San Francisco things to do
Jul 14th, 1999 | 07:22 AM
#1
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San Francisco things to do
My wife and I will be vacationing in SF in 3 weeks and don't have the itinerary completely filled! We have the wine country and Alcatraz scheduled, as well as a trip down to Monterey. Need help on the SF area sights and eats. First time to SF area so I'm very openminded. Any suggestions?
Jul 14th, 1999 | 12:05 PM
#3
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Bob, Don't over schedule your trip. You don't say how long you'll be here, but plan to spend a couple days if possible just walking around, exploring shops and neighborhoods. We always find interesting things to do in the city. You might want to take the ferry over to Sausalito or Tiburon where there is a super Mexican restaurant with great views back to SF. Go to SFGate for the Chronicle's restaurant reviews or search the old posts here. A few of our favorites are Boulevard, Kuleto's, Moose's, Harbor Village, Waterfront, and Rose Pistola. Get a copy of the Eyewitness Guide to SF--it will explain the various neighborhoods and what to see. Enjoy.
Jul 15th, 1999 | 12:20 AM
#7
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Hi Bob!
I just recently went to San Francisco for my honeymoon. Like you, we did not have an itinerary so I asked people around. If you are at the Wharf- try to eat at Scoma's. I think it's one of the best restaurant. Ofcourse, you have to ride the Cable Car to truly experience the San Francisco Experience. If your wife wants to do some shopping, she can go to market street- eight street, that's where the shopping malls and stores begin. Enjoy and let me know if you need any suggestions.
I just recently went to San Francisco for my honeymoon. Like you, we did not have an itinerary so I asked people around. If you are at the Wharf- try to eat at Scoma's. I think it's one of the best restaurant. Ofcourse, you have to ride the Cable Car to truly experience the San Francisco Experience. If your wife wants to do some shopping, she can go to market street- eight street, that's where the shopping malls and stores begin. Enjoy and let me know if you need any suggestions.
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Jul 23rd, 1999 | 09:05 AM
#9
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From the pine-shaded towns of Georgia they come. From the
sprawling suburbs of Ohio and the cramped apartments of
Manhattan. By Boeing jet, by Greyhound, by wood-paneled
station wagon and Harley-Davidson. They come bearing
uncomfortable walking shoes and empty suitcases yearning for
souvenirs. They come with dreams of Jack Kerouac, Carol
Doda, and free fog for all.
They are the San Francisco tourists.
And you are their tour guide.
It doesn’t matter that you didn’t ask
for this job. Just by living in this great
city, near this great city, or even a
day’s drive from this great city, you
have volunteered your time, energy,
and sofa bed to the vacation
enjoyment of others.
When faced with these obligations,
it’s tempting just to steer your guests
toward Pier 39 and consider your duty done. Unfortunately,
these are people you know, people you love. You owe them
something a little more personal.
It isn’t that difficult. First, think carefully about your visitors.
Consider their ages, their dispositions, their loves and hates. Do
they like jazz? Are they afraid of heights? Can they order in
Cantonese? Then ask yourself what little slice of San Francisco
these people will want to take home and treasure.
To help you find the answer, we’ve woven together these five
tourist tales. So gather round and listen. You may find your own
guests in these stories—stories that begin, "Once upon a time,
in the kingdom of San Francisco . . ."
They Like Ike At 5:23 a.m., it begins. A creak of bedsprings, a
loud clearing of sinuses. By the time you stumble bleary-eyed into the
living room, they’re drinking Folgers instant coffee and talking loudly
over the Today show. Uncle Irv and Aunt Edna. By some bizarre twist
of genetics, your relatives.
After a stack of Swedish
pancakes at Sears Fine Food,
your first stop is the Jeremiah
O’Brien. On board the World War
II liberty ship, the voices of the
Andrews Sisters ring through
narrow hallways. Edna avoids the
steep steps into the engine room,
but you follow Irv down to where a
bright-eyed veteran is explaining
how scenes from Titanic were shot using Jeremiah’s triple-expansion
steam engine. Irv couldn’t care less. He’s too busy poking around the
pipes, peering into the boilers. "Look here," he beckons, pointing to a
3-foot-long box wrench. "Won two bits for putting my head through one
of these."
After the Jeremiah, Irv is itching to go see the World War II Pampanito
sub, also docked at Pier 45. You and Edna decide to visit the nearby
city museum, in the Cannery building. As you work your way through,
the city’s legends spring to life: Joshua Norton, self-declared Emperor
of the United States; Lillie Hitchcock Coit, spunky heiress and fire
aficionado. Just as you and Edna are poring over bottles melted in the
1906 inferno, Irv reappears. "How was the Pampanito?" you ask.
"Tighter than a sardine can. Let’s eat."
On the western edge of Golden Gate Park, the historic Beach Chalet
is crowded with couples sipping microbrews and chatting over salads.
While you wait, you study the vibrant WPA murals of San Francisco.
Edna stops before a panel of women in one-piece swimsuits that show
their strong legs and rounded stomachs. "Now that’s what a gal
should look like," she says approvingly. "Well-fed."
After lunch and two stops in Golden Gate
Park—the arboretum for Edna and the
fly-casting pools for Irv—you cruise down
the Great Highway to Fort Funston. A faded
wind sock sails taut to the east, beckoning
to hang gliders. You pause to watch a group
struggling into their pupa-like harnesses,
then head to the ocean overlook.
"Holy mackerel!" bellows Irv as the first
glider leaps off the cliff. The three of you sit
spellbound, squinting up at the silhouettes
whirling on an updraft. Afterward you walk
along the cliff tops, where Edna befriends
every scrappy terrier that bounds past.
