NEOBlog: Canonically Irrelevant

[EDIT] I know this looks funny on Firefox at the moment. I'm seeing what I can do to fix it.

You might say I left my heart in San Francisco.

After months of uncertainty, Jon and I finally managed to make it up to the Bay Area this past weekend, albeit not on a road trip, but in an airplane. This unfortunate situation led me to declare the road trip as officially starting when Andrew picked us up in San Jose, and lasted for about 30 minutes as he drove us to his Stanford residence in Palo Alto. It then picked up again by means of trains and buses the following day, and culminated in the drive from Millbrae to Palo Alto the day after that. Nevertheless, it was still a fun experience overall. What follows is a typical description of my adventures in classic Trip Report format.

Upon our arrival in Palo Alto, it became apparent that our sleeping space over two of the following three nights would be relative small and crowded. Andrew, of course, remained in his own bed, while Jon and I wriggled uncomfortably together on the ground in a totally non-gay manner, with about three inches separating us from a Brokeback-esque emasculation scene. Obviously with my known sleeping issues, I failed to achieve sleep and eventually moved out into the common room and crashed on the couch, unseating its occupant and effectively blocking off the path for those who had to wake up early.

The next morning I was stept on by Andrew on his way out for work, and thusly amused myself with a bowl of oatmeal while Jon sleepily arose from his restful slumber. Following our individual grooming we subsequently headed out towards the sparkling gem of a city that is San Francisco, utilizing a shuttle, commuter train, light rail, a streetcar, feet, and a bus before reaching our destination at the north end of the city. If you're interested, we took the shuttle bus from Stanford to the Palo Alto Caltrain station, from which we took the train to its terminus on the south end of the city. Following a brief stop at Quiznos, we boarded the MUNI N line around the ports to Market Street, at which point we took the tourist-laden streetcar F line down Embarcadero to Fisherman's Wharf. We then walked across Fort Mason and boarded bus 28 to the Golden Gate Bridge. If you're not interested, just forget everything you just read. At the bridge, I let Jon talk me into walking its entire length, which was interesting and fun except for the part where we had to make the return trip. By the time we returned, my feet hurt and I was hungry, however Andrew was finished with work and met up with us at chocolate haven Ghiradelli Square. Following a red meat-laden meal, we walked to North Beach, the Italian part of the city, checked out the hipster City Lights bookstore, and then continued on into the Financial District where I ostensibly attempted to locate a restroom for the public amongst the lofty skyscrapers. If you're interested, there's one on the 3rd floor of an Asian bank building across the street from the Transamerica Tower. There's also one in the nearby Starbucks, but the guy I was waiting for to leave the restroom is probably still in there.

Our endeavour ended at our hotel of choice (Ramada) in SOMA, which was split into two buildings across from each other with a sketchy street between them. Of course we were put into the secondary building. Following check-in, my dear friend Julia arrived in suburbanite minivan (driven by her friend Mira) and took us to the modernized Brea Mall of San Francisco, where we ate at a food court. After much pronging and speculation, she then took us to the best place she could think of for entertaining Orange County-based tourists: The Castro District. For those unfamiliar with San Francisco, Castro is the GAY district. My lofty Republican reader-base just left my blog. In Castro I experienced a new sort of shop, namely, the male sex shop. It was a life-changing experience to be sure. Following these mis-adventures we decided to leave for places north, and at the insistance of Mira, ended up with cereal and milk at Julia's midscale house. This lasted a short while, however with our hotel being effectively across the city, we were forced to leave relatively early and retire for the night.

In the morning I left Jon and Andrew at the Ramada and successfully tackled the MUNI system in an attempt to reach the Filmore District, which I hoped would be better than the president it was named after. Luckily it turned out to be so, and I met Julia at a non-chain coffee shop (read: NOT Starbucks) for an enlightening conversation on yuppies, city life, and male sex shops. I said goodbye to her for at least a month and a half and made my way back to Ramada, where I learned that Jon and Andrew had gone to said coffee chain themselves a little while earlier. As we left the city, I left behind fond memories and gained a somewhat confusing feeling over personal matters, which obviously won't be explained in a public blog. This isn't Xanga.

I can safely NOT recommend You, Me, and Dupree. I make mistakes, I know, and we should've seen The Devil Wears Prada. But I was in the mood for something light. The movie doesn't know what genre it's going for and as such fails to successfully court the Owen Wilson slapstick genre and the Kate Hudson romantic genre. Why Matt Dillon, after starring in the mildly good Crash, chose to go with this movie is somewhat bewildering, but all three actors did well. A really old looking Michael Douglas is in it too, but don't expect an American President. He's pretty much just an old douchebag. The movie gets a 5/10 from me. It's sometimes funny, and sometimes romantic, but not enough to really succeed in either genre.

As for the rest of the trip, it was fairly uneventful, with the highlight being a semi under the influence romp around Stanford at midnight, much to the chagrin of people attempting to study (on a Saturday, for that matter) in the library. Upon our return to the room, noisy party aftermath accompanied my desire to sleep, which had to fulfilled for our early flight the next day. On the way out, I declared the road trip over, and bid farewell to my Stanfordian friend for a few weeks, boarded the plane with Jon, and flew back to the shelters of Orange County.

But as I said, I left my heart in San Francisco.