Back to America

While it feels a bit like old news, I thought it would still be nice to share the beauty of Yosemite and some highlights of travels in San Francisco--it was such a delightful trip it's worth (re)visiting.

On our journey to Yosemite Tim and I were faced with having to drive over 150 miles out of our way to get there, owing to eight feet of snow in the Tioga Pass and the next two passes also closed due to ice or snow. Our destination following Yosemite was San Francisco, and when we drove 150 miles farther north than necessary to find an open pass to go west, when we made it across the northernmost passage there was a sign: San Francisco 130 [miles]. We would need to drive south now 150 miles just to get into Yosemite Park, or, we could simply keep heading west and wind up in SF early.

I had never been to Yosemite, and Tim had been once but just for the day, so while we did pause to think about the choice, it was a brief discussion. We didn’t need to be in SF a day early; we’d both been there before. And, who knew when we’d get to that part of the country again? We also had a luxurious lodge waiting for us at the end of those 150 miles . . . and it had originally played out to be our shortest driving day—so what’s another few hours in the car together? We hadn’t had an argument in the first several days . . . I think the pause came out of simply being logical, and/or out of having already travelled close to 1,000 miles by car . . . BUT, onward!

And how glad I am that we did keep calm and carry on. I wasn’t sure what to expect of Yosemite—a forest, yes, with tall sequoias and massive rocks and the serene beauty that comes with that combination—like all the Ansel Adams’ art I’d seen before. I didn’t know about the deep valleys and the waterfalls and the river than ran at our side for much of the car journey.

 It was a lovely day—a little cool, sunny, and clear. There were a lot of cars—in fact, as we entered near the sequoias we were quickly turned away; too many vehicles already in that area of the park. No matter; 35 miles in another direction were the waterfalls and El Capitan, and I’d been to see the grand trees in Muir Woods—not to say if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all, but given the choice of hopping out of the car and into a bus or driving toward water, well, it wasn’t a difficult decision.

If you’ve visited my earlier posts then you may have already seen the photos—I’m not a great photog, but some of them are indeed spectacular. The bit of vertigo from having wound round and up and down through the Canyon and Death Valley continued within me, and I was glad to have Tim behind the wheel while I simply took it all in at Yosemite. It smelled green, of pine and fresh air, and my delight for water was well served—the waterfalls, with their spray catching in the sun to appear like a thin veil of smoke, and the vibrant sound of the river rushing passed when we stopped to take photos just made me smile for having made the journey.

And the lodge? It was a true lodge atmosphere, with stuffed heads and lots of dark wood, high ceilings and open spaces, big leather sofas in the lobby to idle on with a glass of wine from the nearby bar, and there was an indoor pool and Jacuzzi for us to enjoy—in fact it was our first stop after dropping off our bags in the room. We had dinner in one of their restaurants—the more quietly upscale one—and the food was delicious and abundant—ah yes, American portion sizes truly are a bit more than England’s, and the service a bit more “chatty” shall we say, but all good.

The trip up to San Francisco the next morning was largely uneventful—save an obstruction in the road on the highway that found me stopping short and slightly swerving to avoid, thankfully with no one around me seeming to notice. It was perhaps the first time we were in traffic on our journey—most of the roads found us on our own or with a few cars behind or in front of us. As we drove from Yosemite to San Francisco we paused at a local diner for a sandwich, and the waitress was quite friendly and asked about our journey, where we were from, etc. I think Tim’s British accent intrigues foreigners. Tim seemed surprised when she left with his empty glass of Coke and returned it full—another supersized portion of cola, and I am reminded these free refills are mostly an American institution.  (That and ice, of course, which is generally not provided in England unless asked  for.) We managed to find our way to the airport, drop of the Kia with 1,400 miles of journey on the odometer, and hop the BART to the city.

1.   I’d chosen the Triton Hotel in San Francisco primarily because I’d stayed there before and knew it was a central location, just outside the gate to Chinatown and a short walk from the Montgomery St BART station.  I remembered it being friendly, clean, boutique-y with colourful rooms (some of them themed, like the Häagen-Dasz suite), and serving wine most evenings at 5, too! Well, as it turned out we arrived in time to check in, drop our bags in the small-ish but comfortable room and head back to the now bustling lounge in the lobby for a glass to relax with and plan our evening.  We’d asked one of the staff for a recommendation in Chinatown—neither Tim nor I had a meal there before, despite having visited SF often—and then we strolled in that direction to see if we could make a reservation for later that evening at what I think was called the R&G Lounge, just off Commercial Street.