By now you’re craving Indian food, but
you’re going to play it safe: Years ago you
took Irv and Edna out for Ethiopian and they
still haven’t let you forget about the lack of
silverware. You decide on Kuleto’s
downtown, where you like the dark, stylish
decor and Edna and Irv will be satisfied with
the large portions of pasta.
On nearby Nob Hill, hundreds of World War
II servicemen downed their last martini at
the Top of the Mark before shipping out.
Tonight, Wally’s Swing World is re-creating
the sounds of the era, and Edna pulls Irv
onto the dance floor before he can finish
complaining about his dress shoes. You
walk to the window and gaze at the lights of the city.
"May I have this dance?" It’s Irv, looking bashful. You take his rough
hand and he catches you up in a graceful twirl and a cloud of Old
Spice. Edna looks on, clapping and smiling. In an instant the predawn
wake-up is forgiven. They are, after all, your relatives.
The Young and the Restless Despite the fact that she
slept until 11, Mel still looks venomously cranky this morning as she
slips on her leather jacket and pins back her dark hair. You know what
this face means: You have exactly 10 minutes to locate caffeine or
Mel will self-destruct.
There’s a line of sunglass-shrouded hipsters outside Boogaloos in the
Mission, but you squeeze past the crowd and return with an orange
juice for you and a Depth Charge—coffee with an extra kick of
espresso—for Mel. By the time she drains the last muddy drops, her
mood has brightened considerably. She points to the Bay Guardian
she’s been leafing through. "Hey, get this: ‘Eco-warrior seeks
Buddhist nudist for spiritual interludes.’ Who are these people?"
A t the table, the conversation shifts from the personals to her latest
Super 8 film project, pausing only slightly when the huevos rancheros
arrive. Completely sated, the two of you stroll down sunny Valencia
Street, ducking into thrift shops and record stores before turning down
to the BART station on Mission. When the train reaches Powell Street
you head toward the unmistakable silhouette of the Museum of
Modern Art. Inside there’s a visiting black-and-white photo exhibit that
Mel won’t stop talking about and a diorama show that she calls "the
most bogus thing I’ve seen all year." The biggest hit is the
vertigo-inducing catwalk.
You while away the last hour of the afternoon in the green oasis of
nearby South Park, then head to the Brain Wash Cafe for Mel’s
second caffeine infusion of the day. On the way you stop for photos at
the Defenestration Building art project, an abandoned building with
Dali-esque furniture hanging out its open windows.
"What’s defenestration?" Mel asks, peering up at a food-filled
refrigerator suspended in midfall.
"It means to throw something out a window," you sagely reply,
thankful you looked the word up.
Knowing Mel’s love of drama, you made
dinner reservations weeks ago for Asia SF,
home of some of the city’s finest gender
illusionists. As the sleek walls shift slowly
from red to purple to yellow, Mel gives her
order to a Ru Paul look-alike with a pale
orchid tucked behind his left ear. Ten
minutes later this same waitress is towering
atop the bar in 5-inch silver platforms. As he
struts and strides to "I Will Survive," Mel
leans over to whisper ruefully, "He’s got
nicer legs than I do."
It’s a tough decision what to hit next: a
campy classic at the art deco Castro
Theatre . . . madcap snapshots in the photo
booth at Uncle Mame’s variety store . . .
Then it comes to you: the Beauty Bar.
When you arrive at the faux beauty parlor,
the crowd is busy nursing pink
cosmopolitans and admiring the 1950s
kitsch. Mel grabs a spot under a hair dryer
and you head to the bar to order. When you
turn around Mel has moved to the
manicurist’s table and is waving a still-wet
set of orange nails in your direction. "It’s
called ‘Dork.’ Whatcha think?"
"Looks dorky."
"No come on, really."
After another round, Mel begs you to take her dancing, even though
you haven’t updated your moves since high school. Finally you agree
and catch a cab to Nikki’s.
As you step inside you’re hit with a wave of sweat, sound, and energy.
The whole place is pulsing to Michael Jackson’s "Don’t Stop ’Til You
Get Enough," and before you can help yourself, you and Mel are
grooving in the thick of things. Three songs later you’re still going. As
soon as a bad song comes on, I’ll take a breather, you think.
By 1:30 you still haven’t stopped dancing and your knees are officially
on strike. You give Mel the signal to head out. Outside in the chilly air
she grabs your arm conspiratorially: "Man I’m starving. Let’s get some
grub."
You stare at her incredulously but you’re too tired to argue. As the
cab pulls up to take you to El Farolito for burritos, all you can think is
tomorrow it’s Mel’s turn to buy you a Depth Charge.
Lawyers in Love For a guy who never
wore anything but jeans and a sweatshirt in
college, Steve seems completely at ease this
morning in his button-down and Dockers.
"Lookin’ sharp, big guy," you say as you clap
him on the back and kiss Victoria on the
cheek.
Since your VW is in the shop, you’ve agreed
to take their rented Explorer to the Marina. On
the way, Steve and Victoria reminisce about
their last visit, when they toured Union Street.
Oh yes, you recall grimly, the day you
became a human pack mule for shopping bags.
After picking up steaming lattes and croissants at the Grove, you
continue to the Palace of Fine Arts. A remnant of the 1915 world’s fair,
the Palace looks majestically anachronistic as you approach, and by
the time you’ve finished your outdoor breakfast, several brides have
been photographed against the classical columns.
Steve and Victoria are home-hunting in Denver, so you cruise up to
the moneyed neighborhood of Sea Cliff for a house tour, pointing out a
white colonial here, a Mediterranean villa there. You gesture
nonchalantly toward a sprawling mansion. "That’s Robin Williams’s
house."
"Really?" Steve rolls down his window. He sits expectantly, searching
for signs of stardom.
"I see him!" he yells suddenly, causing you and Victoria to press up
frantically against the window. As a figure in white disappears behind
the manicured shrubs, Victoria sinks back into her seat. "Honey, that
was the gardener."
