Pub Quiz

It turns out pub quizzes are quite common over here and today got to take part in one at the Edinburgh Tavern.

The young lass I met at a DYL day is part of a team so I took part (in a platonic way) and got my arse handed to me on a plate. These quizzes are hard and the young 'uns are very good indeed.

So good in fact that we won first place - with a $50 prize. I will be back.

Brunch

A weekend brunch is something of a tradition over here. It's a large meal drunk (usually with Bloody Marys - the acceptable pre-noon booze) with friends. V was over from the UK office on a work trip so I took her and friends to Home; a very nice hostelry in the neighbourhood.

It was a damn good brunch. Met some interesting people, caught up with V's news and completely forgot to collect the UK to US power converter she's brought over.

Bugger.

Kindred spirits

I've been active on online communities for over a decade but there's a group over here I felt I really must get into.

Yelp is a bunch of people who review places - restaurants, bars, shops, pretty much everything in fact. It's a tremendously useful to the outsider but they also do events.

One in particular caught me eye - DYL Fridays. DYL stands for destroy your liver; basically find a good pub and go drinking.

Tonight I broke my DYL cherry and had a really good night. Met some interesting people, had a good time and chuckles were had all round.

One downside. Got chatting to a lovely lass, flirted a bit and then found out she's 23. I'm actually old enough to be her dad. Step away Mr T, that's more than slightly icky.

Political correctness gone mad

Now usually when you se the phrase ‘Political correctness gone mad’ it’s the sign that some bigot has found something they object to and wants to stir up the populous.

But I genuinely found something that made me wonder if the phrase has some currency.

J took me to Good Vibrations, a female friendly sex shop, and I saw a great example of this.

J used to manage a sex shop when she first went to Oz and wanted to check this place out as it had a very good reputation. I have to say I was impressed; not seedy at all and with staff who were helpful without being pushy. The last thing you want to hear in a place like that is “That cock ring would look lovely with that.”

But the DVD section made me burst out laughing, a move that brought flinty stares from two very unconvincing transvestites in the shop.

The rack of DVDs with titles like ‘Black C**kzilla’ and ‘Big Black Booties’ was titled ‘People of colour’. Now at what point does politically correct language end – if the films are called that then deal with it.

Lock in

In England a lock-in is a sublimely pleasant experience; the landlord shuts the curtains, locks the doors and serves late into the night.

In America lock-in means you’re being screwed by telephone supplier. They will sell you a phone but only if you subscribe to their network. The Apple iPhone is a classic example of this – you buy the phone and you have to sign up to a two year deal of high subscription costs and if you take out the locking software you’re left with a very expensive door stop, or iBrick as it’s known.

The reason all this came up is that J managed to drop her beloved Palm phone into the loo and it’s deader than a ‘Frankie says relax’ tshirt. So we spent a hour or three trying to find a replacement, and they were all locked into a US telco – which is bugger all use if you live in Australia.

Thankfully we found a sales bloke in a telephone showroom who hadn’t had an ethics bypass and he directed us to a store that sold unlocked phones, a small concern on the edge of the Tenderloin who was staffed by an excellent bloke.

Sadly he couldn’t sell her an unlocked device, but could get her the model she wanted and unlock it in 24 hours. He went even further and lent her a phone for the meantime. This chap is a find, and the shop gets five stars in my Yelp reviews.

Vegetarian isn’t so bad

Met up with J today and we went shopping and ate – ate vegetarian. Now I’m very much the carnivore – if it hasn’t got bacon it better be good.

But on J’s recommendation we went to Greens, a veggie place overlooking the bay. And my goodness it was good; in fact superb. Really well prepared food, done with class and style. Melon soup for example, sounds blander than a public information broadcast but tasted very good indeed.

My love of meat is a bit of a problem to be honest. I’m a committed environmentalist and eating meat is about as environmentally unfriendly as driving an American car with lots of sudden stops and starts.

The carbon farted from animals, the oil used in the food chain to fertilise grass fields and the sheer waste of using ten pounds of grain to produce one pound of meat is difficult to justify. But it just tastes so good.

