Looking for Lefty's
Nov 18th, 2015, 06:54 PM
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Looking for Lefty's
.... and we found it, eventually. But first, let’s talk about the journey, from Auckland New Zealand to San Francisco USA.
Hellish trip! Since we last looked, Air New Zealand has snuck more seats into its planes. Leg room is a distant memory; sleep elusive; comfort unattainable. Walking the aisles is a dangerous activity, hips crashing through sticking-out elbows like glass mallets clunking along a xylophone keyboard..
Twelve-plus hours of this exquisite torture, then an hour-and-a-half in a Customs queue (oops, they call it a line over here!) doesn't exactly put you in the docile frame of mind that US Customs likes to see in its victims. When invited to place her palms on a fingerprint machine that a thousand grubby-pawed people ahead of us had used already, Lee fixed the Customs guy with a steely glare and asked "You really want me to touch that?" We waited for his explosion, but he surprised us. Leaning across to wipe the screen with a cloth, he grinned and said "We don't bother much with hygiene here, ma'm, but feel free to wash your hands when we're through, if you want."
Another hour-and-a-half fluffing around with shuttles (the BART light rail would've been a third of the time and half the cost), and finally we were in the Handlery Hotel in downtown San Francisco. It has an old-world, family-run charm and elegance, and it's in Union Square, right in the centre of the action: hotels, cafes, tourists everywhere, a grinning, coloured band pumping out lively jazz on the street outside, the footpath (oops, sidewalk!) blocked by people dancing to the music and cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd of toe-tapping, hand-clapping onlookers.
A good time to arrive. Only half an afternoon and an evening to struggle through before bedtime and hopefully waking up tomorrow settled into the local time zone. Time for a wander. We weren't especially looking for Lefty O’Doul’s at this time (just as well, because we didn't find it - not then, anyway), but it was in the back of our minds.
We found Mikeller's Brew Bar, and just as quickly left it. Bland Ikea wood grains; brain-shredding chatter bouncing off the walls at volumes way off the decibel scale. We crossed John's Grill off our dining list too. It's where Humphrey Bogart & Lauren Bacall dined in The Maltese Falcon, but a little stiff-suited and starch table-clothed for our currently rumpled condition.
Johnny Foley's got our vote: a spacious, not-too-crowded bar with a good range of beers and only a low-level hum of conversation. Lee's Belgian Chimay and my Anchor Steam quickly hurtled us just a little bit further along the path from mildly light-headed to comprehensively jet-lagged. We stayed on to dine, chatting with with a honeymoon couple from Manchester, then later a young gay couple from Utrecht who now live here. A hearty meal; Americans do food on a big-dollop scale. The tastes fall somewhat short of what we're used to, but the quantities are daunting.
It was on our way back to our hotel that we stumbled upon Lefty O'Doul's - almost next door to our hotel. We took it as an omen and lurched in for a nightcap. Lefty O'Doul was a major league baseball player, around the time when the game was pretty much dominated by Babe Ruth. His bar in SF is a treasure trove of old photos from his career strung around the walls. It's a long, cavernous affair of dark rich wood and dim lighting, so you can't really study the photos; but they add to the old world atmosphere of the place. Tonight we stayed just long enough to enjoy the feel of it.
We were to find another, different kind of, Lefty's next day: a novelty shop at Pier 39 (Fisherman's Wharf) specialising in goods for left-handed people. But we'll tell you about Fisherman's Wharf in the next instalment. For the moment, some first impressions of SF.....
The place: lively and buzzing. The people: friendly and helpful; quick to pick that you're a visitor, and interested to know where you're from. One negative: amidst all the neon and affluence, there's a lot of visible poverty. People sleeping in doorways, fossicking in litter bins for recyclables which they lug around in big plastic sacks to cash in somewhere. But they're not aggressive. They just mooch along quietly, ignoring, and being ignored by, the world around them.
It’s late. We've run out of steam. Time to turn in. Catch you later.....
Hellish trip! Since we last looked, Air New Zealand has snuck more seats into its planes. Leg room is a distant memory; sleep elusive; comfort unattainable. Walking the aisles is a dangerous activity, hips crashing through sticking-out elbows like glass mallets clunking along a xylophone keyboard..