At the end of Sea Cliff you stroll down to the tiny crescent of China
Beach. Steve skips rocks as Victoria takes photos of the Golden Gate
with her digital camera. Off the rocky point, a lone surfer bobs like a
shivering seal.
After the wind and fog it feels good to reach the sun- filled interior of
Zuni Café, where you slurp up salty oysters and people-watch out the
windows. As you head down to the next highlight—the ornate
stone-and-plaster interior of City Hall—you realize you’ll have to
traverse shop-lined Hayes Street to reach your final destination, the
Victorian Painted Ladies. Stay calm, you think. The Hayes boutiques
may be upscale, but they’ve got a little too much attitude to appeal to
these two.
After only a block you are proven wrong. First there’s the Hayes &
Vine Wine Bar, where Steve and Victoria each sample a handful of
vintages. Then two shoe stores, a watch shop, a home furnishings
store, two galleries. Before you know it, you’re lumbering behind,
laden with bags. Next visit, you swear darkly, you’ll insist on an
Anchor Steam Brewery tour and a Giants game.
Finally you reach the row of pastel
Victorians that slants against the cityscape.
"Wow, is that the Mrs. Doubtfire house?"
Victoria asks, pointing to the corner home.
"No," you say wearily, "that’s further down,
on Broadway." You’ve been upstaged by
Robin Williams again.
Two of the city’s sleekest
restaurants—Absinthe and Jardinière—are
nearby, but you’ve got something even more
dramatic in mind. When you descend into
Loongbar’s dragon-themed dining room and
hear the gasps, you’re glad you broke your
rule about eating at Fisherman’s Wharf.
Just as the black pepper ribs arrive, Steve’s
cell phone rings and he heads outside to
take the call. By the time he returns, the
ribs are in your stomach and their spot
taken by sweet-and-sour snapper. As you
take a bite, you hear the waitress telling
Victoria that Don Johnson has just bought
the restaurant. "It’ll be reopening as
something Vietnamese," she whispers. "He
may even feature it on ‘Nash Bridges.’ " You sigh. Don Johnson.
Robin Williams. Maybe you should just move to Hollywood.
After dessert, you stand to leave, patting your pocket. Tickets to Rent
still there. Stomach satisfied. You’re feeling good. "Hey guys, why
don’t we take the cable car downtown and grab a cab back? It’ll be
fun."
Steve and Victoria turn and look at each other in bewilderment.
"What? And leave the Explorer?"
You’ve Got to be Kidding World’s Coolest Grown-up.
These are the words shining in Natalie’s and Derek’s young eyes
when you tell them you’re taking them for a doughnut picnic at the
Wave Organ. Martha and Bill’s concerned looks seem to suggest
"World’s Highest Dental Bills," but you know they’ll come around once
they bite into a chocolate éclair.
After procuring the candy-pink box from All Star’s, the five of you walk
down the Marina breakwater, pointing out Angel Island and Alcatraz.
At the end of the path, a Dr. Seussian series of pipes gurgles and
sighs to the incoming slosh of the sea. Nine-year-old Derek presses
his ear to one. "Sounds like Dad’s stomach." Bill grins and pats his
belly.
By the time the box is empty the kids are frothing to be set loose in
the Exploratorium’s cavernous hall of science. Derek practically trips
in his eagerness to experience centrifugal force on the spinning
machine; Natalie is slightly more dignified as she hurries toward the
giant bubbles shimmering up from the center of the room.
You catch up with them at the
large shadow box, where Natalie
performs a shaky handstand
against the wall and Derek leaps
into the air. Flash! An upside-down
Natalie is captured in shadow, her
younger brother two feet off the
ground beside her. Before long,
you, Martha, and Bill are elbowing
kids aside, twisting sideways against the wall in pharaoh profile as Bill
hums "Walk Like an Egyptian." Suddenly, you see Natalie standing in
front of you, arms folded. "You guys are so embarrassing."
So much for World’s Coolest Grown-up.
Cheeseburgers and malteds at Mel’s Diner soon smooth over the
Shadowgate incident, and Natalie even joins in when "The Chipmunk
Song" comes on the jukebox. With preteen scorn defused, it’s time to
rent skates and head for Golden Gate Park.
Since it’s Sunday, the park’s main drive is
blocked off, and a legion of in-line skaters
weave expertly through orange cones,
leaping over obstacles. It looks effortless. A
hundred yards later you’re cursing what
seem to be ball bearings strapped to your
feet. Just as you hit the ground for the
second time, Martha whizzes by. "Looking
good, Martha!" you shout in admiration.
"Where are the brakes?" she shrieks.
By the time you reach the Japanese Tea
Garden you’re happy to settle into the
shady teahouse with a plate of almond
cookies. The kids won’t stop clambering
over the bridge that arches across the koi
pond, and you eventually convince the whole
family to perch on its perfect half-circle.
"Say ‘bonsai trees!’ " you call out and snap
the photo.
The long second stretch of skating goes
smoother, and when you finally reach
Ocean Beach you’ve stopped clutching your
chest in fear. Martha doles out street shoes
from her backpack and you head up to the
Cliff House and the Musée Mécanique,
home of the old arcade games from the Playland-by-the-Sea
amusement park. You’ve brought a roll of quarters so everyone can
watch the dancing marionettes, hear the player pianos, and peer
through the aging stereoscopes, but most of the roll goes to feeding
Laughing Sal, the mechanical redhead whose maniacal cackle elicits
peals of laughter.
If you didn’t have to return the skates, you’d take the kids down to the
Sutro Baths to poke around the ruined foundations and salty tide
pools. Happily, the cab ride back to the Haight carries its own
entertainment value for two suburban kids.
