my mind, pen to paper is much like a verbal monologue, once it’s written it is spoken, if you scratch it out, it looks messy. When you crumple up paper to re-write your thoughts, you lose the flow of your thoughts and the moment is lost.

Word processing is aptly described, it’s processing the words. Sometimes you can catch the poetic leanings of heartfelt intent, but only sometimes. We loose the context in print. But when you write, the reader, if they are observant, can see how passion can indent the paper, the bold sharp slash of an angry word, or frenzied scratching of an excited moment.

 A few weeks ago I wrote an old fashioned letter, the first time in very many years. I realized after I had written it and had mailed it away, trying to recall all the things I wrote that, I don't think I really made a lot of sense. I have become so accustomed to being able to cut and paste. 

I don't have to know no grammar cuz Word will fix it up ok. (Please read in a sarcastic font, imagine it and it will appear).

I found that when I was writing, I couldn't quite manage to decide if what I just wrote was spelled correctly. The letters looked the same, but it looked strange to be written in my scribbly handwriting.

I don't want to lose the ability to take a pen to paper and be coherent. I want to still hear the scratch on the paper, watch the turns and twists of the ink as it permanently changes a blank page into a story. Ink is the catalyst and history is the result.

And speaking of processing, my other blog is http://kidbamboo.blogspot.com . That blog is the entirety of my NaNoWriMo novel, my first attempt. If you read it, please comment, here, there, wherever you wish.

I am new to all this interaction, I've always meant to get my own page, I diddled in myspace and friendster and both lay on the wayside, ignored. So dear reader, your comments would be greatly appreciated.

Adventures of the Traveling Feet: Day 8 The Long Good Bye

There is a Brazilian song, “A Felicidade” translates to “Happiness”. The first line is “Tristeza nao tem fim, felicidade sim”, translated “Sadness has no end, happiness does.” I love this song for that one profound sentence. I translate it as a mandate to celebrate every moment of my life, enjoy to the fullest, the small and large joys as well as my cloudy, rainy, dark days.

Today was my last day in San Francisco, my holiday ended.  I woke up to a foggy, grey morning, reflecting my mood. I don’t get tired of being away from home. I carry my home with me regardless of where I am. Home is where I take my shoes off; rest my traveling feet.  So when I am having such a great, extraordinary time, I hate to have it end. I actually feel sad, a brooding longing can envelope me and I become moody and pensive. I had spent the night packing, because my flight was supposed to leave at 130pm and I prefer to be early at the airport than run through the concourse. So I knew I had a small window of opportunity.

The small length of time I spent here came down to how many more meals I had left. So this morning was my final meal. I had already had breakfast at the small neighborhood diner across the street from my hotel. I had thought I would go back.  Then I remembered a tweet that I had seen last week and saved. It had a list of restaurants in the San Francisco area with an ocean view.  I tried to look them up on the internet but none of them mentioned a breakfast menu.

For all the technology I’ve used traveling with my laptop, cruising the internet on my iPhone, guiding myself via GPS on my phone, it was the lonely, yellow pages still in it’s usual place in the bedside table drawer, under the Bible.

It was there that The Cliff House mentions a breakfast menu. So a new idea crept into my head. I was tentatively planning on walking around the neighborhood to eat at another hole in the wall, I had seen Jenny’s Bar & Restaurant the other night when I was walking to Kimo’s to see The Ruse. When I saw that place, I a hiccup in my heart rate to see that name; some silly affectation I’ve developed lately, akin to a Pavlovian response.

But why don’t I have breakfast at a restaurant with a view of the ocean? I was looking for that at Fisherman’s Wharf yesterday. I always look for a place overlooking an ocean.  So I called the concierge and arranged for me to leave my luggage at the hotel, have the car service bring it and pick me up at 1100 and take me directly to the airport.

It was about 810am, I was showered, dressed and set to go by 830am. I took my bags down -I hate waiting for the bellhop, when I’m ready to go, I’m ready  to go. The Adagio Hotel forces you to call and have ice brought up to your room. I felt compelled to tip every time.

The doorman flagged down a cab to take me to The Cliff House,  it is on the other side of the peninsula straight down Geary St.  Since it was a Sunday, the traffic was sparse but the fog was thick. The cabbie started out silent but when I started answering his prodding questions, we started another conversation. He spoke with an accent, eastern European, I didn’t probe.  Then he started rambling on about the city corruption, the need for national health care reform. I don’t instigate that conversation, simply because it is a heated political debate. I don’t have random conversations with strangers about politics and religions. They have always been hot button topics.

I got dropped off around 845am, The Cliff House was still closed, there was a line of approximately 10 people already waiting at the door. That wasn’t a lot of people, so I knew I’d get a table. I wandered off to the side of the restaurant to stare at the sea. Even the cabbie got out of his cab and stretched and looked around a bit. I know how you can live in the city and yet not see all its finer points.

