SAN FRANCISCO!!!
Here it is! My trip to San Francisco, including the day I wandered around Presidio Park and unwittingly found myself at a nude beach! But that wasn't until the fourth day. I'll start at the beginning. (To cut to the embarrassing chase, scroll down to where there’s lots of text and scant pictures.)
Our room was in the creatively-named "Tower Building." I'm guessing they spent so much on interior design and architecture that the hotel's owner skimped on the Artistic Name Devisor. That's what I want to be when I grow up, an AND!
This was our window. Or was it the one next to it? Crap, maybe it was the one below it.
Our first day there we immediately got ridiculously lost, so weary from climbing hills with a 40% grade all day that all we wanted to do in the evening was catch one of San Francisco's infamous cable cars for a ride back up to our hotel. So we found a cable car stop and waited anxiously alongside other hapless tourists, until finally a cable car came slowly rumbling up the hill, only to go right on by us while the tourists on board waved at us and smiled. But we weren’t discouraged! Surely the next car wouldn't be full... We just had to wait another fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty minutes for the next car, or at least long enough for no less that eight cable cars going down the hill to pass us. Like this one:
While we were waiting, I got kinda bored, so I began looking around the street corner for interesting things to photograph. By far the most captivating thing I found was this car:
Here's the price of gas in San Francisco. Unfortunate, especially in such a hilly city.
Across the street were these row houses:
And at my feet, which I though looked particularly nice that day,
Was the Ghirardelli Chocolate logo on an almost completely uncrumpled and unstained napkin!
Apparently if you followed this sign that was across the street, you would get to Fisherman's Wharf:
Many interesting vehicles went by while we were waiting, including something that absolutely everyone needs, a Hummer Limousine!!!
In which would fit approximately 28 of these things:
But after a while I decided that by far the most beautiful thing I had seen the whole time was that car, so I took another picture of it:
All the while my mom was getting increasingly aggravated by the fact that a street car had passed us by. She began to pace uneasily around the street corner, perhaps thinking that if she looked menacing enough she could stare down the next cable car. Everyone else had long since tired of waiting and abandoned the cable car stop, leaving only their disposable Starbucks coffee cups huddled together on top of the trash can. I don't know why they didn't just throw them away; there was plenty of room in the can. I'm guessing they felt better about themselves by leaving them on top of the garbage can because as long as they didn't throw them away-and just left them where someone else might find and take them-they didn't have to burden their consciences with the thought that they'd thrown away so much non-post-consumer paper from the cups and heat insulators and plastic from the cups. I could also be reading waaay too much into it. They were probably just really lazy.
Anyway, after the second cable car went right on by us, passengers smiling and waving again, my mom and I opted for another of San Francisco’s exotic methods of transportation to get us back to our hotel:
Back in the room, we had the most amazing mini bar I've ever seen, which I wasn't allowed to touch even once during our entire trip. (I toyed with asking my mom if I could take some stuff from the mini bar and see if we could charge it to the room one of the nights the government was paying for, but I knew what she would say. I suppose getting the government to buy alcohol for minors is a bit of a stretch.) This is why:
So I decided to photograph the picturesque row of overpriced miniature bottles of liquor, which I wanted to take as much for the adorable packaging as for the contents.
Ooh! I forgot to include the picture of the incredibly gnarly palm tree trunk. The thing was frickin' huge! Here it is!
The next day we decided to get the most touristy (Weird. Microsoft Office seems to think I should type "touristiest" instead of "most touristy." As weird as "most touristy" sounds, do you honestly think that "touristiest" is better?) part of our trip out of the way and dive into the swarms of out-of-towners on the boardwalk at Pier 39, famous for its restaurants, views of Alcatraz, sunbathing sea lions, and for having most number of souvenir shops per square meter that each sell the same unique San Francisco memorabilia that ironically hails from Thailand or Korea. No one can leave San Francisco without the obligatory picture of Alcatraz:
And of course there are the sea lions:
This is my pal Frank. It always helps to have at least one personal friend among the sea lions, because he'll convince his posse to momentarily hold still so that you can get that perfect photo of the California sea lions. (Frank’s the one with his head in the air.)