We did make a reservation, adding our names on a list for 8 pm, and the lovely woman jotted it down in pencil on a list, telling us that there’d likely still be a wait . . . when we returned at around 7:45 the place was buzzing with people milling about the entrance and the bar waiting to hear their names called for a table. The system was suddenly very sophisticated—no more paper and pencil, but a lovely young woman manning the desk with an earpiece and a computer displaying a colourful seating chart. This is not your Mom and Pop Cantonese!

We ordered a drink from the bar and waited patiently; within an hour we were seated at a table on the main floor behind the hubbub of the entrance and immediately started skimming the menu. We didn’t know a lot about the food or the portions, though our waitperson did tell us that it was served “family” style—which in my mind means as it’s ready it’s brought to the table. Well, it was presented that way, but apparently family style also means large portions, which we had a hint of when we ordered three dishes—one of them designated a starter—and the waitperson told us he thought that was enough for the two of us. In the end we had a large plate of sticky pork ribs, another of delicious beef, and after a bit of thought to having a vegetable, pak choi which was not a “side” but again a family-size portion. My starter, a delightfully refreshing, cold cucumber and conch salad, was of manageable size and, better yet, delicious. We did manage to eat just about much of what was served—there was simply too much pak choi—and I was happy for my first food experience in Chinatown SF.

We took the ferry to Sausalito the next morning. It’s always been a favourite little hop of mine, starting with a coffee at Peet’s in the Ferry Building (possibly accompanied by a muffin or bagel of some healthy sort), and then off the ferry to stroll along the waterfront, in and around the marina, with a lunch thrown in for good measure. In fact this time it was much like that, only Tim and I paused in the marina, looking for Contessas and eyeing the more luxurious yachts and observing names. American like to call their boats names like Anna Maria and Julia, whereas in Cowes, you’ll find names like Joi de Vivre and Defiant and Corafin and Firefly, with the occasional Connie. (I mention her as her owners, Mark and Kim Oliver, have become good friends.)

We window-shopped in several stores along the high street in Sausalito, Tim looking for that perfect tee shirt while I picked up (and always put back) odds and ends like abalone shells and small jewels. We had lunch at one of the many places along the main street, having paused in an Italian cafe for a coffee and deciding that their menu was a bit too “much” for lunch. It was a partly cloudy day, and as ever the breeze had a lovely smell of pine and sea. Sausalito is just one of those pretty places on the planet that you need to see for yourself and visit for an hour or two. The way the houses are built into the hills, the lovely view of San Francisco just across the way; I suppose in some ways it’s a little like Cowes, with its unique shops and waterfront beauty. I often thought how lovely it would be to live there, just across the Golden Gate Bridge; and now, somehow, I’ve wound up on the Isle of Wight!

On our second San Francisco evening I was craving fish, and while I wanted “local” (as in near the hotel), the recommendations were at Fisherman’s Wharf, and particularly Scoma’s, which also has a place in Sausalito that I’ve dined at before. As we were out and about all day, we popped in to Scoma’s to make sure the hotel had made the reservation, only to find out that they didn’t actually take reservations but the hostess was happy to take our name and have us return in an hour, and since it was early we walked around the area, finding ourselves needing to by light jackets as the weather told a bit too cool for comfort.

While Scoma’s is a bit of a tourist destination, we thankfully didn’t have to wait long and were seated at a table not quite near a window but close enough to look out and see the water. Our waiter was a bit abrupt when Tim asked for a clean bread plate, only to return with what appeared to be the same one. He was, pardon the pun, a cold fish! The food however was lovely—certainly my local cod tasted fresh and we had wonderful crab cakes to start—but Tim was not well the next day, speculating on food, waiter . . .? No matter.

The next day was the reason for being in California—Jess and Mark’s wedding in Berkeley. We arrived early to stroll a bit in Berkeley before hailing a cab to the venue, a beautiful , green, woodsy setting hidden away in Tilden Park. It was slightly chilly in the late afternoon, and while it threatened rain the outdoor ceremony was blissfully dry.

Jess looked gorgeous—glamorous in her just below the knee, tiered white dress with a blue ribbon around the waist that matched the bridesmaids’ dresses; it was simply perfect. Mark looked handsome—and perhaps a bit more nervous than Jess—and both of them spoke beautifully, in their own words, about the meaningfulness of their relationship and how happy they were to be together.

There was music and dancing and speeches—Tim and I receiving favour for having travelled the farthest—and, to my delight, an intimate few minutes with both Mark and Jess; knowing how busy the bride and groom can be, I was so happy to have stolen some of their precious time and express my delight at being a part of their day.

After the ceremony we all herded in for champers and canapés in the reception room and chatted among friends old and new—I recognised a colleague, Jennifer, and we found ourselves comfortably chatting with her and with others before too long. The dinner was exceptional—paella, not often seen as wedding fare—and the bread placed on the table with olives and various spreads was delicious.