The Cliff House, a restaurant on the edge of a cliff. I wanted a nice restaurant overlooking the ocean, one last final hurrah. I was seated so early I had the privilege of a table by a window overlooking the Seal Rocks. It was one of those mystical moments when you sit down and you know you are where you want to be right at that moment. It was an “exhale” moment.

Because I waited so long before I sat down to write this blog (the sadness of leaving my magical mystery tour and returning to the daily grind wounded me to silence), I’ll have to fill in with my tweets, I was so excited.

>>A foggy day brings out the poet in me. - 901am

>>I need my coffee first  - 901am

I asked the waitress what she would suggest for breakfast and I followed her recommendation. I had crab Dungeness and perfect poached eggs. It was truly a perfect ending to my perfect stay.

>>Eggs and Dungeness crab w/fruit & potatoes served w/ airy delicate handmade popovers! Nom nom nom! - 918am

>>Homemade popovers, I can feel my sugar rise, but I don't care. First time I've eaten it, another wish come true ;) - 926am

>>Perfect poached eggs!  - 928am

>>If you visit SFO and want to eat brkfast at Cliffhouse. They open at 9am, I got a sweet window seat. Now there is a 20min wait 4 a window seat -  935am

From what I understand about The Cliff House, it is a reservation only kind of high-end restaurant.  Where I ate was called the Bistro and I guess I was just lucky. I didn’t need a reservation and I just strolled in based on a whim.

>>The coffee at Cliff House is so wonderfully strong, my teeth feel loose & I want to dive into the sea!  -- 951am

They have really good coffee. I should have asked if they sell it.

>>The fog is tenacious, but the Sun King accedes to no one! Here comes the Sun! - 1017am

I watched the sun banish the stubborn fog, it was Mother Nature's special effects.

>>I like to think that the fog too is pouting at my departure. Yesterday was a perfect sunny day.  -1054am

>>San Francisco gave me a sad, misty kiss good bye. A kiss that will linger through the time until I can return - 1056am

I lingered over strong hot coffee as the sun battled the morning fog. I grew melancholy, for this adventure ends; as the fog granted me a misty kiss goodbye.

After breakfast, there was now a waiting list for tables, the tables with a window were highly prized. As I walked out, I saw several ladies dressed in pink T-shirts & hats. San Francisco was holding it’s Breast Cancer awareness walk/run. Considering how my trip started out, this was just another moment of synchronicity.

I strolled along the sidewalk, wanting to soak in the salt water tang and listen to the ocean’s roaring song as they battered the cliffs. There was a soft mist that pervaded. I was enthralled by the roaring waves; I couldn’t record enough of the sounds. I hovered trying to get that one shot when the waves would spray into the air as it slapped against the rocks.

I felt the grey fog more than I saw it; it was nature’s expression of my somber, pensive mood. I wasn’t ready to go home. But when I came around and came back up the sidewalk, the car was already waiting. I knew it couldn’t last forever.

I got on the plane but my adventure wasn’t over just yet. I talked with my seatmate, Dennis from New Zealand. He gave me the newspaper he had brought with him from Auckland so I could read the goings on in his hometown. He told me that they get 30days of holiday. So for two weeks starting at Christmas, the entire country shuts down and goes on holiday.

I always assumed the nickname Kiwi was for the fruit. He told me that when it was first introduced into the country when he was a boy, it came from China so they called it Chinese gooseberries. But a marketing ploy convinced the world to call it a kiwi.

He and I had a great conversation, again. Perhaps someone else would be bored to tears being shown a map of the world so we can talk about how long it takes to get to Auckland, I wasn't. Dennis was going to Chicago for an accountant’s conference. He said it’s just an excuse to travel to great locations and basically just gab, ostensibly to drum out business for their companies. I guess I really didn’t want the random conversations to end. But eventually the plane had to land.

When the plane landed, we all jumped up and clogged the aisles, impatient to flee. The woman in front of me looked up at me and stared at me; to the point where I couldn’t ignore her. She looked at me as if she was deciding if she knew me. She had that same burning look the other woman on Day 2. She too was an older woman, salt and pepper hair.  She said to me. “So impatient.” I smiled and said I just want to go home. She replied. “I’m a long way from home.” Home was Sao Paolo, Brazil. The hair on the back of my neck sprang up.

We spoke of my love for Brazilian music and she told me I needed to visit. This year seemed to have flown and I needed to use my vacation days or risk losing it. And every year I always go somewhere I’ve never been and do something I’ve never done. When I was first discussing where I was going to go for my vacation I was invited to stay on a couch in Morro Island–in Sao Paolo. Synchronicity; coincidence?

I don’t know where I’m going next, I don’t know what I’ll do, I just hope I’m ready for whatever will come my way. 