For reasons that I understand, but could never agree with, my parents always want my pictures to have at least one person in them (preferably a member of our immediate family). They call it "adding human interest," but I call it "proving that I was actually there and didn’t just buy a postcard or steal a picture from the Internet." Regardless, here’s proof that I was actually at Pier 39:
I really like this picture. Every now and then I hit gold with my digital camera (although for every picture like this I delete about six others).
And here’s the entire harbor to the side of Pier 39, with the city in the background:
I don't remember any of the obscure facts that our tour guide mentioned during our bus tour of San Francisco, but I do remember that the one thing I learned on that trip is that "Ghirardelli" actually has two rs in it. Ever since my first trip to San Francisco at least five years ago, I’d been living under the illusion that "Ghirardelli" is spelled "Ghiradelli" and pronounced GEAR-uh-del-ee. Imagine my surprise, then, (it was mild to moderate) when I first laid eyes on one of the many illuminated signs adorning the square and saw that it’s actually spelled "Ghirardelli" and pronounced GEAR-are-del-ee. And here’s proof:
And yes, we bought chocolate. And I made a quilt out of mine and slept under it, only to find that it had all melted in the morning.
Other cool things about San Francisco...
The craaazy architecture:
You think anyone’s ever ejected from a plane and been impaled on this thing?
The stores! I want to buy all my clothes from this place now, or at least I would if their tank tops weren't $68.
The ridiculously steep hills that make you wonder-after you've climbed your fourth or fifth with no end in sight-what the hell was the city planner who decided this place was a good location for metropolis smoking when he picked the side of a mountain?!
The...buffalo? Sure, why not?
The fog! This is my favorite picture from the entire trip.
And I think this one's pretty good, too.
This dog was ridiculously cute, and reminded me of a younger, less arthritic, less neurotic version of my dog Juno:
On the third day I was free to roam around the city by myself. So I decided to stalk the Segway Tour people. Just kidding. But I did find my way down to a long, thin, crescent-shaped sliver of land that circled out into the bay. From the shore I could see a group of about eight people in neon yellow vests at the very tip of the curved pier. From a distance I though they might be police, and I wondered what the heck they were doing hanging out at the end of a recreational tourist attraction. Police or not, I kept walking along the strip of land, and when I was almost to the end the yellow-vested group rode by me, going the other direction...on Segways. It was one of the infamous, much-advertised Segway tour groups. For a moment I was jealous and wanted my own Segway, at least for an hour (I wonder if they would make it up San Francisco's hills?), and then I realized that I'd have to wear one of those neon yellow vests, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing at them.
Anyway, from that pier you could see the all of downtown, including the Coit Tower (supposed to look like the nozzle of a fire hose in honor of what finally salvaged San Francisco from the devastating three-day fire of 1906):
And the harbor by Pier 39 from the other side:
Here's proof that I was actually there:
I also wandered back past Pier 39 and look death in the eye. Well, sort of. This thing...person...costume was really cool:
As I finally learned, about the only way to actually ride a cable car in San Francisco is to get on one at the end of the line, which is what I did when I wanted to get back up the hill at the end of the day. While passage is assured, it comes at the price of having to wait at least an hour in a looping line of tourists. I think it's just barely worth it unless you have calves of steel. Or if you have a heard of calves to pull you up the hill in a carriage or chariot or something...
Other cool things about San Francisco! China Town!
The local wildlife...so tame it will actually sit still long enough for you to take a picture of it, because no one has ever seen a seagull before!
Gay pride!
Offshore banking...onshore!
Really steep hills make already tall buildings look like skyscrapers depending on your location!
Buildings featured in 90s TV shows starring the Olsen twins!
Gorgeous churches! (Okay, I'm really just infatuated with my camera's capabilities.)
Giant libraries that make Sprague look like a storage closet!