Twelve-plus hours of this exquisite torture, then an hour-and-a-half in a Customs queue (oops, they call it a line over here!) doesn't exactly put you in the docile frame of mind that US Customs likes to see in its victims. When invited to place her palms on a fingerprint machine that a thousand grubby-pawed people ahead of us had used already, Lee fixed the Customs guy with a steely glare and asked "You really want me to touch that?" We waited for his explosion, but he surprised us. Leaning across to wipe the screen with a cloth, he grinned and said "We don't bother much with hygiene here, ma'm, but feel free to wash your hands when we're through, if you want."
Another hour-and-a-half fluffing around with shuttles (the BART light rail would've been a third of the time and half the cost), and finally we were in the Handlery Hotel in downtown San Francisco. It has an old-world, family-run charm and elegance, and it's in Union Square, right in the centre of the action: hotels, cafes, tourists everywhere, a grinning, coloured band pumping out lively jazz on the street outside, the footpath (oops, sidewalk!) blocked by people dancing to the music and cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd of toe-tapping, hand-clapping onlookers.
A good time to arrive. Only half an afternoon and an evening to struggle through before bedtime and hopefully waking up tomorrow settled into the local time zone. Time for a wander. We weren't especially looking for Lefty O’Doul’s at this time (just as well, because we didn't find it - not then, anyway), but it was in the back of our minds.
We found Mikeller's Brew Bar, and just as quickly left it. Bland Ikea wood grains; brain-shredding chatter bouncing off the walls at volumes way off the decibel scale. We crossed John's Grill off our dining list too. It's where Humphrey Bogart & Lauren Bacall dined in The Maltese Falcon, but a little stiff-suited and starch table-clothed for our currently rumpled condition.
Johnny Foley's got our vote: a spacious, not-too-crowded bar with a good range of beers and only a low-level hum of conversation. Lee's Belgian Chimay and my Anchor Steam quickly hurtled us just a little bit further along the path from mildly light-headed to comprehensively jet-lagged. We stayed on to dine, chatting with with a honeymoon couple from Manchester, then later a young gay couple from Utrecht who now live here. A hearty meal; Americans do food on a big-dollop scale. The tastes fall somewhat short of what we're used to, but the quantities are daunting.
It was on our way back to our hotel that we stumbled upon Lefty O'Doul's - almost next door to our hotel. We took it as an omen and lurched in for a nightcap. Lefty O'Doul was a major league baseball player, around the time when the game was pretty much dominated by Babe Ruth. His bar in SF is a treasure trove of old photos from his career strung around the walls. It's a long, cavernous affair of dark rich wood and dim lighting, so you can't really study the photos; but they add to the old world atmosphere of the place. Tonight we stayed just long enough to enjoy the feel of it.
We were to find another, different kind of, Lefty's next day: a novelty shop at Pier 39 (Fisherman's Wharf) specialising in goods for left-handed people. But we'll tell you about Fisherman's Wharf in the next instalment. For the moment, some first impressions of SF.....
The place: lively and buzzing. The people: friendly and helpful; quick to pick that you're a visitor, and interested to know where you're from. One negative: amidst all the neon and affluence, there's a lot of visible poverty. People sleeping in doorways, fossicking in litter bins for recyclables which they lug around in big plastic sacks to cash in somewhere. But they're not aggressive. They just mooch along quietly, ignoring, and being ignored by, the world around them.
It’s late. We've run out of steam. Time to turn in. Catch you later.....
Nov 19th, 2015, 01:00 PM
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Interesting. My spellcheck underlined "fossicking", so I suspected the word might be a problem for Americans! A common, everyday word to us: "rummaging, searching around".
In our distant part of the world we have trouble keeping up with what's fashionable for describing people of coloured ethnicity. It used to be "black" but that went out of vogue and, as you can see from the fact that I've used the word again, "coloured" is now considered the polite term - over here anyway. I gather from SAB's posting that may not be the case in the US? What term should I have used? The problem doesn't arise here domestically, because we tend to refer to our two major indigenous groups by their "race" description: "Maoris", and "Pacific Islanders".