The Adventures of Traveling Feet: Day 7

     My plan was to ride the trolley and head down to Fisherman’s Wharf. The weatherman had said it was going to be a sunny day and the forecast glowed through my window. Fisherman’s Wharf is full of tourist traps, kitsch, kiosks and barkers. I usually disdain such destinations, having been in San Francisco before, but I wanted, no yearned, to smell the ocean. I needed that saltwater smell like an addict needing a fix. It’s been a long, cold summer; this was my last chance for the year to see the ocean. The Pacific has always been my favorite. Standing at Fisherman’s Wharf, I’m only 7,000miles away from an island east of the South China Sea; an island in the sun, the island of my birth.

      They say you can never go home, but they say nothing of leaving it behind.

      I had no plans once I got to Fisherman’s wharf. I bought the $11 trolley passport, it would let me ride on the trolleys all day long, as many times as I wanted. I was planning on taking the trolleys wherever they went, jumping off, jumping on at whim.

      The Powell/Hyde trolley stops in the middle of the street next to this thin sliver of a median. The line was long, but as always, I made friends with the couple at the end of the line. They were from the UK, they told me about the passport. So I ran back into the Westin who told me to go back to the trolley and buy it from the conductor. The passports the UK couple had were something they got through their hotels, my ‘boutique’ hotel didn’t tell me anything about it.

     I wasn’t concerned about it, because I knew where I wanted to go and it was wherever my feet take me. So I walked back to the trolley waiting area and there was still a line. This time the end of the line were two very pretty girls. One was blonde and blue eyed and the other was a dark haired beauty with blue eyes. The blonde was from New Zealand and the brunette was from northern England. I loved their accents. It was a friendly little chat and nothing more.

     I know that when I write, I wax poetically, I adore beauty, what can I say? But I’m not that jerk who follows a beautiful woman around and makes a pest of themselves. When we arrived at the end of the line at Fisherman’s  Wharf, I went one way, they went another.

     I was attracted to the old ships at the end of the dock. This year was the first time I’d been taken to a Jimmy Buffett concert and I dressed appropriately. Hopefully on Hollyween, I will again be dressed as a pirate. Arrrgghhh. So to see the old cargo ships that sailed the high seas, the inner pirate in me was enthralled.

     I walked the entire length of the dock and meant to get a ticket so I could climb aboard the Balclutha. Oddly enough, something else popped into my head and I ended up walking away and strolling down the street. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, I just put one foot in front of the other.

     My purpose of the day was to be at Fisherman’s Wharf and now I was there.  Saw the Cannery, I don’t know why it rang a bell in my head, maybe the movie Cannery Row? I don’t know if it was the same cannery. I wanted to find myself a nice place to eat, preferable over the water, but needed to be outdoors. It was only 1130am so it was early for lunch and Cioppino’s  still had some empty tables on the sidewalk.

     But I wasn’t hungry.  I kept walking until I passed a family from Sweden lining up to pick up tickets for a quick harbor tour. It was $15 for a 40min ride to the Golden Gate Bridge, cross under it, turn around, circle Alcatraz and come I went looking for grub.

     My eyes have this tendency to wander, it just goes wherever it feels like and today, my feet followed. I passed by a group of homeless looking teenage Rastafarians, playing guitar and singing. I would have approached and left some money, but seriously, the stench was overpowering even at 10ft away. 

     Further down the sidewalk was a lone figure, in a yellow rain slicker with matching hat, in his hand was a fishing pole attached to a paper cup with loose change. He had a full matted beard, but he had friendly eyes. I placed a dollar in his cup and asked him to pose and thanked him. He told me “You don’t know how many people walk up to take my picture and never leave nothing.” I smiled, what was I going to say? “Hey, I’m sweating like a pig in this thing.” We laughed. “You’re suffering for your art!” I told him.    

      I went away from the crowds and ended up behind all the big restaurants, but I saw a bunch of fishing boats tied up. It was quiet back there, the water was smooth as silk, that’s the photo with the boats.  I ended up walking around the back of some warehouses where the fish smell and saltwater was pungent. I loved it.

     I ended up next to the submarine th USS Pampanito, I went there. I paid my money and was so frantic to get inside that I didn’t wait for the guy to give me my headphones for my audio tour, DOH! But I enjoyed myself anyways. It was fairly self-explanatory, I know what an engine looks like. I recognize the torpedo tubes, bunk bends, toilets, officer’s quarters, etc. It was tight quarters. I kept thinking about all those submarine movies I’ve seen. There’s no way they ever filmed that inside a real sub like this.

     When I came out, I hopped over to Boudin’s Bakery and got myself a black forest ham and cheese sandwich. I had my own 16oz Coke Zero on my back pack, so I asked for a cup of ice, expecting them to give me a regular cup with a cover. No, they gave me a itty bitty flimsy plastic cup full of ice. I took my digital camera out of it’s case, jammed it into my jeans and put the cup of ice in the camera holder, it sat at my hip attached to my belt. I ate the best ham and cheese sandwich I ever ate in my life and drank my Coke Zero out of my new cup holder.