Okay, finally, day four, the day I wander on to a nude beach. San Francisco sits on the end of a peninsula. At 44 square miles, I figure it has about 20 miles of coastline. And I had to choose the single half mile where absolutely anyone can publicly display absolutely body part of their choosing. I had to take two buses to get there. I was armed with my pocket-size city map provided by the hotel, and a monstrous map that showed the complete routes of every method of public transportation known to San Franciscans. I had decided to head for Presidio Park, much larger than Golden Gate Park and dominating the northwest coast of the peninsula. It seemed the perfect place to find a nice stretch of beach.
In San Francisco, the further from the center of town and closer to the coast you get, the cloudier it gets. So by the time I was on bus line 29, winding its way up the curving slopes of Presidio Park (even the coast is hilly in San Francisco), the sun was completely hidden behind the clouds and a cool wind was blowing. Instead of taking me along the edge of the beach, the bus wound around past apartment buildings on the left and forest on the right. I got off at the first stop because the driver said he was turning around. I could wait at the stop for another bus that would take me to the Golden Gate Bridge if I wanted. But I just wanted to get to the beach. I could see it from where I stood, but between me and the coast was a steep, sandy and forested slope with no obvious way down. So I started climbing the hill, moving parallel to the shore on the sidewalk along the rode the bus had taken. Alone and looking completely out of place with my flip flops and backpack, I began to think that trying to get to the beach had been a bad idea. But finally I spied a way down to the shore: a sandy earthen road that wound through the trees. I half slid, half walked down to the shore, and when I was finally there, it was definitely worth it. A few, fully clothed families and some lone fishermen were scattered along the coastline. A cool, refreshing wind blew in from off the shore, and beyond the rocky outcroppings to the right loomed the Golden Gate Bridge, fuzzy yet magnificent in the summer fog. I took off my shoes and walked along the water, letting my feet sink into the sand. I knew I'd get some great photos of the bridge; I was much closer than I'd been at Pier 39. As I've said, it was cool and overcast, so most of the few people there were wearing long pants or long sleeved shirts. I was wearing a sweatshirt. I did a double take when I wandered by a man in long black sleeves lying on the sand a bit up from the water. His top was covered-appropriate for the weather-but it also looked like he was wearing...a thong. I quickly turned away. He wasn't exactly what I consider attractive. But of course he had as much right to be there as I did.
Honestly, when I turned around to head back to the path I'd taken down to the beach from the road-having come as close to the bridge as I could-and caught an eyeful of same slightly pudgy, pasty man I'd seen before, stark naked and wading in the waves, my first thought was that all beaches in California must be nude beaches-optional of course-because it was California after all, the most liberal state in the nation. "What is he *doing*?" I thought. "He can't possibly get tan! And it’s too chilly to be naked." And he was limiting the views of the beach I could photograph.
I was almost back to the path up to the road when I noticed two men with bicycles and clad in spandex biking gear making their way down the path. Not quite ready to leave, I turned to the water to take more pictures, and from behind me heard one of them say excitedly to me, "Is that a digital camera?"
"Yes," I replied a little cautiously, while increasingly horrific scenarios primarily involving my camera being forcibly stolen from me flashed through my head. (My camera is the most valuable, most prized possession I ever take on vacation, and losing it would be devastating.)
"Would you take a picture of me and send it to me?" the man said with as much excitement as before.
"Um, okay," I said. "Sure."
I’m obliging to a fault, and I automatically couldn't decline a request that didn't involve my camera leaving my clutches. Visibly pleased, the guy told me his e-mail address, then said that he needed a minute to "get his duds on," and headed off with his bike. I didn't know where his companion had gone.
Although a year and six more weeks of college has helped a lot, I'm nearly as naïve as I am obliging, so while I stood in the sand waiting for my subject, taking pictures of birds in the surf
and trying not to gawk at the two women off to my right-one petite and the other a wrinkly sphere with spindly legs-who had previously been wearing bikinis that left very little to the imagination, but were now unfortunately leaving nothing to the imagination, I mused that the guy must want a picture of himself on the beach with his bike and in his sporty biking attire.