In our distant part of the world we have trouble keeping up with what's fashionable for describing people of coloured ethnicity. It used to be "black" but that went out of vogue and, as you can see from the fact that I've used the word again, "coloured" is now considered the polite term - over here anyway. I gather from SAB's posting that may not be the case in the US? What term should I have used? The problem doesn't arise here domestically, because we tend to refer to our two major indigenous groups by their "race" description: "Maoris", and "Pacific Islanders".
Nov 19th, 2015, 07:21 PM
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Colored has not been acceptable in the United States since the late 1950's early 1960's; and it is not making a comeback! If you are really interested, people of African descent refer to themselves as black or African American.
Nov 19th, 2015, 09:31 PM
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"Shopping with your husband is like going hunting with the game warden," said Lee with a notable absence of subtlety as she stopped, eager with anticipation, at the door of a vast San Francisco shoe emporium advertising end-of-season bargains. I took the hint and went off to explore Cable Car etiquette instead.
Cable cars. We’d seen them on car chase movies, trundling up and down incredibly steep streets that flatten out at each intersection. They're as much a tourist attraction as a means of commuting, often overseen by cheerfully extroverted African American ladies who make no bones about telling you where to sit or shaming seated youngsters into standing for elderly people or pregnant mothers-to-be. When you see the queues (oops, lines!) at the bottom turntable, you think "How can anyone at a stop further up get a look in?" So I asked a conductor. "They take off from here only half full, and pick up a few from each stop further up, where the lines are shorter." He spotted a light come on in my head, and beat me to it: "You might wanna walk up a few stops yourself," he twinkled. "It could be quicker."
Two cable car lines go to Fishermans Wharf, which is where most SF's visitors head for. The Powell & Mason line goes via Columbus Av, giving a preview of where you may want to return to for dining that night (we did). But we took the Powell-Hyde line. It goes via some right-angle turns up three spectacular series of steep hills; and you can if you want get off at Lombard St (again, we did). This narrow street zigzags steeply downhill between attractive flower gardens, before continuing for a pleasant walk (still downhill) to Columbus Av and on to the wharf.
Fishermans Wharf reveals its charms in stages. First, you're surrounded by souvenir and clothing shops. It's easy, at first glance, to dismiss these as the usual hideous tat best avoided in tourist traps the world over. Don't. There's quality to be had here, and prices are incredibly cheap. Second, you come to the food stalls. Shrimp (big; more what we'd call prawn) salads, crab sandwiches, clam chowder, fried fish. The smoky smells of street cooking. And third, board-walked Pier 39: shop-surrounded, bustling, colourful. Like a carnival: enticing eateries, exciting shops, entertaining buskers. A place in which to feel good, happy, on a high. A place you don't want to leave.
Enjoying our clam chowders served in bowls of hollowed-out sourdough bread, we were accosted by two friendly ladies from Texas loudly wanting to know "Where y'all from?" before regaling us with their life stories and most intimate secrets. That's how it is here - everyone's "out there", interested, uninhibited, wanting to chat, wanting to reveal all. Life is one big, happy, unapologetic confessional.
Later we returned to the previously mentioned Columbus Av. First, a craft brown ale at Rogues Alehouse, outside on the pavement – slightly chilly - because inside it was more of that brain-shredding high-decibel stuff. (Conversation, not music –it’s no different back home; where have all the acoustics engineers gone in today's world, we wonder)? Then to Cafe Delucchi for a meal that brought back memories of Italy. Our travel agent back home recommended it, and we weren’t disappointed. Delicious food, mellow Montepulciano red, cheerful service. Walked home from there in gathering twilight, along Stockton St which is less hilly than some others we could have taken. A long walk, but after such excellent wining and dining we needed it.
Another day, the metro to Haight & Ashbury. It's a retro precinct, redolent with all the look, tastes and smells of the 1950's and 1960's. Clothing shops, novelty shops, music shops, old bars and cafes, all in keeping with the period. Another happy place: the pungent smell of cannabis wafting from darkened caverns lurking behind questionable doorways. Martin Mack’s Gastropub & Brewery serves some interesting beer, as well as the "the deadliest Bloody Mary in town". Would love to have tried one, but a bit too early in the day for us. They serve them in jam jars whose rims have been dipped in gritty red pepper.
