SNAKES ON A TRAIN: Saint Francis Was Probably a Pretty Cool Guy

So we bussed into San Fran on what we thought was the Golden Gate Bridge, but upon a re-examination of its color (NOT red) we realized it was just a bridge. Spoiler alert: we didn’t see the Golden Gate Bridge before leaving. Whatever, it’s just steel, screw that, we had better things to do. We checked into the Adelaide hostel, the hosteliest hostel of them all, with lots of guests and foreigners milling about being artsy and European and intellectual and whatnot. The actual room was in a hotel across the street, on the fifth floor, accessed by this ricketyass, oldschool metal gate style elevator. First night in, we dined at Akiko, a hole-in-the-wall sushi joint which turned out to be affordable and delicious. The “Lizzy roll” (named after Lizzy McGuire we HOPE) of salmon, avocado, and lemon was pretty snazzy. We then ventured to a hookah bar to get some banana cream smoke in our lungs. Tasty, but served by kind of an asshole staff. We had plans to go to the Fluid Lounge, a club with an EXCLUSIVE party that we had gotten ON THE LIST FOR, using the INTERNET. Understand? We were ON THE LIST. But between Marissa nearly falling asleep at the hookah place, and the inevitable oversmoking by Scott because of this, giving him a headache, they turned in for an early night of BP and bed.

On the docket for the next day were thrift stores, the Mission District, and Chinatown. This fine Saturday was characterized primarily by walking. The thrift stores were mainly a bust, and the couple yard sales we checked out, hosted by poor Hispanics and the butchest lesbians ever didn’t bear fruit either. The Mission district, seemingly the Hispanic part of town, was an endless walk of odd smells, curious shops, and rows upon rows of Taquerias. It was worth seeing, but ultimately we ditched that place to bus it on up to Chinatown. Well. Not before making one last stop near Guerrero street. Below you will see a series of three pictures. One, you might recognize. The second is the same store, now a café, rather than a flower shop. The third was taken right next to it, and based on the view, should be taken as proof that the storefront is in fact the same. Marissa’s favorite “poet” might be in Omaha, but Scott’s is in San Francisco, and here, he paid homage.

Hi Doggie

Chinatown in San Francisco is pretty awesome. It’s huge, with tons of bustling storefronts, many of which seem to have the same names and/or catchphrases, such as “spend yourself and save money!” Old men with zithers play on every street corner, while other old men beg for money in the most depressing death-wails I’ve ever heard. While we were loathe to actually purchase anything, knowing that there was inevitably a shop around the corner selling the exact same thing for half the price, we did indulge in some bubble tea and waltzed into a chinatown tea bar that was well worth the experience. This couple had their act down, entertaining the customers with their pseudo-fobby wit and offering up free tea tastings as they did so. They were just asian enough to impress white people, and just american enough to not scare white people. For positive reviews of Vital Tea Company, just look to the aspergers-prone nine year old: “Hey mom! I think I like tea now!” (repeat four times until mother begrudgingly acknowledges to get the full effect.) Even though one of the proprietors tried to rip us off on a teapot, we had a good time, and walked out of there with two big bags of strawberry rooibos and apple green tea. Score. To get this Chinatown nonsense out of the way, we’ll fast forward to the next day, where, after several hours of shopping around, Marissa bought an unbearably cute “Bubi Bubi” tea set, and Scott bought an unbearably cool cast-iron teapot, complete with two stolen tea cups slipped into his jacket, along with the incense he borrowed from the last shop.

Back to Saturday, we grabbed dinner at Shalimar, an Indian/Pakistani restaurant with homeless soup kitchen décor, delicious food, and uncannily low prices (we’re talking two beef kabobs for two dollars.) Marissa was not a fan of the shithole aspect of it, while Scott was enamored with both the style and food. We capped off the night with feeble attempts to plan a night at a gay bar or a straight bar, but after a series of phone calls, it became clear that Scott’s lost ID was a night-ruiner. HE IS VERY SORRY. More BP and sleep were in order it seemed, after a stop at Lori’s diner for a heaping banana split.

The next day started with a checkout from the hotel, and a delicious breakfast of crepes at Honey Honey. If this vacation has taught us anything, it is that it is a tragedy that there are no good crepe places in Charlottesville (and I know what you’re thinking, but that place really isn’t that good, they overstuff their crepes like crazy, and there’s not much variety.) So we checked out one more thrift store where some actual purchases were made, and then headed to Golden Gate Park, for a nice stroll.

Taken after we tossed each other a football from 4 feet away to establish our friendship

For lunch, we dined at Absinthe, headed up by executive chef Jamie, of Top Chef. The menu was stupid expensive, so we just snagged a hearty lunch of French onion soup (delicious) salad (delicious) and a croque-monsieur (delicious.) Given, none of these were crazy, experimental dishes, but they were damn good nonetheless.

Fuck Hosea, Jamie got cut too early

After a return to Chinatown, we hopped on the BART to head to SFO for the end of our journey. So, what are our thoughts on San Francisco? Well: lots of gaygays. Lots of hills. Lots of restaurants, lots of stores (with the biggest storefronts, I’ve ever seen; there was a Macy’s the size of the Pentagon.) Lots of money. San Fran was fun to visit, but who are we kidding, we’re too damn poor to live there.