When ethics and pleasures collide ethics usually go out the window. But with food as good as Green’s it wouldn’t be tough. The vegan and granola crowd should go there and learn.

Old friends

Was due to meet up with J tonight, an ex from a long time ago but someone I've stayed on good terms with ever since.

Relations with exes are always difficult. You either stay friends or never see each other again in my experience. No doubt it helps that J now lives in Australia but she's still the one woman I've been out with who never forgets my birthday, and I hers.

Sadly a delayed flight stopped us meeting up tonight but I'll see her tomorrow.

Pride

Done a couple of press events over the last two days and am a bit concerned, much of the press just seems so servile.

Yesterday I was at an Intel launch, and the press applauded the spokesman as he took the stage. FFS people, we're supposed to be cynical hacks, not a cheerleader for the people who are paid to tell us their side of the story.

Today's breakfast meeting was a little better. Some hard questions asked and answered. But this does not bode well.

Piss up in a brewery

Today I went to an actual piss up at a brewery. No, really.

The Brits in SF group on Meetup had organised a get-together at the Marin County brewery that had organised a beer festival to raise funds for breast cancer research – the irony, promoting liver cancer in aid of breasts.

So, bought my ticket and took the ferry across the bay to Marin. It’s a nice trip, made better by the Farmer’s Market at the ferry terminal. The market’s like Borough market at home, overpriced but excellent quality, apart from the oyster that were far too small to be harvested.

The ferry was packed with people all set to enjoy themselves and it was clear when we reached harbour almost everyone had beer on the mind. So I joined the throngs heading for the festival.

However, it seems the organisers really couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery. First off there were a pathetically small number of people handing out entrance tickets. I had time to eat a two sausage hot dog in the 25 minutes it took to get into the venue.

Secondly the glasses they gave you were less than a third of a pint. Now I know that this is supposed to be a ‘tasting’ festival but let’s be honest here, no-one’s going to be spitting it out afterwards. And you can’t have a decent chat with someone over a third of a pint. It’s gone before you’re five minutes in.

Still and all there was a good range of beers there, including some excellent lagers, which is usually a contradiction in terms. But no draft beers, which was very disappointing. Draft beer is essential, after more than three pints of the carbonated stuff you’re ready to belch, which is never polite.

Still, met some interesting people, one of whom is also a professional contact with whom I had friends in common. Headed home with a bit of a hangover and went to bed with a few pints of water. A good day.

Boys night out

Tonight I was out on the town with D from the Formula One club. He’d promised to show me round some of San Francisco’s nightspots.

D’s a vintner who’s a California transplant like me and we bonded over a love of fast cars, smart yet sarky women and Mexican food. So after a pint and a feed in the Mission we headed off to check out a few spots.

First off was a whisky bar where he knows, with a stunning selection. Had a very nice Arran that bought back memories of home before we headed off to the Bay Bridge and a cigar bar he knows.

Now technically speaking this place is illegal; California has stricter rules on smoking that London but this place was a very expensive members only club and the police have better things to do. Technically I’m off tobacco but I wasn’t inhaling and it was very nice to sit in good leather armchairs drinking white wine and smoking a fine cigar.

Cigars are something I do maybe once a year and while the first two thirds of them are fine the build-up of tar and nicotine in the final third can get unpleasant. Still it was an enjoyable evening; I learnt a lot about fine, agreed to disagree over the merits of Alan Prost and Michael 'the cheat' Schumacher and think I may have got a story or two.

Too bad my mouth tastes like I've been chewing dirty cotton wool :)

Dinner at Tiffany’s

I was really excited today; one of my oldest friends was coming to town.

Si and I worked together in the mid 1990s and we’ve been close ever since. She’s a fantastic woman: smart as a whip, caring and with a mind as deep as the Marianas Trench. She’s also a true international glamour girl, equally at home on the streets of New York, gigging in Hyde Park or wandering down some distant beach with the wind in her hair.

She was in town for a meeting and was staying down south but came into the city for dinner. It’s been nearly a year since we were last together but she looked as good as ever and we bonded again over G&Ts before heading down the Mission to Foreign Cinema for a screening of Amelie and dinner.