And then the realization dawned. Perhaps it's a testament to the mundanity of my life that this was one of the more surreal experiences I've had so far, but I was scarcely through contemplating what "duds" a guy wearing spandex biking clothes had to put *on* before he could be photographed with his bicycle (I still don't know) and trying to figure out how I was going to be able to turn my camera lens on a gregarious nudist with the Golden Gate Bridge rising out of the mist in the background when the gregarious nudist in question came very literally flopping over to me, all smiles, and struck what can only be called a playful pose.
I don't remember whether it was before or after the photo shoot (After the previously agreed-to picture was taken the guy asked if I'd like to take a picture of him choreographed to have the bridge off to the side. "To send to you (like the other)?" I asked. "Sure," he said, "but you can keep one for yourself if you'd like." He was completely earnest and infinitely more at ease than me, but who's ever heard of a recreational nudist with reservations?) that out of my mouth spilled, "I didn't know this is a nude beach, but that's okay with me," said too earnestly, as though I were trying to convince myself of my own acceptance. I have absolutely no problem with nudists. It's just that I also have exactly that much experience with them while they're practicing.
"Oh, yeah!" he said, "Everything to the right of that sign (he gestured vaguely into the distance) is a nude beach. We get together and throw Frisbees, and some other things that you might not find so appropriate. And we love smart blonde girls..." (Noticing previously the Berkeley sweatshirt I'd bought the other day to stay warm he asked me where I went to college and found out that I planned to pursue a doctoral degree in physics.) Oddly enough, that comment wasn't creepy at all. This guy was completely honest and friendly. He was also completely shaved.
Back at home, I sent the pictures, as promised. I also haven't looked at them. Nor do I plan to keep a copy of either for myself.
That wasn't quite the end of our little vacation. The next (and last) day a bus tour took us all the way to the top of San Francisco's Twin Peaks (twin big hills), from which you can see the entire city:
Part of the road up:
Proof that I was there:
And my mom and I finally got all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge:
/lj-cut>
Our room was in the creatively-named "Tower Building." I'm guessing they spent so much on interior design and architecture that the hotel's owner skimped on the Artistic Name Devisor. That's what I want to be when I grow up, an AND!
This was our window. Or was it the one next to it? Crap, maybe it was the one below it.
Our first day there we immediately got ridiculously lost, so weary from climbing hills with a 40% grade all day that all we wanted to do in the evening was catch one of San Francisco's infamous cable cars for a ride back up to our hotel. So we found a cable car stop and waited anxiously alongside other hapless tourists, until finally a cable car came slowly rumbling up the hill, only to go right on by us while the tourists on board waved at us and smiled. But we weren’t discouraged! Surely the next car wouldn't be full... We just had to wait another fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty minutes for the next car, or at least long enough for no less that eight cable cars going down the hill to pass us. Like this one:
While we were waiting, I got kinda bored, so I began looking around the street corner for interesting things to photograph. By far the most captivating thing I found was this car:
Here's the price of gas in San Francisco. Unfortunate, especially in such a hilly city.
Across the street were these row houses:
And at my feet, which I though looked particularly nice that day,
Was the Ghirardelli Chocolate logo on an almost completely uncrumpled and unstained napkin!
Apparently if you followed this sign that was across the street, you would get to Fisherman's Wharf:
Many interesting vehicles went by while we were waiting, including something that absolutely everyone needs, a Hummer Limousine!!!