Coming back, we left the metro early and walked. A long way, through a mix of colourful neighbourhoods - from grand to insalubrious. A great way to see the untouristed face of the city. People of various ethnicities gathered in groups at street corners yelling and cracking jokes loudly and cheerfully with other groups gathered on the opposite side of the street.
FInally, Alcatraz. We had mixed feelings about this. I've been to Port Arthur in Tasmania, and we've both done Trial Bay on the Australian coast. They're schizophrenic places: the abject misery of the conditions fighting for precedence in your brain and memory with the stunning beauty of the surroundings. We were afraid Alcatraz might be too much of the former, too little of the latter. But, in the event, we were tremendously impressed. The whole experience, from launch trip, to island climb, to prison tour, was utterly arresting (pun intended), and very professionally run. OK, there were times when we wandered off in a wrong direction to find the audio guide describing something other than what we were seeing, but Lee & I do that. We're good at it. But the audio guide is so descriptive that you soon correct those mistakes. And some of the stories - about uprisings, escape attempts and so on - are utterly riveting and very descriptively narrated. We can recommend the Alcatraz tour; it's not expensive, and it's extremely well done.
Which brings us to the end of our SF stopover. But not without a final contretémps with US Customs as we left. Along with what you usually remove going through the X-Ray machines, they wanted Lee to remove shoes as well. She's not wearing socks; the carpet looks dodgy, being well-trodden by the bare- or sock- footed hordes before her. A face-off: Lee in her shoes refusing to budge, a Customs officer insisting she remove them. Then he shrugged and gave up, waved her through. US Customs are becoming human. They let only one person at a time through for passport inspection. I said to the lady "We're together." She grinned cheekily and said "Yo'all come on through now. It's not in my job description to separate couples."
A final beer airside while waiting to board. A Biersch Märzen, refreshingly sour, served to our table by a chatty barmaid. Lee complimented her on her vast array of body piercings. Suddenly she bent over, hands to mouth, making choking noises. We step back, thinking she's about to vomit. But no, she's ejecting a tongue stud! She springs back upright, waving the stud triumphantly for Lee to have a look at. Later, when we leave, we tip her our remaining US dollars to get rid of them. The performance had been worth it, and we've no need for them where we’re going.
Next stop: Berlin. After which we hire a car and start touring. So it’s probably appropriate that I continue this diary in the Europe Forum. Cheers everyone, and thanks for listening...
Cable cars. We’d seen them on car chase movies, trundling up and down incredibly steep streets that flatten out at each intersection. They're as much a tourist attraction as a means of commuting, often overseen by cheerfully extroverted African American ladies who make no bones about telling you where to sit or shaming seated youngsters into standing for elderly people or pregnant mothers-to-be. When you see the queues (oops, lines!) at the bottom turntable, you think "How can anyone at a stop further up get a look in?" So I asked a conductor. "They take off from here only half full, and pick up a few from each stop further up, where the lines are shorter." He spotted a light come on in my head, and beat me to it: "You might wanna walk up a few stops yourself," he twinkled. "It could be quicker."
Two cable car lines go to Fishermans Wharf, which is where most SF's visitors head for. The Powell & Mason line goes via Columbus Av, giving a preview of where you may want to return to for dining that night (we did). But we took the Powell-Hyde line. It goes via some right-angle turns up three spectacular series of steep hills; and you can if you want get off at Lombard St (again, we did). This narrow street zigzags steeply downhill between attractive flower gardens, before continuing for a pleasant walk (still downhill) to Columbus Av and on to the wharf.
Fishermans Wharf reveals its charms in stages. First, you're surrounded by souvenir and clothing shops. It's easy, at first glance, to dismiss these as the usual hideous tat best avoided in tourist traps the world over. Don't. There's quality to be had here, and prices are incredibly cheap. Second, you come to the food stalls. Shrimp (big; more what we'd call prawn) salads, crab sandwiches, clam chowder, fried fish. The smoky smells of street cooking. And third, board-walked Pier 39: shop-surrounded, bustling, colourful. Like a carnival: enticing eateries, exciting shops, entertaining buskers. A place in which to feel good, happy, on a high. A place you don't want to leave.