There we met up with her client M, although those two are thick as thieves and it’s more of a sisterly relationship than a business one. Also along were some Silicon Valley A listers; venture capitalists and tech old(ish) money. All in all very good company, and we all had a good chat which I have to keep off the record for a while – business plans are afoot.

Sadly they are all off back to New York in the morning so we said our goodbyes at midnight and vowed to meet again soon, ideally this summer.

First and last

Today I went to my first press briefing since arriving. I’ve been putting it off because I wanted to get the lie of the land but it was time to get into the swing of things and put myself out there.

Sadly it was a breakfast event. I’m not a morning person but this wasn’t so bad, but it was odd. I’m used to being one of the oldest hacks in a group and I was by far the youngest. It’s a very different market over here – people stay in jobs a lot longer.

While the topics were fairly dull I made some good contacts, picked up an interesting story and then headed back to the office. Thanks to the decision of IT to give me a laptop I could play pool on I was taking notes on dead tree (paper) so there was a round of work to get done on my return.

Plus the route back took me past Tu Lan, a stunningly good Vietnamese greasy spoon café. So I picked up some spicy beef noodle soup and settled in for a long afternoon. Thick noodles, well cooked beef and a hot chilli soup that'll put hairs on your chest, and stains on your shirt if you're not careful.

In the evening it was S’s last night, so we all went out for drinks at the Mad Dog. A very bittersweet occasion, but last night’s blues seemed to have been banished and we all had a good laugh.

T, one of the bar staff, is driving her to the airport tomorrow so when midnight tolled we said our goodbyes with reasonably happy hearts and promised to stay in touch. I’ll miss her a lot. It’s a bugger to say goodbye to someone you get on with well this early.

Last but one drinks

S leaves for the UK on Wednesday and we’re going out for her leaving piss up tomorrow but she called me and asked if I fancied a pre-leaving pint or three.

I did, and she sounded down about the whole thing so we headed out to the pub. She’s not wild about going back – good to see her parents again but once the summer is gone then it’s back to university in Wales.

Tried to lift her spirits and had some success but it was a rather despondent figure who headed onto the Muni bus for home.

Ouch

Sunday morning was a quiet one. My legs were feeling the brunt of things so stayed in bed and caught up on The Archers online via the BBC. Sadly there was no Desert Island Discs but hey, every move means sacrifices.

But by afternoon it was time to get up and go shopping. I came over here with 79kg of luggage but due to poor packing only one pair of jeans. It was time to go shopping.

Some people love shopping but for me it’s like vaccinations – necessary but not something to be enjoyed. I needed a few pairs of casual trousers and some new socks, so wondered down to see what the Independence Day sales had to offer.

As it turned out not a lot. The Westfield Shopping Centre is the most central mall but the clothes were either too poor quality (most places), designed for the ultra thin (Zara) or overpriced (Bloomingdales). Thankfully I found what I was looking for in Dockers – reasonably priced kit that looked like it would last for more than three washes.

Then headed over to North beach for beer (San Francisco Brewing Company has happy hour 4-6pm) and then Chinese. Then home again to store the purchases before they got too creased and crash out – tomorrow is a working day and coming back after a three day weekend means there’d be piles of emails to get through.

The Trek

Saturday and the sun was out. Time to work on the tan. Being half Scots my complexion is naturally pale blue – I can get undressed at a beach and dazzle people so badly they can’t find their towels. This is not a good look in California so I decided to couple a long walk in the sun with a tshirt and start to look a bit more local.

So the day had two goals, three if you include the tan. First off, walk the Golden Gate Park. Then come back into town via Little Russia to see if any Moskovskaya (finest vodka in the world) could be had.

So I liberally slapped on the Factor 15, packed a bag with water, camera and a jumper in case the fog came in, and started off.

The first part of the walk was pretty dull, up over the top of Alamo Square and then a mild uphill, cross street trip to the start of the Panhandle. This is a stretch of parkland about a block or two wide leading to the main park, just wide enough for jogging paths, basketball courts and the occasional picnic area. Unfortunately it’s bordered by two very busy roads and so doesn’t feel like a park as such, just a desperate bit of greenery.