     The Golden Gate Bridge was draped with cotton candy fog. 
     All I could do was stare in admiration.  The chill in the air was bracing, but I love the rolling of a boat cutting through the waves. We went under the bridge. The boat operators told us that when you go under the bridge for the first time, you make a wish. But what wish could I make? I had found an adventure I could not have imagined. Everything in my trip was working out beyond my expectations.

     The closed off the bow of the boat so passengers wouldn’t get wet from the waves, I hadn’t expected the front row seats to be taken up so quickly, so I stood during the entire boat ride. But I finagled my way to the front so I could sprawl on the deck and get my photos of Traveling Feet in.

     We went around Alcatraz, we had taken the tour before and even though I was only 16yrs old at the time. I still remember the cold reality of that rock. I can still recall standing in on of the isolation cells with my family and strangers as they closed the door. I wondered how someone doesn’t lose their minds sitting in that darkness.  I didn’t need to return, one visit was enough for me.

When we rounded Alcatraz, we got a nice view of the Bay Bridge and Treasure Island, then downtown with the iconic Transamerica and Coit Tower. The story goes that a Coit daughter was rescued from a fire by the SF Fire Department and developed a keen appreciation for the firefighters eventually even marrying one. There was a giggle when he said it is supposedly an homage to a firefighters ”…um equipment…”.

     When we docked the captain had said that Brian who was doing the trip commentary would gladly accept tips since that was the only way he was getting paid. As I waited for my turn to clamber up the ladder to take me to street level, Brian held out his hand to steady each passenger as the stepped from the bobbing boat to the steady dock. Yet, of all the people who preceded me, only one guy slipped money into Brian’s hand. I pulled out a $5 to give Brian, hoping it would make up for the others who stiffed him.

     I wandered down the street finding myself meandering down to Pier 39. Along the way I stopped and handed some cash to the steel drum band playing Bob Marley’s “Jamming”. Then I stopped with a large crowd who was being primed for a group of young men about to do some street break dancing. There was some amazing feats of strength, tumbling and the final act was one guy who flipped over the outstretched arms of two of the tallest men picked out from the crowd.

    I followed the noise of the harbor seals. Until I was hit by the wall of overpowering harbor seal scent. It was a very strong fishy smell. They nap on docks and they bark at each other.

I found little souvenirs, keychains, magnets, etc. to bring back home. It was now 3pm and I had forgotten about my ham & cheese sandwich and was looking for a place outside where I could sit down and write a letter in the beautiful, bright sunshine that warmed my heart and my head that day. 
     I was thinking of the Franciscan Crab Restaurant, since it sat on the dock and had seats by large picture windows overlooking the bay. But after looking at the menu placed outside for review, I just didn’t want to spend the money. So I walked back towards Salty’s Famous Fishwich. The regular size was approximately 12ins long smothered in a bed of coleslaw and jammed into a torpedo roll. As big as my appetite CAN be, it balked at this. So I got the ½ size. I watched them make my fishwich freshly in front of my through the large picture window. I even had a fresh batch of coleslaw that the cook had just whipped up.

  They had picnic tables to the side of the building so I sat there. Facing the sun, fending off the pigeons that hovered waiting for droppings, I enjoyed a moments respite from wandering. I needed to eat the coleslaw with a fork because it seemed like they piled a pound of it on the sandwich.

     I wrote a letter, scribbled from my heart, at times rambling, scratched out, a bit of coleslaw might have hit it, but(thinking on it now), painfully sincere. It was a spontaneous moment that if I thought of it, my bravery would abandon me. So after I ate, I made sure I had time to run to the post office so I could mail it directly. Which meant  that after I ate the fishwich, a concoction of fat breading deep fried to crispy perfection, I might be able to burn some of it off by a long walk through the hills of San Francisco.

     I watched hopeful as the UPS store carefully wrapped my package after I had tucked my scribbled letter carefully so only the intended reader would see it. I always wonder if such mailings ever make it to the intended receiver. I wrote it and mailed it out, much in the same way we pen a letter in bottle and send it adrift. I hope to receive a response, but don’t really expect one.

     I wandered back down towards the wharf again, not minding too much where I was, I was a bit lost. I was looking at a rental bike store, I’d seen quite a number of people renting bikes, but I seriously thought it would be more of a bother to stop, lock up the bike and worry about doing something stupid.; like cracking my head as I caromed downhill uncontrollably. I’m really not that big of a klutz, I just know my luck.

I looked up only to find myself standing on the sidewalk of the Joseph Conrad Square. Conrad is my favorite author. A Polish impoverished nobleman, English was his third language. Yet his prose resounds like the voice inside my head. I haven’t done research on him, I only know bits and pieces. I just know that I love his ‘voice’ as he writes. To find myself suddenly standing there staring at his name mind-boggling.