Enjoying our clam chowders served in bowls of hollowed-out sourdough bread, we were accosted by two friendly ladies from Texas loudly wanting to know "Where y'all from?" before regaling us with their life stories and most intimate secrets. That's how it is here - everyone's "out there", interested, uninhibited, wanting to chat, wanting to reveal all. Life is one big, happy, unapologetic confessional.
Later we returned to the previously mentioned Columbus Av. First, a craft brown ale at Rogues Alehouse, outside on the pavement – slightly chilly - because inside it was more of that brain-shredding high-decibel stuff. (Conversation, not music –it’s no different back home; where have all the acoustics engineers gone in today's world, we wonder)? Then to Cafe Delucchi for a meal that brought back memories of Italy. Our travel agent back home recommended it, and we weren’t disappointed. Delicious food, mellow Montepulciano red, cheerful service. Walked home from there in gathering twilight, along Stockton St which is less hilly than some others we could have taken. A long walk, but after such excellent wining and dining we needed it.
Another day, the metro to Haight & Ashbury. It's a retro precinct, redolent with all the look, tastes and smells of the 1950's and 1960's. Clothing shops, novelty shops, music shops, old bars and cafes, all in keeping with the period. Another happy place: the pungent smell of cannabis wafting from darkened caverns lurking behind questionable doorways. Martin Mack’s Gastropub & Brewery serves some interesting beer, as well as the "the deadliest Bloody Mary in town". Would love to have tried one, but a bit too early in the day for us. They serve them in jam jars whose rims have been dipped in gritty red pepper.
Coming back, we left the metro early and walked. A long way, through a mix of colourful neighbourhoods - from grand to insalubrious. A great way to see the untouristed face of the city. People of various ethnicities gathered in groups at street corners yelling and cracking jokes loudly and cheerfully with other groups gathered on the opposite side of the street.
FInally, Alcatraz. We had mixed feelings about this. I've been to Port Arthur in Tasmania, and we've both done Trial Bay on the Australian coast. They're schizophrenic places: the abject misery of the conditions fighting for precedence in your brain and memory with the stunning beauty of the surroundings. We were afraid Alcatraz might be too much of the former, too little of the latter. But, in the event, we were tremendously impressed. The whole experience, from launch trip, to island climb, to prison tour, was utterly arresting (pun intended), and very professionally run. OK, there were times when we wandered off in a wrong direction to find the audio guide describing something other than what we were seeing, but Lee & I do that. We're good at it. But the audio guide is so descriptive that you soon correct those mistakes. And some of the stories - about uprisings, escape attempts and so on - are utterly riveting and very descriptively narrated. We can recommend the Alcatraz tour; it's not expensive, and it's extremely well done.
Which brings us to the end of our SF stopover. But not without a final contretémps with US Customs as we left. Along with what you usually remove going through the X-Ray machines, they wanted Lee to remove shoes as well. She's not wearing socks; the carpet looks dodgy, being well-trodden by the bare- or sock- footed hordes before her. A face-off: Lee in her shoes refusing to budge, a Customs officer insisting she remove them. Then he shrugged and gave up, waved her through. US Customs are becoming human. They let only one person at a time through for passport inspection. I said to the lady "We're together." She grinned cheekily and said "Yo'all come on through now. It's not in my job description to separate couples."
A final beer airside while waiting to board. A Biersch Märzen, refreshingly sour, served to our table by a chatty barmaid. Lee complimented her on her vast array of body piercings. Suddenly she bent over, hands to mouth, making choking noises. We step back, thinking she's about to vomit. But no, she's ejecting a tongue stud! She springs back upright, waving the stud triumphantly for Lee to have a look at. Later, when we leave, we tip her our remaining US dollars to get rid of them. The performance had been worth it, and we've no need for them where we’re going.
Next stop: Berlin. After which we hire a car and start touring. So it’s probably appropriate that I continue this diary in the Europe Forum. Cheers everyone, and thanks for listening...
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