You’re hoping Isobune’s circular sushi bar will be a similarly
successful novelty, though it’s a stretch for children raised on grilled
cheese and fries. As wooden boats piled with mackerel and spicy
tuna float by, Natalie decides she’s sticking to California rolls. Derek,
on the other hand, is delighted with the idea of raw fish. "Hey, Nat!
Nat!" he yells, wiggling a pale strip of halibut at his sister. "This one
isn’t dead yet!"
So much for cultural enrichment.
Feelin’ Groovy At 8:30 in the morning, Lydia is waiting
outside the Red Victorian B&B as promised. She jumps into the car
with a jangle of jewelry and you head toward Fort Mason and Greens
restaurant. They won’t have table service for several hours, but you
pick up buttermilk scones at the to-go counter and take a seat
overlooking the harbor. There’s a calm hush in the dining room that
befits a place owned by the Zen Center.
Although you have a few suggestions for today—the Asian Art
Museum, a walk along the coast to Land’s End—you decide to ask
Lydia what she wants to do. "Well," she muses, "we could pick up
some herbs."
Chinatown. A car-parker’s purgatory.
Just as the thought of narrow alleyways and
double-parked delivery trucks begins to
incite a migraine, you remember your
salvation: the Sutter Stockton Garage.
Along Stockton Street the herb stores are
cluttered with bins of bright red wolfberries
and dusty ginseng. Lydia decides on a bag
of yucca roots that look like chalky tongue
depressors. As you continue eastward, the
two of you duck into Waverly Place alley
and climb up to the Tin How Temple to light
incense at the gilded shrine of Tien Hua,
Protector of Travelers. You wonder where
they keep the Protector of Hosts.
Chinatown bleeds into North Beach as you
reach Columbus Avenue and the legendary
City Lights Bookstore. Lydia crosses herself
as she steps through the doorway and
clomps downstairs to find the Eastern
philosophy section. You wander up to the
Beat area and are soon lost in the pages of
The Dharma Bums. When you return to the
main level, Lydia is chatting up the cashier
and stuffing two books on meditation into a canvas backpack already
bulging with the harmony balls and Buddha charms from Chinatown.
On the grass of Washington Square you bite into hearty focaccia
sandwiches from Molinari’s deli, watching the wizened Italian men
doze in the shadow of the church. From the square, it’s a steep and
breathless walk up to Coit Tower, where cuddling couples peer out at
the bayscape below. After peeking in at the Depression-era frescoes,
you descend to the east along the garden-lined Greenwich Steps.
Light laces down through giant ferns as a gray tabby slinks up and
winds himself between Lydia’s ankles. A young man carrying a
cherubic baby passes you and disappears into a shingled cottage
framed in orange trumpet vine. "Can you imagine living here?" asks
Lydia. "Paradise on earth."
You smile and nod. You were actually just thinking how miserable it
would be to haul groceries up these stairs.
By the time you and Lydia return to the car there’s a throbbing blister
on your baby toe and still an hour and a half until your appointment at
the Kabuki Springs in Japantown. In the meantime, you’ll have to
de-stress at Mad Magda’s Tea Room.
The fortune-teller’s table is empty when you arrive, and Lydia takes a
seat beneath the colorful onion dome of St. Basil’s Cathedral. You
order a pot of smoky Russian tea and head for the garden to sip and
wait. After 15 minutes, Lydia returns, beaming. "What’d she say?"
you ask.
"She told me I’m ripe."
"Ripe?"
"Open to new experiences, filled with
possibility, blooming with potential," Lydia
gushes.
When it’s your turn at the tarot table, your
first card reveals a dark tower being struck
by lightning. "Does this mean I’m ripe?"
you ask hopefully.
When you arrive at the Kabuki, soothing
Japanese music is drifting softly over the
communal bathing pools. You’ve booked a one-hour shiatsu massage;
Lydia has signed up for something called a Javanese lulur, involving
yogurt. You don’t dare ask. When you emerge from the room, you’re
almost too relaxed to drive to dinner at Angkor Wat. Inside the dining
room, a young Cambodian girl in pancake makeup and a traditional
gold headdress is onstage, dancing sinuously to atonal music. Lydia
is mesmerized. "Do you think they offer lessons? I used to belly
dance you know."
After finishing off her lemongrass salmon she leans over again. "Hey,
did you see the ad for a nudist Buddhist in the Bay Guardian? I think I
might call."
sprawling suburbs of Ohio and the cramped apartments of
Manhattan. By Boeing jet, by Greyhound, by wood-paneled
station wagon and Harley-Davidson. They come bearing
uncomfortable walking shoes and empty suitcases yearning for
souvenirs. They come with dreams of Jack Kerouac, Carol
Doda, and free fog for all.
They are the San Francisco tourists.
And you are their tour guide.
It doesn’t matter that you didn’t ask
for this job. Just by living in this great
city, near this great city, or even a
day’s drive from this great city, you
have volunteered your time, energy,
and sofa bed to the vacation
enjoyment of others.
When faced with these obligations,
it’s tempting just to steer your guests
toward Pier 39 and consider your duty done. Unfortunately,
these are people you know, people you love. You owe them
something a little more personal.
It isn’t that difficult. First, think carefully about your visitors.
Consider their ages, their dispositions, their loves and hates. Do
they like jazz? Are they afraid of heights? Can they order in
Cantonese? Then ask yourself what little slice of San Francisco
these people will want to take home and treasure.
To help you find the answer, we’ve woven together these five
tourist tales. So gather round and listen. You may find your own
guests in these stories—stories that begin, "Once upon a time,
in the kingdom of San Francisco . . ."
They Like Ike At 5:23 a.m., it begins. A creak of bedsprings, a
loud clearing of sinuses. By the time you stumble bleary-eyed into the
living room, they’re drinking Folgers instant coffee and talking loudly
over the Today show. Uncle Irv and Aunt Edna. By some bizarre twist
of genetics, your relatives.