     In a year of unexpected joys, coalesced into this vacation adventure , to me it was a sign to keep a promise I made to myself. I would attempt the 50,000 words on NaNoWriMo. I’ve had too many people tell me that I should be a writer. I have shrugged off their compliments. Just when I thought I was confident in my writing, I’d read someone else’s works and become chagrined to think I could call myself a writer. I’ve had a few discussions about the term, but if you write, you are a writer; if you are published, then you are an author.

     After I shook myself back to reality, I wandered down to the Cannery and something just caught my eye and I wandered into the courtyard. It was there I found Norman’s Ice Cream & Freezes. My eye caught the words ‘Halo Halo’. That is the national ice cream dessert of the Philippines. It’s made of shaved ice, sweet beans, coconut strings, coconut jello, milk and ice cream. There are variations on the theme, but the aforementioned ingredients make up the majority. I had to stop and eat.

     I sat outside and listened to a guitar player playing in the courtyard. Then a Filipina older lady and her three small dogs came strolling by. She tied the leases to a chair that was next to me, but the minute she walked away, the dogs attempted to follow and dragged the chair with them. I offered to sit on the light chair to keep the dogs from following her into the ice cream shop.

     When I finished, I wandered back down towards the trolley yard to make my way back to the hotel. I wandered unto a small beach, part of the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park. I heard the shriek of excited children playing on the surf. It was like heaven to me.

I made it the trolley yard only to find a long winding line along the wrought iron fence. But unbelievable, there was a magic act, the same guy my nephew and I had seen during our road trip to the Keys last year. I had taken my nephew to Mallory Square at sunset and he enjoyed recording the various street acts. His favorite was the guy with the straight jacket. I looked him up, Michael Patrick is his name. In Mallory Square he is in a straightjacket and gets tied up in thick chains and gets out of it. At Mallory Square he had audience interaction, so the audience tied him up, but he was performing inside the trolley turn so he only had the straight jacket at Fishermans’ Wharf. It was so strange to see him. How many coincidences could I possibly get on this trip?

     I know the skeptical will smile at me condescendingly, but those who really know me know that I don’t make this stuff up. I just had to add that because I know people who I call friends who still don’t believe me. And it makes me sad to think they can’t open up their souls and feel all that the universe has to offer.

     As I said earlier, I had bought an unlimited riding pass, so I had to wait it out, or I’d lose out on $6, taking the ride back, I only lose out on $1. It was close to 90mins waiting in line. But there was a guitar player serenading the line. I watched the sun set behind the line.

     But my patience was amply rewarded. When my trolley started to board, I ended up hanging from the left side of the trolley on the first front pole! When we first came here with my family, we had ridden on the inside. In the morning my first ride was from inside as well. I boarded in the back and was peremptorily shoved inside to make room for other to board. So to find myself finally dangling proudly on that pole was perfect. Perhaps it was the unspoken wish I’d made under the bridge?

     It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

The Adventures of Traveling Feet: Day 6

San Francisco

     I got in an early flight, ugly early flight. I woke up in the morning at 3am left the hotel at 4am to make sure I caught my 6am flight. I can blow a train early in my trip, but I can't miss a flight towards the end of my trip. The flight was full and luckily, fairly quick, a tad over 2hrs.
     I had only 4-5hours of sleep last night so when I went directly to the hotel arriving around 930am, of course there were no rooms ready yet. So I left my bags and went strolling through San Franciso. Random walking, no rain, so it was great. I wandered out past Union Square, not knowing that later in the afternoon, this place would be mobbed by crowds waiting to glimpse Pres. Obama's arrival. I almost stayed at that Westin Hotel that he was staying at. But I chose a boutique hotel a mere 2 blocks down. No regrets.
     Then it started to rain and I ducked into a super cuts where a little Asian lady talked me into a trim. Some Asians take an "American" name, her real name was Hong, but when she answered the phone "...this is Holly." Go figure.
     While I was getting the hair cut two firetrucks stopped right in front of the store, earthquake preparedness drills. Of course.I was there on the 20th Anniversary of the Loma Linda earthquake. Lovely.
     By the time I wandered back to my hotel, they had a room for me. Corner room, facing a brick wall and the building next door. No problem, I wasn't here for the view in my room.
     But when I came in, I turned on the TV and Falcon Heene's story was unfolding live. I once watched my 3yr old niece cry over the balloon that got away from her, my brother was traumatize (he says) when he lost his balloon, all I could think about was a frightened little boy. Thank God he was fine.
      I watched it, riveted to the coverage, then I fell asleep. My meanderings through Seattle and my early morning flight took their revenge on me in the form of a crazy migraine headache, the kind only sleep can cure.
     I had The Ruse gig I said I would go to. So I got up from my nap and went out around 7pm. It was a Thursday night but there was a lot of activity because of the President’s presence. So I stopped to talk to the doorman, ask how safe tonight would be if I walked back to the hotel. Well, he said it should be ok, lots of people around and it should be a good 20min walk. He didn't think I'd be able to find a cab. He didn’t understand; I was asthmatic recovering from knee therapy and you want me to walk all over San Francisco at night? I was being a baby, so I marched up the alley and proceeded to walk.
    The street was still full of car traffic, but pedestrian traffic was very sparse. I thought to myself, if it’s this empty at 7pm how is it going to be around 11 or 12? I shrugged, I've walked through darker alleys, been through deeper dramas and survived, I wasn’t about to let a little thing like walking in a strange city alone deter me would I?

