Travelogue I

Before I get started, I want to give a little lurve . . .

First to longtime lurker Never That Easy, who awarded me her Perfect Post Award for October, 2006. Here it is:

. . . which I won for my Smart Bitches Day post, Boys Need Romance. Thanks, NTE! If this keeps up, I’ll have to start stacking awards on my sidebar.

Next, some furry love to Erin O’Brien, who aims to one-up my cameltoe extravaganzi with one of her own. Kinda. Sorta. Thanks, gorgeous.

One question: if the plural of clitoris is clitorides, and if a group of sharks is called a shiver, a group of roebucks a bevy, and a group of parrots a pandemonium, what should we call a group of penises? I vote for slither, which happens to be one name for a group of snakes. But I’m open to suggestion.

By the way, when I do my shopping today, I’ll be sure to buy an ejaculation of Krugys for all you Krugy-flaunting women willing to send someone like ME your home addresses. Suckers.

On to the travelogue.

Here’s a wonderful photo of the Ferry Building from Corn Dog (who has taken my advice and posted a nekkid man-photo on her blog. I sure hope that bicycle has a seat). That was Wednesday night, and CD has it covered. What a great dinner.

Dipshit that I am, I forgot to bring a camera. Here’s a photo of Nob Hill I pinched from this French website, which has lots of other nice San Francisco photos. Oh, well.

Thursday night, I took the hotel shuttle to the airport, then BART to the downtown Civic Center station. I had been sitting on my ass all day at the meeting and wanted nothing more than a little exercise, a good meal, and a chance to reacquaint myself with San Francisco.

And I wanted to find some Gun Oil because it was recommended to me by a gay friend, and you know those guys know their lubricants.

On the way down to the city, I realized I hadn’t done this in about 25 years — “this” being a relatively aimless walk through San Francisco. In college, it was my favorite thing to do on weekends, but back then my dad had limited my spending money to $25 a week. Not a fortune, considering I had to pay for weekend meals out of that sum.

This time, I had cash. And credit cards.

Twenty-five years, though. How much could change in 25 years?

The first thing I noticed: swarms of young people with cell phones glued to their ears. We didn’t have that 25 years ago.

I stopped in at the San Francisco Library, hoping to find a free Internet link. Yeah, the whole trip I was going through Web Withdrawal. (It was ugly. Formication, finger spasms, twitching eyelids . . . Oh, how I wanted to check my blog.) But the local rabble were all over those terminals and I couldn’t see spending my evening in a library, with so many other options open to me. Even I am not that nuts.

Next, I crossed the UN Plaza (daylight photo here, but oh, is it ever spectacular at night), intending to head up Polk to Ghirardelli Square. Last time I walked Polk (1981?), I was with my friend Sam — two homoterrified 19-year-olds braving the gauntlet of The White Swallow and Hard-On Leather. But a lot has gone down since ’81, and Polk is a shadow of its former self. Even the Mitchell Brothers Theater looked sedate.

I had dinner at Ti Piacera, and oh boy would I ever go back. I started off with an antipasto dish, involtini, and omigod. Thinly sliced, charcoal-grilled eggplant wrapped around a creamy mozarella, topped with red bell pepper coulis. After that, I had a salad of cucumber, artichoke hearts, more red bell pepper, and calamari grilled to perfection. For my main course, I ordered lamb kebab with more grilled eggplant. I read Outlander by candlelight, sipping my glass of Shiraz.

Too full for dessert, I set out on Polk once again, intending to catch dessert at Ghirardelli Square; but by the time I got there, I was still too full. I walked past the shlocky art stores (like the Keane Gallery — big eyes! They’re following me everywhere!) then walked up Columbus to the Tower Records store. Sadly, they were having a going out of business sale. I picked up Tool’s new CD, 10,000 Days. (I’ve only listened to the first four tracks, but I like it so far.)

What to do now? Just past Tower Records, I looked up Jones and saw a nearly vertical street.

Oh, yeah.

In college, I could walk these hills, but I would always get shin splints and I would have to stop for rests. This evening, I wanted to prove to myself I’m in better shape now than I was in college. I have to be. I’m about thirty pounds heavier and it’s (almost) all muscle, most of it in my legs, so damn it, I was going to conquer Nob Hill.

That Nob Hill photo above does not do justice to this climb. Under the street lamps’ false light, the steepest portion of Jones looks like a wall. Sidewalks give way to stairs; I counted the steps: 389. I allowed myself a minute’s rest after each 100 steps and I did it all in one go. Woo-hoo! My legs rock!

Nothing much to report after that. By the end of the climb, I had drenched my cotton shirt, and I hadn’t thought to buy a tee-shirt down at the wharf. I was still dripping when I got to the BART station.

One of the things I love about San Francisco: I feel safe on these streets. Even walking through the Tenderloin, I never once felt endangered. Not sure I’d feel the same way if I were a young woman, but this grizzly little bald guy was carefree.

Here’s Corn Dog and Walnut, in case you haven’t checked out CD’s post yet:

Tonight: Live blogging if I can manage it. (7 PST?)

Tomorrow: Berkeley.

D.