West Coast Story, Part 1

The first pic I sent to my sister conveying how much I missed her as we entered the city.

CALIFORNIA: a vast land of unprecedented beauty. Perhaps one of the most important (if not the most important) states past the East Coast, California symbolizes success and the American dream. It was the home of the Gold Rush. It houses Hollywood and the popular kids of America. It inspired many Steinback novels. It is wonderfully liberal and insanely in debt. What California is now is a vision, a embodiment of how the other half lives (rest assured, Jacob Riis, I am referring to the other half of the US). The moment I stepped out of that airport in San Francisco, the second I felt the twinge of the Pacific breeze, I knew I was no longer merely a child. I was an East Coast girl on a foreign planet. Life as I knew it was over.

Two For the Road

The trip to California started with a cruel wake up call at an hour too early to be remembered (in fact, I've repressed it). After dressing for travel, my dad loaded up the van with our luggage, and we set off for BWI. For my brother, it was his first trip on a plane. For me, it was my third. I had gone to Chicago for repressed reasons last year. Sitting in the car, trying to sleep as my brother and dad endeavored on their male conversations, I couldn't help but be numb to the whole travel experience. All I could think about was how I was the only girl on this trip--the minority. My sister and mom were at home sleeping. My brain was barely functioning. My dad entered the parking garage of BWI, and we got out of the car. We walked. We got on the elevator. We rode to the United airlanes terminal. We checked our luggage. I was asked to have my age verified. We went through security. I got an issue of Elle for the plane ride. We sat at the gate. We boarded the plane. It took off.

Let's Do the Time Warp

The plane ride to Denver, where we would be laid over (is that the right phrase) for an hour was unbearably boring. The plane played New in Town, a flick with Renee of Bridget Jones' Diary fame. After perusing Elle and trying to settle intern transportation conflicts, I opted to listen to Channel 2 of the plane's audio channel. This channel was the Top 20 On 20. Somehow, for most the flight, I didn't have any repeats.

I remember sitting on that plane at the window seat, looking out my window at the crowds, and hearing that peculiar noise. It was a song. I swore the voice was familiar, it was kind of corny. But taken by the lyrics, I felt empowered. And then I realized who the singer was: Miley Cyrus, "The Climb." I was being retrospective, perhaps, thinking that high above the world in the air my troubles were insignificant. The world was a doll house, the world was a research paper that has yet to and never will be graded for it triumphs. It is not bound by a letter grade. It is not bound by plains or mountains. It soars.

Liberated, I watched as we finally landed in the most dreary city I have spent an hour in: Denver.

Behind us, a girl from Colorado kept chatting about coming home. She was lively, vivacious. The city wasn't. Seeing the dull plains, the mountains in the distance, the random city placed in the middle of no where and the farms beside it, I couldn't help but feel, as an East Coaster smacked between two major cities, that Denver was the saddest place in the world. My cell phone, when turning it on, seemed to recieve text messages from the future. That's when I realized we had crossed more than one time zone.

My dad and I were able to grab healthy, overpriced food at a cafe. The airport had FREE WiFi (a rare service I learned on the way back). We ate along with my brother, who was enjoying his Mexican feast. We ate and were kind of quiet. I checked Perez Hilton, Facebook, Gmail. I was so connected yet so far away from my friends. Instead, my big brown eyes looking up, I was stuck with two guys who were at least 10 years older than me. Lovable guys, but still...they didn't understand the significance of a Facebook divorce. Only I did.

I tweeted, bought an issue of Girls' Life (GL), enjoyed a small frozen yogurt (TCBY is just lovely), and got ready to board the next flight to San Francisco. I got on, put back on my ear phones, and listened to more Miley Cyrus and pop artists. I read the entire issue of GL, expanding my slang vocabulary. My "vacay," as the issue said, was just beginning.

A representative illustration of San Francisco's population drawn from the comforts of an East Coast, warm deck. Ahh, nostalgia.

The Start of Something New

I landed in San Francisco pretty late in East Coast terms. I believe it was around 7 back home. But it was 4 here and the sun was shining. Life was all around. We got our rental car and I dragged my luggage. My new suitcase had already been beat up--typical. I stood outside and shivered. Apparently San Francisco lacked humidity. It was colder than I thought.

But I had my epiphany at that moment, grumbling about the horrible weather. I was an East Coast girl. This place wasn't for me to live in. It was the moment I knew where I belonged in the United States, and that it definitely wasn't northern California. I got in the car and looked out the window. I texted my sister, craving her teenage, female company. I sent her a picture of the city scape. "Just got into the city. Wish you were here."

But life went on. We arrived at Hotel Adagio, just a couple blocks from Union Square, within a half hour. It was hard to believe, driving in that foreign country, how beautiful the state was. There were mountains, but they had plants on them. It was tan. The view was breathtaking. I didn't think such amazing scenery was legal. For the first time, I was truly taken back by nature. This was California. This was the West Coast. This was the stuff of fairy tales and John Steinback novels. It was all there, right in front of my eyes.

San Francisco was a hilly place, I quickly learned. We checked into our hotel, and I convinced my father to run with me. As a frequent jogger who obtained a running magazine subscription as a graduation present, I felt the need after a comatose day on multiple planes to be active. I also felt the need to do something that would raise my internal temperature 10 degrees. So my father agreed, seeing my dissatisfaction that NoCal, or whatever they called it, was not exactly a sunny 75 degree paradise.