     I had a nice dinner at a little restaurant, Chai Yo Thai Noodle, a few doors down from Kimo’s, the bar The Ruse was going to play at. Yummy salmon wrapped in banana leaves served with veggies and a green chili dipping sauce. To top it off I had Singha beer, nom nom.
     Next door to the restaurant, attached to it actually, was an ice cream parlor. It had halo-halo ice cream. I asked for just one scoop, it was the biggest friggin scoop of ice cream I’d ever gotten for $3! I chewed it because it was melting too fast. There is all kinds of stuff in halo-halo ice cream, strings of young coconut, sweet red beans, as well as the strange sort of purplish tinge. The purple was from the ube (a purple yam).
     After I finished shoving that down my throat, I walked out and there was the band just coming out of their short bus. It looks like a short bus, but it was all white, a private little touring bus. It was nice, from the outside.
     I asked if Jason was there because he was the one responding to me on Twitter and I got introduced to him. Next thing I know, I met the rest of the band and John, the lead singer and I are standing on the corner just hanging out and chatting.
     It was the coolest thing, me and the rocker.
     Kimo’s is a neighborhood corner bar, dark, dingy, hole-in-the-wall where everyone one knows your name. Except mine.
     It was an older crowd, not the kind you think would be going to a gig with 4 rock bands. One guy came up to John and I. He was nattily dressed. He had on light colored pants(I didn’t see the shoes, but it should have been white saddle shoes to match his outfit), he had on a dark blazer and a stripped button down shirt neating tucked into his pants. He said he was 72yrs old, he looked older to me. He was as bald as a melon, with a neat grey moustached. I’m sure in his time he was a dashing young man.
     Another rich story, he came back to San Francisco after living in New Orleans, but after the Katrina storm and resulting flood, where he watched all his belongings in his house float away, he left New Orleans and came to San Francisco. I asked about the neighborhood and John remarked how he’d been here before a long time ago and it seemed to have cleaned up.
     The old timer was telling us about how the neighborhood used to be full of street hustlers, young men propositioning people as they walked down the street. I couldn’t be sure, but I did a little investigating on the internet and I thought I saw that Kimo’s used to be a drag bar. But upon arrival, I did see a small sign “New Management”. But you can’t lose the clientele you have, so I had this suspicion about the old timer. But it doesn’t make any difference to me; I thought he was a riot. He told me that if I saw people on the sidewalk, don’t worry, they won’t do anything to me because they’ll be afraid their friends will snitch them out!
     He was out there standing, talking to us telling us his story; which took much longer than it needed because he would inadvertently stop talking in the middle of his sentences. At first, I thought it was because he was old and forgetful. Until he finally admitted as he snapped out of one moment:
    “I am so stoned.” Yes.
    I was right, he was definitely an old time hippie.

    The bands were playing in the second floor. The room was small, crowded and hot. The music was rocking, good and loud. What more could I ask for? Oh yeah, a shout out from the band to the crowd declaring how I came flying down from Seattle to see them. I kept trying to tell them, I came from Chicago, but well, after a few beers, who cares?
     I left right after The Ruse played, but not before I met the president of the longshoreman’s union in Canada. I swear, I met so many people from all walks of life, for a minute I forgot who I was and was going to start calling myself Jack Kerouac. I still have his business card, Tom, president of a union, pretty much a big shot right? Yup, I met him in dark bar and traded stories about the trains. He said he used to jump on until they got kicked out. He said he road the rails as a younger man. It was so odd to see this guy, probably 50+ in this out of the way place and he finds me to talk to!
     I took my leave and quickly made my way back to the hotel. Yes, there were spots that were dark and too quiet, but I’m from Chicago, what do I have to fear? There were a lot of panhandlers and street people in the area. But I wove my way though up and down the hills. There was one spot that was dark because there was a large tree next to the side walk, and I could see at least 4 people loitering in the dark. I crossed the street and walked in the light.
     On the corner, by my hotel, there is a Walgreens drug store, the same panhandler always stands there, it’s like his territory. I would see him push his paper cup up to anyone passing by. I saw him as I walked towards him, he saw me, he gave me the once up and down, but when I passed, he left me alone. In the streets, that’s respect. I felt so proud of myself. I got respect from a homeless man.
    I know it sounds strange, but think about it. This man stands on that street day in day out, he sees all kinds of people, that he’s still standing there also tells of his ability to survive. He can tell a sucker when he sees one. And he can tell who he can’t mess with. I was one of the latter. You can’t imagine, after the keen look he gave me, how assuring that was to me.