In which would fit approximately 28 of these things:
But after a while I decided that by far the most beautiful thing I had seen the whole time was that car, so I took another picture of it:
All the while my mom was getting increasingly aggravated by the fact that a street car had passed us by. She began to pace uneasily around the street corner, perhaps thinking that if she looked menacing enough she could stare down the next cable car. Everyone else had long since tired of waiting and abandoned the cable car stop, leaving only their disposable Starbucks coffee cups huddled together on top of the trash can. I don't know why they didn't just throw them away; there was plenty of room in the can. I'm guessing they felt better about themselves by leaving them on top of the garbage can because as long as they didn't throw them away-and just left them where someone else might find and take them-they didn't have to burden their consciences with the thought that they'd thrown away so much non-post-consumer paper from the cups and heat insulators and plastic from the cups. I could also be reading waaay too much into it. They were probably just really lazy.
Anyway, after the second cable car went right on by us, passengers smiling and waving again, my mom and I opted for another of San Francisco’s exotic methods of transportation to get us back to our hotel:
Back in the room, we had the most amazing mini bar I've ever seen, which I wasn't allowed to touch even once during our entire trip. (I toyed with asking my mom if I could take some stuff from the mini bar and see if we could charge it to the room one of the nights the government was paying for, but I knew what she would say. I suppose getting the government to buy alcohol for minors is a bit of a stretch.) This is why:
So I decided to photograph the picturesque row of overpriced miniature bottles of liquor, which I wanted to take as much for the adorable packaging as for the contents.
Ooh! I forgot to include the picture of the incredibly gnarly palm tree trunk. The thing was frickin' huge! Here it is!
The next day we decided to get the most touristy (Weird. Microsoft Office seems to think I should type "touristiest" instead of "most touristy." As weird as "most touristy" sounds, do you honestly think that "touristiest" is better?) part of our trip out of the way and dive into the swarms of out-of-towners on the boardwalk at Pier 39, famous for its restaurants, views of Alcatraz, sunbathing sea lions, and for having most number of souvenir shops per square meter that each sell the same unique San Francisco memorabilia that ironically hails from Thailand or Korea. No one can leave San Francisco without the obligatory picture of Alcatraz:
And of course there are the sea lions:
This is my pal Frank. It always helps to have at least one personal friend among the sea lions, because he'll convince his posse to momentarily hold still so that you can get that perfect photo of the California sea lions. (Frank’s the one with his head in the air.)
For reasons that I understand, but could never agree with, my parents always want my pictures to have at least one person in them (preferably a member of our immediate family). They call it "adding human interest," but I call it "proving that I was actually there and didn’t just buy a postcard or steal a picture from the Internet." Regardless, here’s proof that I was actually at Pier 39:
I really like this picture. Every now and then I hit gold with my digital camera (although for every picture like this I delete about six others).
And here’s the entire harbor to the side of Pier 39, with the city in the background:
I don't remember any of the obscure facts that our tour guide mentioned during our bus tour of San Francisco, but I do remember that the one thing I learned on that trip is that "Ghirardelli" actually has two rs in it. Ever since my first trip to San Francisco at least five years ago, I’d been living under the illusion that "Ghirardelli" is spelled "Ghiradelli" and pronounced GEAR-uh-del-ee. Imagine my surprise, then, (it was mild to moderate) when I first laid eyes on one of the many illuminated signs adorning the square and saw that it’s actually spelled "Ghirardelli" and pronounced GEAR-are-del-ee. And here’s proof:
And yes, we bought chocolate. And I made a quilt out of mine and slept under it, only to find that it had all melted in the morning.
Other cool things about San Francisco...
The craaazy architecture:
You think anyone’s ever ejected from a plane and been impaled on this thing?
The stores! I want to buy all my clothes from this place now, or at least I would if their tank tops weren't $68.
The ridiculously steep hills that make you wonder-after you've climbed your fourth or fifth with no end in sight-what the hell was the city planner who decided this place was a good location for metropolis smoking when he picked the side of a mountain?!
The...buffalo? Sure, why not?
The fog! This is my favorite picture from the entire trip.
And I think this one's pretty good, too.