However it leads to the park itself. Now imagine you take Hyde Park, stretch it to about three times its length and four times as wide and plonk it in the hills above San Francisco. Well you’d be wasting your time because someone’s done it already and it’s the Golden Gate Park; a piece of the countryside in the middle of the city.

New Yorkers rave about Central Park, and for a place as crammed as Manhattan it is a glorious place. But you can never really feel you’re in the countryside in Central – the traffic is still audible and you can see the skyscrapers looming over you.

Golden Gate is different. San Francisco’s never really gone big on skyscrapers and the space is so huge that you can forget you’re in a city and really relax and enjoy the greenery and the view. There are roads running through it but because they’ve been skilfully positioned and are strictly controlled you can get the peace and quiet.

So I started into the park and almost immediately you meet its founder; a dour Scottish gentleman (we crop up everywhere there’s hard work to be done) by the name of John McLaren. Apparently he hated statues and the one of him, though commissioned in the early 1900s, sat under a blanket in the horse stables and was only discovered after his death.

I proceeded west and avoided Hippy Hill, although the sounds of drums were audible, and headed to the AIDS memorial park. A lovely little grove made poignant by some of the inscriptions on rocks there. I’m currently onto book three of Tales of the City and it seems HIV went through this town like the Black Death.

Took a look at the Japanese Tea garden but didn’t fancy paying to get in; it was very crowded and while pretty, wasn’t the wilderness I was looking for.

So wandered down the road to the Shakespeare Gardens – a wonderful idea. It’s a garden devoted to plants found in the bard’s plays. I recognised some from the Scottish play and Anthony and Cleopatra but it was a lovely grove nevertheless.

Popped by the De Young museum, a magnificent structure that my camera couldn’t do justice to. Would have gone in but today was all about nature, not art. There’s a very nice art fair outside however and I saw a couple of pictures I’d like to hang. Took a call from mum, who was just about to go to sleep. Memo to self – get Skype set up asap.

Next up was the Botanical Gardens, something I’m sure R, a keen gardener, would have loved. There was the moon view park, a lovely open space with a pond full of turtles sunning themselves, plants organised by type and locale and an amazing Redwood grove. I’ve been up to see the Muir Woods redwoods and they are so impressive as a species – older than many civilisations and just as impressive.

The grove itself was very well laid out. Even thought there were only a few trees the setting was enclosed and you got a real feeling of forest – something so primeval you half expected a veloceraptor to jump out of a bunch of ferns and disembowel you for intruding.

One downside to the garden – it’s very difficult to get out of. There’s chain link fence all around the place (presumably to stop people nicking the plants) so after some fruitless wandering and sprinkler dodging I found a place where the fence was down and made an exit.

After stopping at a map to get my bearings I headed up to Strawberry Lake, an artificial construction with an island in the middle, and watched the boats you can hire do a circuit on the water - pursued by ducks and seagulls eager for sandwiches from tourists. It was a nice interlude and I stopped off for a hot dog and a bottle of water at the boathouse, part of the former of which was shared with a rather pushy squirrel.

Met up with an English family there who I’d seen earlier, tooling round the place in a noisy little three wheeler. It turns out it had satellite navigation and could be used to tour the whole city. Something to put on the things to do list.

After lunch, ablutions and a refill of the water bottle at a fountain I crossed the road and went up to see the Prayer Book Cross. This was apparently erected at the spot where that venal old pirate Sir Francis Drake held the first mass in San Francisco in the late 1500s. Call me a cynic but I doubt it – Drake was an eminently practical man and I suspect he held his act of worship on the beach of the bay rather than trekking inland a few miles.

Nearly got run down on the way up and way down from the hill that the (very impressive) cross is erected on. I was constantly being passed by cyclists on the way up and when I reached the cross found a gaggle of them drinking beer and tequila at the top. As it happens there was a cycle courier race going on today and this was a refreshment spot.

I was now at the border in the park – it’s a place of two halves. Running down the centre is Cross Over Drive, a very busy road, but this is a functioning city after all. After a bit of exploring I found a safe place to cross and headed into the second part of the park – a much less busy area that was mainly full of families enjoying the open space and city-built BBQ spots.