After a stack of Swedish
pancakes at Sears Fine Food,
your first stop is the Jeremiah
O’Brien. On board the World War
II liberty ship, the voices of the
Andrews Sisters ring through
narrow hallways. Edna avoids the
steep steps into the engine room,
but you follow Irv down to where a
bright-eyed veteran is explaining
how scenes from Titanic were shot using Jeremiah’s triple-expansion
steam engine. Irv couldn’t care less. He’s too busy poking around the
pipes, peering into the boilers. "Look here," he beckons, pointing to a
3-foot-long box wrench. "Won two bits for putting my head through one
of these."
After the Jeremiah, Irv is itching to go see the World War II Pampanito
sub, also docked at Pier 45. You and Edna decide to visit the nearby
city museum, in the Cannery building. As you work your way through,
the city’s legends spring to life: Joshua Norton, self-declared Emperor
of the United States; Lillie Hitchcock Coit, spunky heiress and fire
aficionado. Just as you and Edna are poring over bottles melted in the
1906 inferno, Irv reappears. "How was the Pampanito?" you ask.
"Tighter than a sardine can. Let’s eat."
On the western edge of Golden Gate Park, the historic Beach Chalet
is crowded with couples sipping microbrews and chatting over salads.
While you wait, you study the vibrant WPA murals of San Francisco.
Edna stops before a panel of women in one-piece swimsuits that show
their strong legs and rounded stomachs. "Now that’s what a gal
should look like," she says approvingly. "Well-fed."
After lunch and two stops in Golden Gate
Park—the arboretum for Edna and the
fly-casting pools for Irv—you cruise down
the Great Highway to Fort Funston. A faded
wind sock sails taut to the east, beckoning
to hang gliders. You pause to watch a group
struggling into their pupa-like harnesses,
then head to the ocean overlook.
"Holy mackerel!" bellows Irv as the first
glider leaps off the cliff. The three of you sit
spellbound, squinting up at the silhouettes
whirling on an updraft. Afterward you walk
along the cliff tops, where Edna befriends
every scrappy terrier that bounds past.
By now you’re craving Indian food, but
you’re going to play it safe: Years ago you
took Irv and Edna out for Ethiopian and they
still haven’t let you forget about the lack of
silverware. You decide on Kuleto’s
downtown, where you like the dark, stylish
decor and Edna and Irv will be satisfied with
the large portions of pasta.
On nearby Nob Hill, hundreds of World War
II servicemen downed their last martini at
the Top of the Mark before shipping out.
Tonight, Wally’s Swing World is re-creating
the sounds of the era, and Edna pulls Irv
onto the dance floor before he can finish
complaining about his dress shoes. You
walk to the window and gaze at the lights of the city.
"May I have this dance?" It’s Irv, looking bashful. You take his rough
hand and he catches you up in a graceful twirl and a cloud of Old
Spice. Edna looks on, clapping and smiling. In an instant the predawn
wake-up is forgiven. They are, after all, your relatives.
The Young and the Restless Despite the fact that she
slept until 11, Mel still looks venomously cranky this morning as she
slips on her leather jacket and pins back her dark hair. You know what
this face means: You have exactly 10 minutes to locate caffeine or
Mel will self-destruct.
There’s a line of sunglass-shrouded hipsters outside Boogaloos in the
Mission, but you squeeze past the crowd and return with an orange
juice for you and a Depth Charge—coffee with an extra kick of
espresso—for Mel. By the time she drains the last muddy drops, her
mood has brightened considerably. She points to the Bay Guardian
she’s been leafing through. "Hey, get this: ‘Eco-warrior seeks
Buddhist nudist for spiritual interludes.’ Who are these people?"
A t the table, the conversation shifts from the personals to her latest
Super 8 film project, pausing only slightly when the huevos rancheros
arrive. Completely sated, the two of you stroll down sunny Valencia
Street, ducking into thrift shops and record stores before turning down
to the BART station on Mission. When the train reaches Powell Street
you head toward the unmistakable silhouette of the Museum of
Modern Art. Inside there’s a visiting black-and-white photo exhibit that
Mel won’t stop talking about and a diorama show that she calls "the
most bogus thing I’ve seen all year." The biggest hit is the
vertigo-inducing catwalk.
You while away the last hour of the afternoon in the green oasis of
nearby South Park, then head to the Brain Wash Cafe for Mel’s
second caffeine infusion of the day. On the way you stop for photos at
the Defenestration Building art project, an abandoned building with
Dali-esque furniture hanging out its open windows.
"What’s defenestration?" Mel asks, peering up at a food-filled
refrigerator suspended in midfall.
"It means to throw something out a window," you sagely reply,
thankful you looked the word up.
Knowing Mel’s love of drama, you made
dinner reservations weeks ago for Asia SF,
home of some of the city’s finest gender
illusionists. As the sleek walls shift slowly
from red to purple to yellow, Mel gives her
order to a Ru Paul look-alike with a pale
orchid tucked behind his left ear. Ten
minutes later this same waitress is towering
atop the bar in 5-inch silver platforms. As he
struts and strides to "I Will Survive," Mel
leans over to whisper ruefully, "He’s got
nicer legs than I do."
It’s a tough decision what to hit next: a
campy classic at the art deco Castro
Theatre . . . madcap snapshots in the photo
booth at Uncle Mame’s variety store . . .
Then it comes to you: the Beauty Bar.
When you arrive at the faux beauty parlor,
the crowd is busy nursing pink
cosmopolitans and admiring the 1950s
kitsch. Mel grabs a spot under a hair dryer
and you head to the bar to order. When you
turn around Mel has moved to the
manicurist’s table and is waving a still-wet
set of orange nails in your direction. "It’s
called ‘Dork.’ Whatcha think?"