     I went in to my room, safe and sound and I slept like a baby. I left the windows open and heard the sounds of the city and strangely enough, on that night, it was a comfort.

The Adventures of Traveling Feet: Day 5

     I was awakened before I wanted to wake by the rude chirp of a text. I couldn't be mad, it was a relative texting from the Philippines, what could I do? I rolled out of bed, literally, it was maddeningly quiet last night. I was used to the noise on the train. I sort of felt like that puppy who could only fall asleep when there was a clock ticking in it's blanket.

     I strolled out and it was a quick 3-5min walk to the Space Center. It rained throughout the evening and unfortunately, I could hear the water flowing down the gutter along side one of the corners in my room. But by the time I strolled out, the sidewalk glistened with spent rain but the sun was out and the clouds were light and breezy.
     I went for the monorail first, having been told by the desk clerk that Pike Place Market opened early and closed early. So I wanted to jump on the monorail, check out the market, walk the waterfront and take the ferry to Alki Beach. But when I saw how beautiful the morning was with the crisp sunlight, I knew I had to go to the Space Needle while I had the advantage of this morning sun.
     I am terribly afflicted with a fear of heights. I've had the fear since I was a child. I still remember the time during a family vacation when we stopped to climb a ranger tower. It was one miserable flight yet I couldn't take two steps up. I could see the space between the steps and my legs trembled and my blood coagulated at the soles of my feet and I couldn't move.
     I've been up to Sears Tower and the Hancock Building in Chicago. When relatives or friends come to town, you have to take them to one or the other if not both. I have had instances when the wind was so whipped up I swear I felt the Sears tower weave. Those were the times when I literally could only stand by the elevator, not daring to go near the windows.

     Then there are other times when I'm absolutely fine, I stand by the glass, pressing my camera to get an angle, the light, etc. I went up Baiyoke Tower in Bangkok and it was an outdoor observation deck and I wasn't in the least bit afraid. But I knew there was a possibility the fear would arise and there would be nothing for me to do but stand and wait for the elevator to come back down.
     But this is my first time in Seattle and I can't NOT go to the Space Needle. The elevator is open as it climbs up to the top. As we started up at 10mph, the guide telling us some facts about the tower. As the door closed and we rose all I heard was "The tower is 47yrs old...." Then I saw Puget sound and my feet started to melt. I looked over my shoulder only to find that the others had pushed themselves to the back of the elevator and had created room for me in the center. I stepped back away from the view wishing the ride would end quickly.

     When we got to the top, that's when I noticed it was open. I had tweeted this and I wasn't about to back down. So I walked out and a blast of wind hit me in the face. I practically clung to the wall. I got a few stares. But I didn't care, I'm scared, bite me.

     Instead I walked around the tower to get a glimpse of the entire city. I found a few benches and sat when I didn't think I could go on. The sunny side that faced downtown Seattle had the strongest winds and truly tested my resolve. But I sat on the bench then realized I needed to take a picture of Traveling Feet. It was an absurdity of being so afraid of the edge but wondering if I could somehow get one foot up on the hand rail! Instead I opted for sitting on a bench and propping my feet on a waste basket. It was perfectly place and once I took the photo, I was good. It was just so silly, but it was what I needed.
     Then I took the monorail downtown. I entered the mall and someone placed a real fresh flower lei around my neck. As I rode down the elevator, I joked with a couple about being lei'd in Seattle.
     By the time I made it out of the Westlake Mall, there was a soft but slowly building drizzle. For some reason, the hills and the odd angled streets seem to twist me around. Chicago is built in a grid system, it is easy to navigate, with the exception of a few diagonal streets, you go north, south, east & west in a straight line.
     I walked two blocks in the wrong direction. When I discovered I was going the wrong direction did I do an about face and walk back? No, I stopped, checked my map, checked the GPS on the phone, scratched my head, adjusted my baseball hat, checked the compass on the phone, looked at the street and walked down another street before I crossed back over; all the time, marching with a decided purpose, which is really the trick to avoid panhandlers and such.

     By the time I saw the sign “Public Market”, the drizzle was growing to showers and the street was steep and slick. No wonder my thighs burned that night. You get this strange gait when you walk down hill. It’s like you crab walk down. I have on sneakers yet, I wondered if I was going to go flying down the sidewalk.