I put on my running gear (shorts and a thermal), and walked down two or three blocks. "The city is not good for running," my dad told me, but I didn't care. We started and went through the deserted business district. It was Saturday. No one was working. We crossed streets, waiting every so often for the walking light to turn. I ran in place. People stared. I guess my uptight, high maintenance East Coast was showing.

We ran along the empty boulevards, passed all the banks and designer boutiques and up towards the pier. I saw rainbow flags. I saw palm trees and didn't comprehend how they could grow in this arctic weather. I saw a gorgeous sidewalk along numerous, strangely numbered piers that we ran down. I saw San Francisco bay. I saw chill people running. I saw just dazzling scenery. I began to wonder whether that old show Rocket Power was based here or in Santa Cruz (more on that town later).

And then we turned back. We went back passed the empty boulevards of the business district. We made our way back towards Union Square. We returned to our hotel. I took a shower, actually warm. The weather, while freezing to any humidity-loving person, was ideal for running. So I sat back, rinsed off, and got dressed. We were going to Fisherman's Wharf.

Fish Out of Water

Dressed in jeans, God's curse to mankind, hoping my pastel yellow trench would compensate, I embarked with my father and brother down Union Square to the trolley stop. My father, hoping we'd obtain an authentic San Fran experience, wanted us to travel on it...until he saw the lines. With three cars lined up, none moving at the Union Square stop, and hoards of tourists waiting already, my father surrendered the idea for the ride over. Instead, we went for a taxi.

Apparently in taxis, you don't wear seatbelts. Riding up and down hills in San Fran, however, made me almost tempted to break that unsaid rule. We arrived at Fisherman's Wharf in what seemed to be forever. The place itself was full of tourist stops. It was a portable Ocean City boardwalk down to the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum and tacky tourist shops. We were hungry, walking by the water. One of the concierge ladies at the hotel had recommended two restaurants: Boudin's and some other restaurant I forgot the name of.

Remembering my father having brought home delicious sourdough bread from his last trip out west, I felt obligated to convince my brother and father to dine at the very institution that made it (a friend's text only strengthened that feeling of duty). They agreed and we went up.

Boudin's upper floor restaurant was dimly lit. It didn't do much for me, seeing I was already fatigued. Sitting at the table, munching on far too much bread for my own good (I didn't realize they had given me sourdough until after I had enjoyed some French bread), we ordered overpriced seafood. I enjoyed shrimp scampi--or something quite like it. The shrimp were superb but the angel hair pasta was too much to handle after a long day. I ate all my shrimp and half my pasta and called it a night. I wrapped a piece of Boudin's sourdough for the next day, figuring the slice may come in handy.

Walking out of the restaurant, full beyond belief, I clutched my dad's warm arm (he was wearing a fleece) as we traversed the chilly wharf. The stores weren't at all interesting or satisfying, and all I could think about was a warm hotel room and cozy bed.

My dad had other visions, however, namely a trolley ride.

We entered the line once again full of hoards of people for a trolley back to Union Square. The line circled around the trolley stop, and my father watched as the trolleys were manually turned. Each trolley seemed to wait forever before leaving and shivering, not even the earnest entertainment of two street musicians turned magicians could cure me of my angst and discomfort. Tired, beaten, and numbed, my father and brother agreed too to forsake our place in that line that didn't seem to be moving, no matter how close we were. We took a taxi directly to our hotel.

Walking along the wharf, searching for a car, my dad pointed out he had stayed here before. He pointed to the Buena Vista bar or something, talking about that being the location irish cream was created. It didn't really sink with me, as I don't drink. I saw an In-and-Out burger, a California legacy and dynasty of fast food as he was talking. I threw up a little in my mouth, thinking of the grease pumped into each quickly prepared hamburger.

Then I shut my eyes.

I gripped the sleeve of my father, like a child or just a really cold, young tourist, and followed him aimlessly until we were able to snag a cab. I got in. I sat down. I went up and down more hills until I arrived back at the hotel. I thanked the driver, apologized to the beggars I saw in the streets, lifting their cups and hoping that even after five other beggars, some kind tourist would give them a nickel. But at that point, the sentiment had been desensitized, so many pandering off of vacationers along the same block. I entered the hotel, walked to the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor and wondered how anyone could get like that--how such a sight could evoke absolutely no feeling after seeing it so often. At the same time, I was too tired to care. I was too tired to have that heart TV described as a virtue. Then I imagined if Ford's CEO was on the streets as a beggar, if anyone would pay attention to him...

I checked my Facebook through my iTouch (the hotel had free WiFi too, linked to your room), changed into my PJs, and leaned back in my exclusive queen size bed. Being the only girl meant getting my own oversized and glammed up matress at each hotel. I leaned back, shut my eyes, prayed I'd make it through the week in one piece--a thing I always pray for, and then went to sleep. Thoughts of New York, East Coast humidity, and the warm embrace of the sun lingered in my head...

NEXT TIME: A day in the San Francisco streets, Coit Tower and a sentimental moment, Alcatraz, actual (good) pictures, and embarking through the Presidio and beyond! This one was for you, Alex.

The San Francisco cityscape taken from Coit Tower on Day 2. Doesn't it just make you crave my next wordy testimony?