"Looks dorky."
"No come on, really."
After another round, Mel begs you to take her dancing, even though
you haven’t updated your moves since high school. Finally you agree
and catch a cab to Nikki’s.
As you step inside you’re hit with a wave of sweat, sound, and energy.
The whole place is pulsing to Michael Jackson’s "Don’t Stop ’Til You
Get Enough," and before you can help yourself, you and Mel are
grooving in the thick of things. Three songs later you’re still going. As
soon as a bad song comes on, I’ll take a breather, you think.
By 1:30 you still haven’t stopped dancing and your knees are officially
on strike. You give Mel the signal to head out. Outside in the chilly air
she grabs your arm conspiratorially: "Man I’m starving. Let’s get some
grub."
You stare at her incredulously but you’re too tired to argue. As the
cab pulls up to take you to El Farolito for burritos, all you can think is
tomorrow it’s Mel’s turn to buy you a Depth Charge.
Lawyers in Love For a guy who never
wore anything but jeans and a sweatshirt in
college, Steve seems completely at ease this
morning in his button-down and Dockers.
"Lookin’ sharp, big guy," you say as you clap
him on the back and kiss Victoria on the
cheek.
Since your VW is in the shop, you’ve agreed
to take their rented Explorer to the Marina. On
the way, Steve and Victoria reminisce about
their last visit, when they toured Union Street.
Oh yes, you recall grimly, the day you
became a human pack mule for shopping bags.
After picking up steaming lattes and croissants at the Grove, you
continue to the Palace of Fine Arts. A remnant of the 1915 world’s fair,
the Palace looks majestically anachronistic as you approach, and by
the time you’ve finished your outdoor breakfast, several brides have
been photographed against the classical columns.
Steve and Victoria are home-hunting in Denver, so you cruise up to
the moneyed neighborhood of Sea Cliff for a house tour, pointing out a
white colonial here, a Mediterranean villa there. You gesture
nonchalantly toward a sprawling mansion. "That’s Robin Williams’s
house."
"Really?" Steve rolls down his window. He sits expectantly, searching
for signs of stardom.
"I see him!" he yells suddenly, causing you and Victoria to press up
frantically against the window. As a figure in white disappears behind
the manicured shrubs, Victoria sinks back into her seat. "Honey, that
was the gardener."
At the end of Sea Cliff you stroll down to the tiny crescent of China
Beach. Steve skips rocks as Victoria takes photos of the Golden Gate
with her digital camera. Off the rocky point, a lone surfer bobs like a
shivering seal.
After the wind and fog it feels good to reach the sun- filled interior of
Zuni Café, where you slurp up salty oysters and people-watch out the
windows. As you head down to the next highlight—the ornate
stone-and-plaster interior of City Hall—you realize you’ll have to
traverse shop-lined Hayes Street to reach your final destination, the
Victorian Painted Ladies. Stay calm, you think. The Hayes boutiques
may be upscale, but they’ve got a little too much attitude to appeal to
these two.
After only a block you are proven wrong. First there’s the Hayes &
Vine Wine Bar, where Steve and Victoria each sample a handful of
vintages. Then two shoe stores, a watch shop, a home furnishings
store, two galleries. Before you know it, you’re lumbering behind,
laden with bags. Next visit, you swear darkly, you’ll insist on an
Anchor Steam Brewery tour and a Giants game.
Finally you reach the row of pastel
Victorians that slants against the cityscape.
"Wow, is that the Mrs. Doubtfire house?"
Victoria asks, pointing to the corner home.
"No," you say wearily, "that’s further down,
on Broadway." You’ve been upstaged by
Robin Williams again.
Two of the city’s sleekest
restaurants—Absinthe and Jardinière—are
nearby, but you’ve got something even more
dramatic in mind. When you descend into
Loongbar’s dragon-themed dining room and
hear the gasps, you’re glad you broke your
rule about eating at Fisherman’s Wharf.
Just as the black pepper ribs arrive, Steve’s
cell phone rings and he heads outside to
take the call. By the time he returns, the
ribs are in your stomach and their spot
taken by sweet-and-sour snapper. As you
take a bite, you hear the waitress telling
Victoria that Don Johnson has just bought
the restaurant. "It’ll be reopening as
something Vietnamese," she whispers. "He
may even feature it on ‘Nash Bridges.’ " You sigh. Don Johnson.
Robin Williams. Maybe you should just move to Hollywood.
After dessert, you stand to leave, patting your pocket. Tickets to Rent
still there. Stomach satisfied. You’re feeling good. "Hey guys, why
don’t we take the cable car downtown and grab a cab back? It’ll be
fun."
Steve and Victoria turn and look at each other in bewilderment.
"What? And leave the Explorer?"
You’ve Got to be Kidding World’s Coolest Grown-up.
These are the words shining in Natalie’s and Derek’s young eyes
when you tell them you’re taking them for a doughnut picnic at the
Wave Organ. Martha and Bill’s concerned looks seem to suggest
"World’s Highest Dental Bills," but you know they’ll come around once
they bite into a chocolate éclair.
After procuring the candy-pink box from All Star’s, the five of you walk
down the Marina breakwater, pointing out Angel Island and Alcatraz.
At the end of the path, a Dr. Seussian series of pipes gurgles and
sighs to the incoming slosh of the sea. Nine-year-old Derek presses
his ear to one. "Sounds like Dad’s stomach." Bill grins and pats his
belly.
By the time the box is empty the kids are frothing to be set loose in
the Exploratorium’s cavernous hall of science. Derek practically trips
in his eagerness to experience centrifugal force on the spinning
machine; Natalie is slightly more dignified as she hurries toward the
giant bubbles shimmering up from the center of the room.