This dog was ridiculously cute, and reminded me of a younger, less arthritic, less neurotic version of my dog Juno:
On the third day I was free to roam around the city by myself. So I decided to stalk the Segway Tour people. Just kidding. But I did find my way down to a long, thin, crescent-shaped sliver of land that circled out into the bay. From the shore I could see a group of about eight people in neon yellow vests at the very tip of the curved pier. From a distance I though they might be police, and I wondered what the heck they were doing hanging out at the end of a recreational tourist attraction. Police or not, I kept walking along the strip of land, and when I was almost to the end the yellow-vested group rode by me, going the other direction...on Segways. It was one of the infamous, much-advertised Segway tour groups. For a moment I was jealous and wanted my own Segway, at least for an hour (I wonder if they would make it up San Francisco's hills?), and then I realized that I'd have to wear one of those neon yellow vests, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing at them.
Anyway, from that pier you could see the all of downtown, including the Coit Tower (supposed to look like the nozzle of a fire hose in honor of what finally salvaged San Francisco from the devastating three-day fire of 1906):
And the harbor by Pier 39 from the other side:
Here's proof that I was actually there:
I also wandered back past Pier 39 and look death in the eye. Well, sort of. This thing...person...costume was really cool:
As I finally learned, about the only way to actually ride a cable car in San Francisco is to get on one at the end of the line, which is what I did when I wanted to get back up the hill at the end of the day. While passage is assured, it comes at the price of having to wait at least an hour in a looping line of tourists. I think it's just barely worth it unless you have calves of steel. Or if you have a heard of calves to pull you up the hill in a carriage or chariot or something...
Other cool things about San Francisco! China Town!
The local wildlife...so tame it will actually sit still long enough for you to take a picture of it, because no one has ever seen a seagull before!
Gay pride!
Offshore banking...onshore!
Really steep hills make already tall buildings look like skyscrapers depending on your location!
Buildings featured in 90s TV shows starring the Olsen twins!
Gorgeous churches! (Okay, I'm really just infatuated with my camera's capabilities.)
Giant libraries that make Sprague look like a storage closet!
Okay, finally, day four, the day I wander on to a nude beach. San Francisco sits on the end of a peninsula. At 44 square miles, I figure it has about 20 miles of coastline. And I had to choose the single half mile where absolutely anyone can publicly display absolutely body part of their choosing. I had to take two buses to get there. I was armed with my pocket-size city map provided by the hotel, and a monstrous map that showed the complete routes of every method of public transportation known to San Franciscans. I had decided to head for Presidio Park, much larger than Golden Gate Park and dominating the northwest coast of the peninsula. It seemed the perfect place to find a nice stretch of beach.
In San Francisco, the further from the center of town and closer to the coast you get, the cloudier it gets. So by the time I was on bus line 29, winding its way up the curving slopes of Presidio Park (even the coast is hilly in San Francisco), the sun was completely hidden behind the clouds and a cool wind was blowing. Instead of taking me along the edge of the beach, the bus wound around past apartment buildings on the left and forest on the right. I got off at the first stop because the driver said he was turning around. I could wait at the stop for another bus that would take me to the Golden Gate Bridge if I wanted. But I just wanted to get to the beach. I could see it from where I stood, but between me and the coast was a steep, sandy and forested slope with no obvious way down. So I started climbing the hill, moving parallel to the shore on the sidewalk along the rode the bus had taken. Alone and looking completely out of place with my flip flops and backpack, I began to think that trying to get to the beach had been a bad idea. But finally I spied a way down to the shore: a sandy earthen road that wound through the trees. I half slid, half walked down to the shore, and when I was finally there, it was definitely worth it. A few, fully clothed families and some lone fishermen were scattered along the coastline. A cool, refreshing wind blew in from off the shore, and beyond the rocky outcroppings to the right loomed the Golden Gate Bridge, fuzzy yet magnificent in the summer fog. I took off my shoes and walked along the water, letting my feet sink into the sand. I knew I'd get some great photos of the bridge; I was much closer than I'd been at Pier 39. As I've said, it was cool and overcast, so most of the few people there were wearing long pants or long sleeved shirts. I was wearing a sweatshirt. I did a double take when I wandered by a man in long black sleeves lying on the sand a bit up from the water. His top was covered-appropriate for the weather-but it also looked like he was wearing...a thong. I quickly turned away. He wasn't exactly what I consider attractive. But of course he had as much right to be there as I did.