 Oh, and yes, there were cupcakes, and while I’m not much of a fan of sweets, the thick chocolate frosting looked too good to pass up.

I loved the low-key, less traditional nature of it all. Tim and I danced a little, chatted with our tablemates, and enjoyed the night immensely. Even the fact that the taxi we’d ordered didn’t arrive and we waited an hour to get back to BART for our trip back to San Francisco wasn’t enough to dampen the evening—just a small hitch in an otherwise perfect night.

And in fact, a perfect trip to America. I’ll admit it—I was happy to be back “home.” I enjoyed Taco Bell. I loved the heat of the sun, the warmth of the people, the diversity . . . well, the latter is found in England, too, and certainly in my travels in Europe, but it just felt good to be back in the states for a bit and to see parts of America like the Grand Canyon and Yosemite that I’d always wanted to see but never made it to.

What a fantastic time we both had, and, perhaps the best of all was having Tim meet some of my family, finally. David was the host with the most, engaging and talkative and happy to have us there. He enjoyed, I think, showing his home and showing Tim his gun collection—I respectfully declined and let the two of them discuss calibre, etc.  And Tim has heard so much about Robyn—the Robster—for two years now, so the opportunity to finally meet, well, that was priceless.

I recall the moment as Robyn and Jimmy stepped out of the car while Tim and I were already at David’s home;  it was precious for me to see her again. We are close, thick as thieves and still able to know what each other are thinking and finish each other’s sentences. The first hug was warming like the sun. Gosh I’d forgotten how much I miss her. And Robyn, for all she had been through with her cancer treatment, simply glowed. Jimmy, ever her attentive lover and guardian, greeted Tim cheerfully and it was all, well, comfortable. That is how I think of “family”—comfort. There are no words that can capture the moments, the laughter, the brash as well as the quiet conversation between and around us; it’s as if you’re never apart even if you’ve not seen or spoken for ages, and you fall perfectly into step without a moment’s hesitation.

And of course there was also Judy and Carroll, finally making the trip to Texas and also meeting Tim for the first time. Conversation flowed—so much to say to each other and about such wide-ranging topics: yes, the wedding (royal and otherwise), history, family, politics . . . three days filled with joy, words, and as ever, love. What a treat! I think Tim now has the official stamp of approval!

So there it is, eleven days in America over a couple of posts. The memories will go on for a good long time.

While I’m feeling warm from recalling those days, I think I’ll say goodnight.

And Away We Go

One of the benefits of living in close proximity to “the continent” is that you can travel to Europe quickly and often cheaply from England—it has been the reason why I will soon find myself forking over $82 for some additional pages in my passport, which is not set to expire until 2016 but is already chock full of stamps (as well as three visas which take up an entire page each).

The latest great escape was Greece, and Athens in particular. Tim decided to attend the European Bar Conference, somewhat at the last minute, and owing to the fact that it was being held over the late May bank holiday weekend there was no concern on my part about rescheduling work priorities—if there was a relatively cheap air deal, it was a done deal.

Well, there is cheap, but it does sometimes come with a hitch—this time the catch was a stopover in Geneva for a couple of hours. Having not been to Geneva’s airport, and knowing what was on the other end of the travel, it seemed well worth it. Two short-ish hops and I’d be basking in the sun in Athens, meeting Tim’s BFF (OK, best friend forever) Duffey and her husband Makis, and touring the Acropolis.

Away we went via Swiss Air, where the food items were naturally cheese based and there was always a smile and a small bar of milk chocolate. Once in Athens we stayed in a hotel that, from Tim’s look at the internet, seemed a stone’s throw from where the conference was taking place. Alas, it was a 20-euro pop each time, but easy enough as cabs are plentiful with a 15-minute call ahead. We arrived in the evening, honestly just in time to slide under the duvet, and woke somewhat refreshed for the start of the conference and my tour, with the other WAGs, via the pink bus. Our driver was Nicolas, our tour guide Maria, and between them we had a day-long adventure driving through central Athens, pausing now and then to look through the bus’ large, clean windows or taking a 5- or 10-minute stop to stretch our legs and look more closely at some of Athens’ sites—the Parliament building, for example, or the site of the start of the Olympic torch relay. It was a beautiful day—warm in the sun, slightly cool in the shade.

We went to the new-ish Acropolis Museum first—two years old this June, it is a modern, spacious building filled but not stuffed with lovely relics—statues of Artemis and Athena, the original friezes from the Parthenon, vases and bowls found from various excavations.