     The market is this lively, organically smelly, assault on all your senses. The multi-colored fruits and vegetables, the angry reds, bright oranges or livid yellow peppers hanging from the ceiling like chili chandeliers. Best of all, the market was covered. I was tempted by the peppers, then drawn in by a fish counter that had what looked like a salmon ladder going around their area. I wandered in deeper into the “alley” as the signs said, I think Dog Alley or something.

     I found a rummage sale, found a nicely broken in smooth leather bag that I can use as my 2nd check in bag. I will take advantage of my “premium” status for as long as I can, so I don’t have to pay for my luggage.

     I crossed over when I heard the chanting at the Pike Place Fish Market. The fish are gaily arranged propped up in voluminous hills of shaved ice and when someone buys an entire fish, the workers start a chant and one of the two guys who are standing watch over the fish will hoist the fish, cradling it in their hands before they take a massive swing and fling the fish over and into the arms of a waiting worker behind the counter, who will wrap the fish. It’s a great act. I was too slow to catch any of it. The chant is the hint, but it’s quick and if you aren’t ready, you won’t capture it on camera.
     I wandered around since the rains continued to build into a torrent. There were so many little stores to see that I didn’t eat lunch until 2pm. I was distracted by the elderly Chinese man playing ditties on a traditional on stringed Chinese musical instrument. It looks like a 1 string guitar but played with a bow.

     I dropped him a dollar and asked permission to take his picture, he nodded sagely and he started playing Yankee Doodle Dandy! I preferred the traditional Chinese tunes, they are discordant to my western ear but my eastern heart understood it and found it calming.

     I wandered about until I found myself in a sea of flower sellers. This part of the market consisted of seafood stalls, flower stalls and hand made artisans. I am fascinated by bamboo, if someone hadn’t taken the moniker on Twitter, I would have been bamboo. It is a strong wood that bends in the wind to keep from snapping. It is resilient, flexible and so very strong. It defines the difference between hard and strong; hard breaks, strong bends.
     I found a small Chinese man selling beautifully framed traditional Chinese watercolors and I saw a bamboo tree. The next thing I see; he’s got 4 different paintings laid out in front of me. I came here without any preconceived notions of buying anything like this. Instead, after futile attempts to choose just one, I bought two, he gave me a discount. They always give a discount when you buy multiple items.
     Besides, support the arts.
     He ran in the rain to get more cardboard so he could really pack them well. His wife painted the canvas and he made the frames, simple clean lines along the edges on a glass cover. It was beautiful. He also wrapped it so well, I resisted the temptation to open it at my hotel to see them. I’ll wait until I find a place for them before I unwrap them.
     I wandered further down resisting all the great looking things that were on sale. Until my eye snagged a table of leather bound diaries. I have this fascination for writing implements, specialty paper/stationary and blank journals. The woman made the journals from hand made paper, sewn into the leather by her own hand. The journals were either closed with a leather thong(traditional) but she also had placed semi-precious stones on the cover to use as a closure. My eye went to this bright white journal, my hands slipped forward before I could help myself and it caressed the soft leather.
     “That’s elk, that’s why it’s so smooth.” She told me. It is also the most expensive of all the other leathers. Of course it is.
     But it called to me and I knew of someone who I thought would really like it. The artist didn’t even know the name of the semi-precious stone, it just was. It added to the almost mystical call of this beautiful leather journal.
     Journals are entrusted with the wishes of our lives, the worries and the cares, the joys and the sorrows. They are the record of what we’ve done, how we felt and where we were in that brilliant moment in time when we set pen to paper and open our hearts.

     I guess again, it was what I was looking for. Because as soon as I decided to buy the journal and pick on up for myself, I immediately felt an ease in my tummy and the next stop was lunch. It was a surprise to me when I saw the time was 2pm.

     I’d been moaning about getting pho soup in Chicago and I was marching off to Emmett Watson’s to eat seafood when I happened upon Saigon Restaurant. It was inside this courtyard space, just a little hole in the wall and it was just right for me. I got my seafood pho soup! Compromise and timing!
     When I finished lunch I was going to head back to get some more donuts from Daily Donuts, but the sugar content on those things caused my sugar to surge so I went to get some toffee covered peanuts and caramel covered cashews instead. They are nuts and will be good for me(denial!).

     On my walk back I passed Beecher’s Homemade Cheese and they were cooking up a batch in the corner window. It was fascinating and a crowd had started to gather. One vat had the liquid starting material and another had curds being stirred. So of course I bought some curds, they were the biggest cheese curds I’ve ever seen in my life and the texture was absolutely perfect.

     I walked through the rain, back to the monorail and headed back to my hotel in the Queene Anne district. It is a nice quiet neighborhood, I got lucky when I picked this place out. By the time I got back the rain had stopped and the sun was out again, I dropped my things off in my room and took a long walk. I enjoyed ever minute, even the huffing and puffing up the inclined streets.
     By the time I got back in my room, get ready for my 3am wake up call for my 4am car service for my 6am flight, I was exhausted.