Found a very nice waterfall near the only memorial to the 1906 earthquake that nearly destroyed the city. Odd that such a momentous event has so little to remember it by – but I suppose the locals don’t want to tempt fate.

Then it was on to Spreckels Lake – a popular boating spot for the miniature boating crowd. I’ve always been a bit disdainful of the ‘toy boat’ scene but these were anything but toys: beautifully crafted sailing yachts exact in every detail, a true labour of love by the owners.

But what I’d really come to see in this section was the bison. We know them as buffalo, probably the most successful land mammal in North America until the arrival of humans rapid fire rifles. There’s been a breeding herd here since the 1890s, the first bison in captivity once the locals realised that, in the words of Joni Mitchell, you don’t know what you’ve lost ‘til it’s gone.

There aren’t many and they are in a very small space compared to the thousands of acres their forbears were used to but it’s nice to see a little nature preserved. While I was trying to get good shots through the fence I noticed what looked like a toad on the ground, but it turned out to be a ground squirrel; lovely little thing that almost made me like the species, which are after all merely rats with good PR.

By this time it was late afternoon and the throb of my head was telling me that I’d had too much sun and it was time to head home. But there was still the vodka to find. So I headed out of the park and went up the hill towards Little Russia, passing some truly tacky front gardens.

The walk down Geary was a long one, and took me through Little China, home to the huge local Chinese population. They don’t live in Chinatown for obvious reasons but instead come north, where property prices are sensible and tourists are few and far between.

After a score of blocks the grocery stores dropped the pictorial script and I began to see Cyrillic in the windows. Now the hunt began. But it quickly turned out that the quest for Russian spirits was going to be a tough one.

I tried place after place and started to run out of blocks to go through, as the Russian stores got fewer and I moved into the museum district, full of hipster cafes and liquor stores.

Finally I popped my head around the door of one place, scanned the shelves and started to head back once I failed to recognise the green label I was looking for. The proprietor saw me going and called me back, asking in a broad American accent if I was looking for something in particular.

I asked if he had any Moskovskaya and got a very odd look. He then uttered a string of words I’m assuming was Russian but I used one of only three words in the language I have (net) and he grinned and shook his head.

“None of that stuff over here,” he said. “They keep it for themselves, it’s too good to let go. Where did you hear about it?”

I explained that I’d got a taste for it in Moscow and had been looking for a bottle of the Crystale version ever since. Sadly there was nothing he could do, but recommended another bottle which, he promised, if properly chilled would taste nearly as good and was distilled six times – not as pure as Moskovskaya but no hangover at least. I bought a fifth, we exchanged business cards and I headed home.

By this time it was past seven and my legs were sending urgent messages that it was time for a rest, and maybe some food that wasn’t processed. I could have got a bus back – Geary is thick with them – but I’d started the adventure on foot and comes hell and high water I was going to finish it the same way.

It was a very tired and slightly sunburned chap who made his way up the stairs to the home but I was glad to be back. I had a cold shower that was so good the Catholic Church would make it a sin and then retired to bed with a cold beer, the third volume of Tales of the City and had an early night.

Independence Day

Here’s an odd feeling. Spend a national holiday that’s basically “Huzzah, we’ve kicked out the Brits and can misspell aluminium any time we like” day. And yet here I was.

All in all a very odd day. T & E had gone home to see their parents for the weekend, the office (and pretty much everything else) was closed and SF was packed with tourists.

That said it was a good day. It started early, around midnight. I felt the need to call home and stayed up until 3am to speak to my sister on family matters and then to F, a good friend, to chew the fat and chat to someone I miss.

Then around the sales to see what I could replace from my wardrobe. Found a great pair of trousers and then headed to my local for a few pints. I missed S around the place but met some interesting folks and had a slice at Mystic Pizza. It was wonderful; more toppings than you get on a whole pizza at home and a nice crisp base. Then home for an early night.

But that was slightly delayed by the fireworks. The amount of gunpowder going of you'd think it was Basra. Strange but nice.