You catch up with them at the
large shadow box, where Natalie
performs a shaky handstand
against the wall and Derek leaps
into the air. Flash! An upside-down
Natalie is captured in shadow, her
younger brother two feet off the
ground beside her. Before long,
you, Martha, and Bill are elbowing
kids aside, twisting sideways against the wall in pharaoh profile as Bill
hums "Walk Like an Egyptian." Suddenly, you see Natalie standing in
front of you, arms folded. "You guys are so embarrassing."
So much for World’s Coolest Grown-up.
Cheeseburgers and malteds at Mel’s Diner soon smooth over the
Shadowgate incident, and Natalie even joins in when "The Chipmunk
Song" comes on the jukebox. With preteen scorn defused, it’s time to
rent skates and head for Golden Gate Park.
Since it’s Sunday, the park’s main drive is
blocked off, and a legion of in-line skaters
weave expertly through orange cones,
leaping over obstacles. It looks effortless. A
hundred yards later you’re cursing what
seem to be ball bearings strapped to your
feet. Just as you hit the ground for the
second time, Martha whizzes by. "Looking
good, Martha!" you shout in admiration.
"Where are the brakes?" she shrieks.
By the time you reach the Japanese Tea
Garden you’re happy to settle into the
shady teahouse with a plate of almond
cookies. The kids won’t stop clambering
over the bridge that arches across the koi
pond, and you eventually convince the whole
family to perch on its perfect half-circle.
"Say ‘bonsai trees!’ " you call out and snap
the photo.
The long second stretch of skating goes
smoother, and when you finally reach
Ocean Beach you’ve stopped clutching your
chest in fear. Martha doles out street shoes
from her backpack and you head up to the
Cliff House and the Musée Mécanique,
home of the old arcade games from the Playland-by-the-Sea
amusement park. You’ve brought a roll of quarters so everyone can
watch the dancing marionettes, hear the player pianos, and peer
through the aging stereoscopes, but most of the roll goes to feeding
Laughing Sal, the mechanical redhead whose maniacal cackle elicits
peals of laughter.
If you didn’t have to return the skates, you’d take the kids down to the
Sutro Baths to poke around the ruined foundations and salty tide
pools. Happily, the cab ride back to the Haight carries its own
entertainment value for two suburban kids.
You’re hoping Isobune’s circular sushi bar will be a similarly
successful novelty, though it’s a stretch for children raised on grilled
cheese and fries. As wooden boats piled with mackerel and spicy
tuna float by, Natalie decides she’s sticking to California rolls. Derek,
on the other hand, is delighted with the idea of raw fish. "Hey, Nat!
Nat!" he yells, wiggling a pale strip of halibut at his sister. "This one
isn’t dead yet!"
So much for cultural enrichment.
Feelin’ Groovy At 8:30 in the morning, Lydia is waiting
outside the Red Victorian B&B as promised. She jumps into the car
with a jangle of jewelry and you head toward Fort Mason and Greens
restaurant. They won’t have table service for several hours, but you
pick up buttermilk scones at the to-go counter and take a seat
overlooking the harbor. There’s a calm hush in the dining room that
befits a place owned by the Zen Center.
Although you have a few suggestions for today—the Asian Art
Museum, a walk along the coast to Land’s End—you decide to ask
Lydia what she wants to do. "Well," she muses, "we could pick up
some herbs."
Chinatown. A car-parker’s purgatory.
Just as the thought of narrow alleyways and
double-parked delivery trucks begins to
incite a migraine, you remember your
salvation: the Sutter Stockton Garage.
Along Stockton Street the herb stores are
cluttered with bins of bright red wolfberries
and dusty ginseng. Lydia decides on a bag
of yucca roots that look like chalky tongue
depressors. As you continue eastward, the
two of you duck into Waverly Place alley
and climb up to the Tin How Temple to light
incense at the gilded shrine of Tien Hua,
Protector of Travelers. You wonder where
they keep the Protector of Hosts.
Chinatown bleeds into North Beach as you
reach Columbus Avenue and the legendary
City Lights Bookstore. Lydia crosses herself
as she steps through the doorway and
clomps downstairs to find the Eastern
philosophy section. You wander up to the
Beat area and are soon lost in the pages of
The Dharma Bums. When you return to the
main level, Lydia is chatting up the cashier
and stuffing two books on meditation into a canvas backpack already
bulging with the harmony balls and Buddha charms from Chinatown.
On the grass of Washington Square you bite into hearty focaccia
sandwiches from Molinari’s deli, watching the wizened Italian men
doze in the shadow of the church. From the square, it’s a steep and
breathless walk up to Coit Tower, where cuddling couples peer out at
the bayscape below. After peeking in at the Depression-era frescoes,
you descend to the east along the garden-lined Greenwich Steps.
Light laces down through giant ferns as a gray tabby slinks up and
winds himself between Lydia’s ankles. A young man carrying a
cherubic baby passes you and disappears into a shingled cottage
framed in orange trumpet vine. "Can you imagine living here?" asks
Lydia. "Paradise on earth."
You smile and nod. You were actually just thinking how miserable it
would be to haul groceries up these stairs.
By the time you and Lydia return to the car there’s a throbbing blister
on your baby toe and still an hour and a half until your appointment at
the Kabuki Springs in Japantown. In the meantime, you’ll have to
de-stress at Mad Magda’s Tea Room.
The fortune-teller’s table is empty when you arrive, and Lydia takes a
seat beneath the colorful onion dome of St. Basil’s Cathedral. You
order a pot of smoky Russian tea and head for the garden to sip and
wait. After 15 minutes, Lydia returns, beaming. "What’d she say?"
you ask.
"She told me I’m ripe."
"Ripe?"
"Open to new experiences, filled with
possibility, blooming with potential," Lydia
gushes.