Outside the front of the entrance the floor is mostly glass—the museum was built over an excavation site and you can see the ruins clearly below. It is mostly remains of walls or columns, but still a treat to behold. Inside the layout is quite good—there is enough light and space to truly appreciate the statuary on display, even when the museum is a little crowded (and this was Sunday). Maria was a wonderful, knowledgeable tour guide, who rattled off information specific to different periods and was able to answer any question we posed.

The top floor of the museum is dramatic—overlooking the Acropolis, its walls are primarily made of glass to give a spectacular view. It is long and narrow, meant to be laid out like the Parthenon, and the friezes, numerous square blocks depicting horses and warriors, hang above.

A slight pause here to note that the British Museum has some treasured artefacts that, judging from Maria’s commentary, Greece would love to have. She and I had a conversation later about it, and she laughed and said, no, you keep them, as if to intimate that given Greece’s current economic situation the valuable assets would be safer in British hands!

The walk from the museum to the Acropolis is short—perhaps 10 minutes—and then you begin the slow climb to the top. The stones are slippery, polished from years of foot traffic.  At first glance the climb looks a bit daunting—it seems high, and it was a warm day. I half thought to return to one of the few kiosks selling water, but had just had my fill at the museum and though that should keep me going—I didn’t want to be burdened with any more than I had, which was a small purse and camera.

It was a well-paced climb—first stopping at the site of the theatre, and then climbing on to the marble steps that were the foot of the Acropolis. We paused there to sit in the shade on the cool marble while Maria gave us some facts before climbing up to the Parthenon.  I must say, it is one thing to see these  ruins in books, or on postcards, and oh what another to be standing in front of them, thinking back to the time of Socrates and Plato and imagining a completely different world of gods and goddesses.

There is restoration work going on—from a certain angle you can take photographs that don’t include the massive cranes or the steel fences. We all found those in our lens and snapped—blue sky, worn stone, pillars still standing tall. (Doric, Ionic, Corinthian? I do think we saw them all.)

How lucky am I to have had that chance, the quick weekend getaway (and all while Tim was listening to dozens of presentations ).  Ah, yes, once again I come away from a weekend that I know I am fortunate to have had in a marvellous place.

Oh, the food!  I know my reputation . . . yes, I had a Greek salad. The feta was s semi-hard, rectangular chunk dribbled with lovely green olive oil, with fresh tomatoes and lettuce and an olive or two sharing the plate. Four of us had a lovely lunch together, a few blocks walk from the museum in one of the many outdoor tavernas that our guide Maria said was “authentic.” We shared a bottle of Greek white wine, which was delicious—I don’t recall the grape, but it was similar in taste to a chenin blanc. The conversation was mostly among the other three, who were clearly friends for a while—the bar conference WAGs have travelled to many sites over the last dozen or so years. They were welcoming, and we talked about where we lived and how our gardens grew and there was some discussion about the political goings-on within the bar council. I took mental notes!

The day ended with a wonderful dinner of Greek “tapas” at one of the restaurants in the hotel where the conference was held. It was out of doors and a lovely night, cool enough for a light jacket. Wine flowed, food simply kept coming—yes, Greek salad, and grilled octopus and a delightful piece of fish were among the courses. There was a sweet treat of Greek baklava to end the meal, which found us also listening to a speech or two, and then the evening culminated with fireworks.

My initial thought, I will admit, is that the European bar has a lot of expendable cash!

I enjoyed getting to know some of the members of the bar, all Brits, and even without holding a law degree I could hold my own in conversation—there are a lot of other interesting topics to choose from, after all. It was a lovely, perfect Greek evening, a fantastic weekend all in all. I did sit by the pool for a little bit the next day while Tim went to the conclusion of the conference, but it was a bit noisy and the air was cool, not precisely pool weather, so I went back to our room where we had a lovely balcony overlooking the sea beyond and read a few pages.

I know, I know—I haven’t finished telling the tale of our road trip to the West; I’ll have to sit down and give that some thought and perhaps my next post will provide a bit more detail.

I do recall that the first meal Tim and I had once we landed in Phoenix and picked up the car was Taco Bell. I’m not sure why that fact has stuck with me! There wasn’t another one of those anywhere near Death Valley or Yosemite, as I recall, and by the time we reached San Francisco there were innumerable choices for dining. Honestly, TB was a fast food favourite in New Jersey when I wasn’t in the mood for pizza—I was convinced that a chicken burrito was filled with healthy food!

I should be staying put for a while—I need to give my passport to the embassy to get those additional pages (I was chided in Geneva for only having one left by one of the passport control gents). Then again, there’s always Cowes, and an upcoming sailing weekend in Lymington, and before you know it a trip down the aisle . . .