Honestly, when I turned around to head back to the path I'd taken down to the beach from the road-having come as close to the bridge as I could-and caught an eyeful of same slightly pudgy, pasty man I'd seen before, stark naked and wading in the waves, my first thought was that all beaches in California must be nude beaches-optional of course-because it was California after all, the most liberal state in the nation. "What is he *doing*?" I thought. "He can't possibly get tan! And it’s too chilly to be naked." And he was limiting the views of the beach I could photograph.
I was almost back to the path up to the road when I noticed two men with bicycles and clad in spandex biking gear making their way down the path. Not quite ready to leave, I turned to the water to take more pictures, and from behind me heard one of them say excitedly to me, "Is that a digital camera?"
"Yes," I replied a little cautiously, while increasingly horrific scenarios primarily involving my camera being forcibly stolen from me flashed through my head. (My camera is the most valuable, most prized possession I ever take on vacation, and losing it would be devastating.)
"Would you take a picture of me and send it to me?" the man said with as much excitement as before.
"Um, okay," I said. "Sure."
I’m obliging to a fault, and I automatically couldn't decline a request that didn't involve my camera leaving my clutches. Visibly pleased, the guy told me his e-mail address, then said that he needed a minute to "get his duds on," and headed off with his bike. I didn't know where his companion had gone.
Although a year and six more weeks of college has helped a lot, I'm nearly as naïve as I am obliging, so while I stood in the sand waiting for my subject, taking pictures of birds in the surf
and trying not to gawk at the two women off to my right-one petite and the other a wrinkly sphere with spindly legs-who had previously been wearing bikinis that left very little to the imagination, but were now unfortunately leaving nothing to the imagination, I mused that the guy must want a picture of himself on the beach with his bike and in his sporty biking attire.
And then the realization dawned. Perhaps it's a testament to the mundanity of my life that this was one of the more surreal experiences I've had so far, but I was scarcely through contemplating what "duds" a guy wearing spandex biking clothes had to put *on* before he could be photographed with his bicycle (I still don't know) and trying to figure out how I was going to be able to turn my camera lens on a gregarious nudist with the Golden Gate Bridge rising out of the mist in the background when the gregarious nudist in question came very literally flopping over to me, all smiles, and struck what can only be called a playful pose.
I don't remember whether it was before or after the photo shoot (After the previously agreed-to picture was taken the guy asked if I'd like to take a picture of him choreographed to have the bridge off to the side. "To send to you (like the other)?" I asked. "Sure," he said, "but you can keep one for yourself if you'd like." He was completely earnest and infinitely more at ease than me, but who's ever heard of a recreational nudist with reservations?) that out of my mouth spilled, "I didn't know this is a nude beach, but that's okay with me," said too earnestly, as though I were trying to convince myself of my own acceptance. I have absolutely no problem with nudists. It's just that I also have exactly that much experience with them while they're practicing.
"Oh, yeah!" he said, "Everything to the right of that sign (he gestured vaguely into the distance) is a nude beach. We get together and throw Frisbees, and some other things that you might not find so appropriate. And we love smart blonde girls..." (Noticing previously the Berkeley sweatshirt I'd bought the other day to stay warm he asked me where I went to college and found out that I planned to pursue a doctoral degree in physics.) Oddly enough, that comment wasn't creepy at all. This guy was completely honest and friendly. He was also completely shaved.
Back at home, I sent the pictures, as promised. I also haven't looked at them. Nor do I plan to keep a copy of either for myself.
That wasn't quite the end of our little vacation. The next (and last) day a bus tour took us all the way to the top of San Francisco's Twin Peaks (twin big hills), from which you can see the entire city:
Part of the road up:
Proof that I was there:
And my mom and I finally got all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge:
/lj-cut>