When it’s your turn at the tarot table, your
first card reveals a dark tower being struck
by lightning. "Does this mean I’m ripe?"
you ask hopefully.
When you arrive at the Kabuki, soothing
Japanese music is drifting softly over the
communal bathing pools. You’ve booked a one-hour shiatsu massage;
Lydia has signed up for something called a Javanese lulur, involving
yogurt. You don’t dare ask. When you emerge from the room, you’re
almost too relaxed to drive to dinner at Angkor Wat. Inside the dining
room, a young Cambodian girl in pancake makeup and a traditional
gold headdress is onstage, dancing sinuously to atonal music. Lydia
is mesmerized. "Do you think they offer lessons? I used to belly
dance you know."
After finishing off her lemongrass salmon she leans over again. "Hey,
did you see the ad for a nudist Buddhist in the Bay Guardian? I think I
might call."
Jul 24th, 1999 | 04:47 AM
#10
Guest
Posts: n/a
Boy, that was some posting. You have received some very good advice. Take plenty of time to just soak up the atmosphere of the greatest city on earth. Even the pan handlers in San Francisco do it with style.
I personally would skip Berkeley or anywhere on the east Bay side. Many very dangerous areas and nothing to really see. Berkeley offers nothing unless you are into the 60's hippie scene. You still have that in San Francisco at Haight/Ashbury though it is not like it was 30 years ago.
I personally would skip Berkeley or anywhere on the east Bay side. Many very dangerous areas and nothing to really see. Berkeley offers nothing unless you are into the 60's hippie scene. You still have that in San Francisco at Haight/Ashbury though it is not like it was 30 years ago.
Jul 26th, 1999 | 03:39 AM
#11
Guest
Posts: n/a
Thanks everyone for the great advice. We've got just about the whole trip planned. Still looking for some good restaurant recommendations. We like good food and good restaurants, but prefer basic cuisine to the frufru! Kam, could you please post the name of the Mexican place in Tiburon? We will be spending 2 and a half days in the wine country and 5 in SF so there's lots of good eating to do. Thanks, BS
Jul 26th, 1999 | 10:32 AM
#13
Guest
Posts: n/a
Bob, reread your last post and must add another suggestion rarely mentioned when you get SF restaurant recommendations. Cafe de Paris Entrecote on Union Street in Pacific Heights is wonderful authentic French and very comfortable. Great fries! and of course, the Entrecote steaks. A branch of a cafe in Paris and Geneva. Serious calories, but you'll do a lot of walking in SF! Enjoy!
Jul 28th, 1999 | 11:33 AM
#14
Guest
Posts: n/a
If you want to check the web (like to see if anyone else has advice) while you're in SF, stop by CHAT Cafe at 18th Street/Sanchez Street. Its between the Castro and the Mission areas. You can use their iMacs free when buy coffee or sandwich, etc. You don't have to pay separate for Internet access.
Aug 2nd, 1999 | 02:52 PM
#16
Guest
Posts: n/a
I was just in SF for the fourth of July. Try going to the irish pub Fiddlers Green, great fun, just off of Fisherman's Wharf. Great celtic, pop, top 40, and oldies. The most friendly people in town, say hello to Rory the bartender. Also in sausalito is an awesome mexican restaurant called Margaritaville, have the appetizer sampler. (food for 10) Great exercise is renting bikes in fish. wharf and riding across the Golden Gate to sausalito, the view takes your mind off the ride (take a sweater across the bridge), but stay to long at Margaritaville and you'll have to take the ferry back. (which is actually better, since it's uphill back to SF, and you get great views from the boat!)
Aug 6th, 1999 | 01:10 PM
#18
Guest
Posts: n/a
We just returned from a honeymoon in the San Francisco area. You've already received lots of great advice. If you're interested in architecture, you might want to check out a walking tour highlighting the city's Victorians. Refer to victorianwalk.com. As for food, my husband also prefers basic fare. We both enjoyed dinner at Zax in North Beach. Elegant, intimate, delicious. He thoroughly enjoyed a creamy tomato soup and cumin-encrusted pork loin, while I feasted on a goat cheese souffle and Chilean sea bass. For a more casual, inexpensive meal, consider pizza a Tommasso's, foccacia sandwiches at Mario's Bohemian Cigar Store, or a bountiful breakfast at Mama's, with more varieties of French toast than I'd ever imagined, and a cheery atmosphere. All of these places are in North Beach. Of course, this is just a brief sampling. The options are endless!
Aug 19th, 1999 | 05:59 PM
#19
Guest
Posts: n/a
SFSally is displaying the classic san francisco attitude: "there's nothing in the East Bay, SF is the center of the universe, blah blah..."
First off, in Berkeley there's the University of California (of course) and all the museums that come with it. Up in the Berkeley hills there are great views of San Francisco Bay, and lot's of big houses designed by famous architects (if your into architecture), and way up there there's the UC botanical gardens.
In Oakland there's the Oakland Museum, Lake Merritt, and the same great views of the bay from the hills.
There are views of a large part of Northern California from the top of Mount Diablo. If you are interested in old aircraft carriers there's the USS Hornet in Alameda. There are Regional Parks all over the place if your into hiking and nature.
This is only some of what there is in the East Bay.
First off, in Berkeley there's the University of California (of course) and all the museums that come with it. Up in the Berkeley hills there are great views of San Francisco Bay, and lot's of big houses designed by famous architects (if your into architecture), and way up there there's the UC botanical gardens.
In Oakland there's the Oakland Museum, Lake Merritt, and the same great views of the bay from the hills.
There are views of a large part of Northern California from the top of Mount Diablo. If you are interested in old aircraft carriers there's the USS Hornet in Alameda. There are Regional Parks all over the place if your into hiking and nature.
This is only some of what there is in the East Bay.