Outlaw

After driving round in the behemoth for half an hour trying to find a parking space to fit the ton of junk the night before I went down to clamber up and drive the loathsome pece of junk to the renters – only to find I had a ticket.

I have never in my life had a parking ticket before. Cars are not the friendliest pieces of machinery and I always take care to drive carefully and not block driveways or park in places I shouldn’t.

In San Francisco the traffic police drive around in ridiculous three wheeled trikes and hand out tickets left right and centre. But I had parked carefully I thought.

Then I read the ticket – I had parked more than 18 inches from the curb. This was patently bollocks, I was carefully parked so close to the curb you couldn’t have slotted a wafer thin mint between the tires and the side of the road. It took until Sunday before I found out why.

D from the Formula One club explained it to me. I had parked facing the wrong way on the road. The parking spot had been on the other side of the road but I’d swung into it without turning the tank the right way. Over here you have to park in the direction the traffic goes on your side of the street; therefore I was about eight feet from the right curb.

It’s a good thing they don’t allow guns in this town.

I did however manage to get the clothes rack built. Ikea have thankfully put all their instruction manuals online. Guess they aren’t so bad after all.

Swedish hell

So, after a protracted moving in session it is time to get some furniture. That means Ikea, despite the fact that there’s less wood in most of their kitchens that there is in the standard vintage armchair.

My boss R joked with me that Ikea was the cause of more divorces than adultery. I laughed and told him it couldn't be that bad; but my goodness he was right. I haven’t been that stressed since facing a triple deadline and a printer out of toner so I couldn’t edit properly*.

I’d reserved a UHaul for the occasion, a moving truck with easy loading. But when I walked down to the depot (30 minutes) I found they wouldn’t accept a British driving licence. Not even with a passport to provide photo ID. That’s a first for US rental firms, which I’ve found are very good about such pleasantries.

So there I was, the day off and no way of getting furniture home and facing another night on the godawful couch I’d been sleeping on. This was not going to happen, so I wandered over (another 20 minutes) to a car rental place I’d used before who I knew accepted our licences.

In no time (and at five times the cost) I took a 24 hour ownership of an SUV, a Chrysler Aspen, to get me to and from Ikea. My goodness, it was not an easy car to drive. A behemoth the size of a tank, with suspension made of recycled pogo sticks if the ride was anything to go by. I spent ten minutes and a conversation with the renter before I worked out how to put it in gear and then ‘enjoyed’ a very dodgy ride over the Bay Bridge, being cut up by every driver who sensed fear.

Got to Ikea and started picking out furniture. Now there’s a massive con job going on at Ikea. Yes, my bed frame was inexpensive, but the mattress was 150 per cent more expensive and the slats of the mattress frame cost nearly as much. Say what you like about the Swedes (and that would include the food’s mostly inedible, the women aren’t that attractive and beer is bloody expensive) but they know how to turn a buck.

So, wielding two trolleys full of flat pack furniture, I headed to the car park. A car park that some git has decided to build in a dome fashion. Great for controlling water run off, slightly less good for controlling two trolleys of stylish but functional furniture that try and gouge your paintwork (and deposit) when trundling downhill.

Then a problem; I couldn’t open the boot. While the chap at the car hire place had put the seats down for me he hadn’t explained how to get the damned tailgate open. So I wedged the trolleys wheels down and went through the instruction manual – all 512 pages of it. Not a fun thing to do in 90 degree heat after a stressful afternoon.

After 20 minutes I found the answer. Press the unlock button on the key fob twice. What sadistic bastard thought that one up? I mean, surely, unlock means unlock. But no, it’s more complicated than that.

So after some discrete effing and blinding, I got the boot open and installed my furniture, plus a few odds and ends because lets face it, you can’t leave Ikea without 50 tea lights and a chrome lamp.

Then it was off home to unpack the car and assemble my new bed et al. The bed was simple. The bedside table not easy but could be worse. The vertical storage rack came with no instructions however. Now I’m with Mitch Benn on this. Sweden may be full of good furniture but there’s always got to be something missing – they may not rape and pillage any more but they’re still bloody Vikings.

* Editing for me means printing out. Sod the paperless office, it’s much easier to see your mistakes in print than it is on the screen.